Table of Contents

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Epilogue

BAD BOY'S FAKE WEDDING

ROYAL BEAST

ASH

Excerpt from A Perfect Seal

Also by Lexi Whitlow

© 2017 Lexi Whitlow

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author’s imagination.

Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented are 18 or over.

Kindle Edition 2017

Cover Design:

Resplendent Media

Cover Model:

Nathan Hainline

Prologue

Seven Years Ago

Tonight, I’m asking Avery Thomas to move away with me. Mexico. It’s a hell of a drive, but I just had the oil changed in my pick-up.

I have it all worked out. MapQuest directions printed. I sent them to Avery last night, but there wasn’t a response. I’m hoping that means she’s down and just couldn’t get back to me. Maybe she’s scared her parents will find out.

I’ve got it all planned. It’s beautiful down there at this time of year. Gray whales. Avery likes whales. And the sea.

It’s a good plan. A good idea.

We’ll leave downtown San Francisco as soon as the crowds clear, and we can take the old highway down to Big Sur, camp by the beach. Or stay with my brother’s friend—he has a bed and breakfast right by the shore. He might have a spare room.

Avery is a virgin, I think. That’s what she said when we were sitting on her parents’ roof three weeks ago. Avery had consumed half a bottle of Boone’s Farm by that point, and we’d both smoked three or four clove cigarettes I stole from my brother and half a joint that Avery picked up from her friend Ella. I think that’s what she meant when she said she’d never done anything with a guy before.

Her parents didn’t ever let her out of the house—that’s probably why.

Funny how they’re not here tonight. They’re at some rally for Avery’s asshole mom, fucking Evelyn Thomas. And Richard is right there with her. You’d think a career politician and her military husband might give a damn about their daughter delivering the salutatorian speech at her own damn high school graduation, but apparently fucking not.

Here I am. The only person in Avery’s reserved row.

Because nothing is about Avery. It’s always about Evelyn.

I watched Avery walk across the stage alone, orange-red hair falling over her face in waves. Her bright blue eyes glinted in my direction when she took her diploma, but her expression was blank. She was looking for her parents. I listened to her speech, which was better than the valedictorian’s speech by a long shot. And I’m standing here by the exit, waiting for her. There are three or four guys trying to chat her up, and there are at least five of her girlfriends flitting around her like moths around a flame.

She’s all fire and elegance. High cheekbones and red-tipped eyelashes, cool clear skin and a smattering of freckles across her nose. There are freckles on her shoulders too. I noticed that three Fridays ago when we smoked and drank, and she fell asleep in my lap. I wanted to touch her, trace my finger over the hollow in her neck, her pulse flickering like a butterfly’s wings as she slept.

But I didn’t. I leaned back on my hands, trying to will my cock to lie low. I concentrated so hard that I didn’t notice when she woke, until she spoke my name softly. Full pink lips forming the sounds.

Maddox, why don’t you kiss me? I’ve been waiting all night.

“Avery!” I cup my hands to my mouth and shout in her direction. She turns at me and smiles, but the joy in that expression doesn’t reach her eyes.

“One second,” she shouts back. One of the guys puts an arm around her shoulder, and her friend Ella pulls her back towards the stage. I hear some rumblings about a party, and knowing Avery, I bet someone will talk her into it.

I shuffle from side to side, anxiety building in my gut. I shove my hand in my army jacket, checking for the directions. I find them, pat them.

I watch Avery as she disappears with her gaggle of friends behind the bleachers set up on the graduation stage. I can hear the peals of her laughter. Is it fake or real? I can’t tell.

I know underneath it, she’s hurting. I can read it on her. Back when I was in college, the teacher in my freshman psych class told us that adult children of alcoholics can read micro-expressions. I can. Fuck. I spent my childhood trying to read my dad to see if he was in a good drunk mood or a real shitty one. My safety depended on it. So did my brother’s.

I take a pack of cigarettes out of my coat pocket. There are seven still in there. Enough to make it to Los Angeles, maybe. I’ll quit then. I take one and put it in my mouth, clenching it between my teeth. My eyes are still glued to the stage. I see a burst of bright red hair every now and again. I can almost taste the tobacco, but I don’t light it yet.

A hand claps me on the shoulder, nearly making me jump out of my skin.

“You can’t smoke those things in here, son.”

I turn, and there’s Avery’s dad. Her mom stands behind her hulk of a husband, hands daintily clasped in front of her. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. Her pinched, angry face says everything it needs to when she looks at me.

My heart sinks. Shit. Fuck. I hadn’t counted on them showing up.

“General Thomas.” I shake the man’s hand, and he claps me on the shoulder again, this time a little too hard. “Mrs. Thomas. Nice of you to show up.”

“That’s Senator Thomas, Maddox,” Evelyn says, her mouth pinching even tighter. “And we were at a rally for my re-election.”

“For state senate,” I say. “That’s not quite the same as the regular senate, is it, Mrs. Thomas?”

The woman crosses her arms and nearly growls at me. A corner of my mouth raises into a smile. I can’t help it.

General Thomas bellows in laughter. “He’s got you pegged, Evelyn. I like this kid—”

Evelyn rolls her eyes. “You know my opinion on the Bryant family.” She says the words like we’re a disease she picked up in a third world country.

“Let me have a word with the kid, Evie. You go see Avery.”

“Don’t call me Evie, Richard,” Evelyn huffs. She looks at me suspiciously, but she walks back down the aisle to call for Avery.

A lump grows in my throat.

Not tonight. We can’t leave tonight now. I hadn’t counted on these assholes showing up. Tomorrow. They’re leaving for the big campaign push. I center myself. Keep calm.

When Evelyn is out of earshot, General Thomas leans in closer. He puts a hand on my arm. His grip is a little tighter than necessary.

“Maddox, son. You and my daughter have been spending a lot of time together recently.”

“Yessir,” I say. I glance sideways at him. His eyes, so much like Avery’s, bore into mine. “We’re good friends. Nothing more, sir.”

General Thomas laughs again, but the mirth is gone from his voice. “Is that a fact? Then why did I find this in Avery’s email?”

He pulls a neatly folded paper from his coat pocket. The paper makes an ominous hissing sound as he opens it. It’s the first page of directions.

“What’s that, sir?” I gulp and try to act like nothing here is out of the ordinary.

“Something I deleted very quickly from Avery’s Gmail account when I saw it. Looks like a little vacation route to Mexico. Nice down there this time of year. You were planning to take my daughter away from me—” General Thomas pauses, and his face goes ever so slightly red.

“No sir. I wasn’t. I swear—”

His grip on my arm tightens. “Cut the shit, son.” He leans in close and whispers. “If you take my daughter anywhere, I’ll have half the police in the great state of California on your ass before you get to San Diego. It’s a long drive from here to the border. Do you doubt that I could find you? Do you doubt that border patrol would call my wife as soon as they saw Avery’s passport?”

The anxiety and rage swirl together in my gut. This is the man who skipped his own daughter’s graduation to go schmooze with his wife for her stupid-ass state senate seat.

“We were going to come back, sir,” I bleat. My heart is pounding hard now.

“Don’t fuck around with me, son. I know you and your kind. If my wife didn’t owe your mother the debt of her fucking soul, I’d never allow you in my goddamn house. And neither would Evelyn. But Nadine saved my wife’s life, so you’ll always have a place in our hearts. That doesn’t mean we like you. Or that we think your good enough for our Avery.”

“Sir—” I start. But I can’t think of anything to say. I clench my hands into fists. I want to tell him that he and fucking Evelyn aren’t fit to be in the same room with Avery.

“Your father is a piece of scum not fit to grace the bottom of my shoe, Maddox. And you’re cut from the same cloth.”

“I’m not. I’m planning to get my mechanic’s license. I’m not going to do the same shit he did—”

“You were kicked out of school, Maddox. You’re twenty. You had a scholarship to San Luis Obispo. You blew it with a 0.1 GPA and multiple counts of vandalism and violence on campus property.”

I look at him, and I know now that the rage and anger have risen to my eyes. “How do you know about that? Avery doesn’t know that shit, and I’d prefer she didn’t—”

“It’s a matter of public record, Maddox. My wife has her ways.”

I try to pull away from him, but his fingers dig into my bicep. For a fifty-year-old man, he’s far stronger than he should be. Finally he lets me jerk my arm away, but he pushes me out the door of the auditorium before I can even catch my breath.

I pull myself together. “I haven’t had a drink in over a year. Thirteen months,” I say.

“And you can’t re-enter the University of California public college system any time in the next five years. And you don’t have a pot to piss in since your father died.”

I don’t respond. It’s all true. My heart sinks. I think of gray whales. Avery and I saw a slideshow of a guy petting the gray whale babies in Baja California. They come right up to your boat.

“With you around, my daughter has gone to shit. She didn’t study a goddamn thing the last month of school. She’s up in her room smoking pot—”

“Avery doesn’t smoke pot—”

“Her piss was positive for it last week. We had her tested. She didn’t tell you? Avery told us that it was you who gave her that shit.”

“She didn’t. She wouldn’t have—”

General Thomas shrugs. “She did. I have no reason to doubt her. Look at her. She’s beautiful, intelligent. She’s going to Berkeley. Then law school. Then she’ll probably go and do something great, like her mother. Do you think she’ll marry a mechanic? Or a welder? Or whatever stupid fucking shit you decide to do with yourself?”

He points his finger right at my chest.

I growl. “You’re the one who missed her high school graduation.”

He gives me a Cheshire cat smile. “She’ll have a graduation from Berkeley. And one from Stanford Law. We’ll make it to those.

“But we might not if she sticks around with someone like you. I’d rather my daughter didn’t get knocked up the summer before school, and I’d rather she didn’t start a little drug or alcohol habit with someone like you.”

“She won’t, sir. We’re not like that.”

“You are like that, according to her journal. Her mother found it late last night. And you feature as her knight in shining armor and her Fabio-style romance hero.”

I can’t help but smile when he says that. And I instinctively turn to look inside. Avery’s mother is lecturing her about something.

“You pay attention to me, son. You won’t be seeing Avery again. Not in the next five years. I’ve secured an opportunity for you with the Marines. That’s where you’ll be going. There’s stability in it. Honor. Training. Purpose.”

“No. Fuck that,” I growl. “Never.” I try to step away and call Avery’s name, one last ditch effort to get her to come with me. She’s eighteen. She can leave.

“Maddox. Son. You don’t have a home. You have a pick-up truck. What do you have in your wallet? Seventy-five dollars? Fifty? You think you’ll be able to provide for Avery, even in a shit hole like Mexico? Do you think you’re saving her?”

I turn and look at him. “Yeah. I do.”

“You’re not. If you stick around and she keeps running around with you, it’s very likely you’re doing the opposite. Avery has the chance to be great. To campaign with us. Make a name for herself.”

“She doesn’t want that—”

“It’s better than your plan for her, Maddox.”

I turn and walk to the auditorium doors. Fuck that guy.

“You’ll go to the Marines, Maddox. Complete basic training. Move up the ranks, maybe. Get an actual salary. I’ll deposit ten thousand into your account to get you started. You’ll have every opportunity to turn your shit around. When you’re done with your tour, you can come back and go to college on the GI bill. Get a house. I’ll even guarantee you a job with our security when you get home. You never know. Avery might welcome you with open arms.”

I walk into the auditorium, ignoring him. General Thomas follows me.

“Right now, Avery’s mother is giving her a rundown of your misdeeds at San Luis. She’s also letting Avery know what she’s doing for the summer—a political science program in Vancouver. She’ll be gone and you’ll be living out of your truck or begging on the street in the Tenderloin.”

I walk towards the two women, but Avery doesn’t see me. She’s too busy yelling at her mother.

“If you leave tonight, you have an actual opportunity to do something with your life, Maddox. Avery will wise up eventually, even if you stay and wait for her. And she won’t want you. Not like you are.”

I stand still in my tracks and watch as Evelyn pulls Avery with her toward the door at the back of the auditorium. Avery is screaming now, and she looks back at me, desperate.

“Maddox! Why did you lie to me?” Her voice isn’t angry so much as sad. I think of her pillowy pink lips against mine, the soft flicker of her breath, the minty taste of her mouth.

Evelyn has Avery out the door before I can respond.

General Thomas comes up to me and grabs me by the arm again, pulling me away from his daughter.

Avery, I think. Avery.

“Hell, I’ll make it fifteen thousand. For your emotional suffering. God knows your parents put you through hell. You’re trash, but you’ve got an opportunity not to be.”

The man keeps talking to me as he pulls me along, but my brain and body feel numb, and I absorb only about a third of what he’s saying.

He pulls me into his big ass SUV and drives me to the airport. There are three men, each bigger than General Thomas himself, all waiting for me in fatigues.

“You should thank me, Maddox,” he says, when I walk away with the men. “I pulled a lot of strings to get this shit done. It’s not every day you get an opportunity like this, son.”

I walk with them, shoulders slumped.

He’s right.

Avery would figure me out. She wouldn’t want a man like this. At least now I won’t be living out of my truck.

“Remember, I’ll get you that job when you get back. And maybe you’ll be man enough for my little girl. Who the fuck knows?”

I look back at him and that awful grin, stretched across his face like a smile stitched onto a doll.

“You’ll be just fine, kid,” one of the guys says to me. “You look strong as fuck.”

“Fat chance,” says one of the others. “Fifty bucks says he quits on day three.”

The third man speaks. “General Thomas didn’t give him much of a choice. Private Bryant here might be a piece of shit, but he might eventually be a Marine.”

“I highly fucking doubt that,” I mumble.

The man punches me in the shoulder. “I’m Second Lieutenant Lucas Salvatore, and you don’t speak to me like that, Private.”

“Dammit. Don’t make me go.”

I try to pull away, but the man gruffly puts his arm around my shoulders. “Basic might fucking kill you, but I was just like you once. And we’ll make you into a man.”

My shoulders hang low. I am out of options. Lucas Salvatore seems like a person I could like, under other circumstances.

I let myself be led out of the door and onto the tarmac.

When the military plane takes off, I look out of the window and down at the bay as we cross over it.

I close my eyes and try to wipe Avery Thomas from my mind. But as hard as I try, she’s still there, like her flame is burned onto the back of my eyelids. Like she’s still there, no matter what.

“Give it a few years,” one of the guys says. “You’ll forget her. Whoever she is.”

Not too fucking likely, I think.

But I’m probably already the furthest thing from her mind.

And now?

I’m gone.

Chapter 1

Avery - Present Day

I check my phone and then put it away. There’s a stiff breeze coming down through the redwoods. Not for the first time, I imagine that Maddox might have liked it here in Berkeley. He was always talking about how much he hated growing up in South San Francisco. Too many people, too many cars, too much traffic. Typical of him to complain. But just outside of the city, there are winding roads and giant trees and places like Berkeley, full of color and light and piney scented breezes.

Nope. Not thinking about him tonight. There are men at the bars, and Ella is your wing woman. Just because the last ten guys you dated didn’t work out—or give you an orgasm of any kind—doesn’t mean that Maddox would have.

I check my phone again and feel for a pack of cigarettes in my purse. I quit years ago, but I keep them with me and occasionally smell the pack. It reminds me of things from a long time ago, but I don’t tell anyone that. Not even Ella.

“There you are! God, aren’t you cold?” She gives me a glance and plucks at the sleeve of my long gray cardigan.

“Not really.” I shrug. “The poli-sci library is hot as fuck. And I just wrote five thousand words on the influence of Catholicism on early Puritan politics in Boston. I’m ready for a cold drink and a plate of fries or something else with grease in it.”

“Good. I just got finished with my graduate art final. More fun and less boring than political science.” Ella grabs me by the arm and leads me away from the poli-sci building, where I’ve been holed up working on my dissertation. It’s plodding along, like everything in my life. Same old, same old.

“True, but I couldn’t draw my way out of a cardboard box,” I say, laughing.

“That’s a fucking fact. I remember that photography thing you did junior year. Hideous. Truly.”

“Oh God. The brick walls of San Francisco—”

“Yeah, stick to political science. And drinking. Let’s stick to that. BOGO drinks at The Albatross, I hear. Tons of undergrad man candy.”

“I don’t know, Ella.” I can feel myself making a face. “I don’t like that place. I’m kind of over undergrad boys trying to chat me up.”

Ella shrugs. “Okay then. We’ll go to that little speakeasy by the Indian food place. They have a password, I think. Like they did in the thirties.”

“The twenties? I think that’s when prohibition was.” I look at her incredulously.

She shrugs and takes a flask out of her purse, taking a swig of it. “I’m no history major,” she says. “Just a student of the world.”

“We could just go to Eureka,” I say, yawning. I shouldn’t be yawning. It’s a Saturday night, and I just finished my presentation for my political psychology class, and I made serious headway over the past two days on my dissertation.

And my mom hasn’t bugged me in two weeks. That means my anxiety is at an all time low. I used to be quite the party girl, but my mother has a way of ruining everything. And she succeeded in ruining that by making sure everyone in this town hates her and knows me.

“No way. That’s the last place your stalker guy said he was. Right? Do we even know what he looks like?”

“He wasn’t exactly a stalker, was he? I mean, I never saw him. And that was like—three months ago.” I run my fingers against the cold gray stone of the bridge as we walk from the campus and into the town. “He was just a little messed up. Just sent me some weird notes. And told me some weird things. Took some pictures and published them on Tumblr. Caused a little stir. My mom said it was good for politics, so … win-win. Right?” I laugh sarcastically, and the creeping pit of anger comes to my gut. The one I feel when I think about my mom.

“He said he wanted to marry you, steal you from your parents, and take you to Nevada. And he said he’d jump off the Bay Bridge.”

“That’s nice. Weird, but nice. I mean it was the nicest thing a guy said to me in a long time.” I give her a grin, and she grins back at me. Truth be told, he freaked me the fuck out. But Ella enjoys my stalker jokes. If I’m famous enough to have a stalker, I might as well get a little joy out of it.

“You’re fucked up, you know that?”

“I’ve been told. By just about every guy I’ve dated for the past seven years.”

“And what about before that?”

“That was high school. My mom was a state senator, and I was a goody two-shoes. No one told me shit.”

“And Maddox didn’t say that shit either, did he?” Ella takes another drink. “Didn’t tell you you were weird. Or fucked up.”

Maddox. Messy hair the color of rich whiskey. Eyes like the sky before it rains in the spring. A ghost I haven’t been able to get out of my head. Maybe that’s how I am to the stalker. Larger than life.

“He also didn’t tell me he was kicked out of school. And he didn’t tell me where the fuck he went that summer, either. Just disappeared. Poof. Thereby setting me up for every relationship I’ve had since that very day. Like a curse.”

Ella shakes her head and pulls me down the street. “Yeah okay. Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

“I guess not. I’m not that pitiful. Rich and privileged and all that crap. I know it but—”

“But nothing. I’m cold as fuck. I spent my formative years in Arizona, where it’s not sixty degrees and windy in fucking May.”

I laugh and run down the street with her, arms locked together. It feels like high school for a small moment in time, and I’m damn grateful she got her crazy ass into Berkeley’s graduate art program. That girl calls me on my bullshit and makes me feel like a million bucks.

She pulls me into the first bar we see—a cocktail place off the main drag—and sits me down, signaling her friend in the back to bring us two fancy drinks. I sigh and look out of the window. There are graduate students and undergrads wandering around, and all manner of weirdos and hippies.

My parents would love to have me done with this place, but I stayed, even after I got accepted into Stanford Law. I smile a little. They’re the only parents in the world that would get pissed their daughter is getting a Ph.D. in political science instead of a law degree.

A cocktail clinks down on the glass table in front of me. I sip at it. It has gin and something else, and it’s very, very strong.

“Now tell me about that guy from last weekend,” Ella says, kicking back. “You’re in a mood tonight. It’ll help you to talk about frivolous things.”

“He was… okay. We didn’t make it past first base. We had coffee once last week, and I gave him a fake number. Well, the number to my mom’s office in Sacramento.”

Ella busts out laughing. “You didn’t.”

I give her a wicked grin. “I definitely did. I cycle through her numbers. If she or her secretaries get pissed, she’s never told me.”

“Okay, what about meeting someone tonight. You didn’t delete Tinder did you?”

“I didn’t delete it, but I haven’t opened it in a while.”

“Well, open it. I bet there’s someone here to at least talk to.”

I sigh and click open the app. There are four guys here. None of them look the least bit interesting. I click my phone off and stuff it in my purse. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” Ella says, looking at her own phone. “There are a bunch of guys here and two across the street at Albatross.”

I groan. “I feel like every guy in the universe knows who my mom is, and when he finds out, it’s all about money and fame and shit. He wants a hand out or a good word put in at the school. Or whatever.” I sigh and look into my drink. The bubbles fizz and hit my nose.

"I'm sure it's just terrible to be you," says Ella, knocking her drink back in one swift motion.

"Do I detect a note of sarcasm?" I ask, swirling the little black straw in my drink.

"I damn well hope so,” she says with a wink. “You normally love talking about bad dates. What’s happening here?”

“I’m just tired. Tired of trying to get a date, or someone to actually listen to me. You’re my oldest friend, and it seems like you’re the only one who doesn’t want something from me.”

Ella gestures to the barman for two more drinks and turns to look me in the eye. “That might be true, hon. But it’s really not the end of the world like you make it out to be. You could get any guy in this bar. If you wanted to.” She shrugs. “And you don’t have to tell them about your mom.”

“Everyone in Berkeley knows about my mom. And my dad. And the rallies. And the senate run.”

“Okay. No they don’t. Let’s just focus here. You want to get laid? Let’s get you laid.” She winks at me. “That always cheers me up.”

“Yeah okay,” I laugh. “I’ll at least talk to someone. Maybe. If they’re interesting. Tinder unfortunately doesn’t give you stats on whether or not someone is boring as hell.”

“Boring doesn’t matter, Avery. You don’t have to talk to anyone you meet online.”

“What if I want to? What if casual sex is… just not my thing anymore?

“Well, talk to me about the guy you met two weeks ago.”

I roll my eyes. “He was pretty but not so interesting.”

“He was super tall and had a nice ass. Looked like he was built.”

“Yeah. And he didn’t really know what political science was. He kept calling me an anthropologist.” I laugh.

“I fail to see how that’s a deal breaker!” Ella laughs, and the alcohol warms me. I start to feel a little better, a little lighter.

“I guess it shouldn’t be. I think he might have been an undergrad. But I’m not sure.” I scrunch my face up, trying to remember. I wasn’t drinking when I met him, but the whole night feels kind of fuzzy. It’s like every weekend night I’ve spent in graduate school, besides the few nights I had to stay in, avoiding the press and reporters interested in my “stalker.” That’s the word my mom used.

“I know it’s easy for you with your raw sexuality.”

“Oh my God. Okay. Not really.” I pull my hair down over my eyes. “I date a lot. But they’re not really special. And it’s not really all that fun.”

“Not fun? Okay, what? We’re in grad school. We’re young. Hot.”

“I’m just saying, it’s not fun like it used to be, Ella. I’m just tired. My parents—they’re always up in my business. They’re introducing me to some new guy all the time. It’s the same thing over and over again. People pulling me this way and that way.”

“Okay girl, I get you. I get you. Then what do you want?”

I look outside and watch the people moving by again. “I have no idea. I had an idea once. But I was a kid then.”

“Maddox,” she says, nodding. “Yeah, you were eighteen. All you did was kiss him. He disappeared. What did he do—go into the military?”

“Yeah, that’s what my dad told me. I emailed him. Called him. Left messages. But we’ve been over this. He’s ancient history. Rule follower. Listened to my parents. Left town to avoid telling me the truth. All of that. You know the drill.”

“You haven’t brought him up in like a year.”

“You brought him up!” I laugh.

“Well, there is a guy looking at you,” says Ella, subtly pointing behind me.

I turn in time to see the man look the other way. “Yeah, no. He wasn’t looking at me.” I smile. It’s warm in the bar, and Ella’s smile take me back to high school when things were simpler. Not that my life was ever simple, not since Mom decided to be a politician.

I glance over my shoulder again, and the guy is looking at me. I feel like I recognize him from somewhere. His eyes are penetrating. He’s handsome.

But I turn back to Ella.

Lately, meeting guys in bars hasn’t worked out well. I suppress a shiver. I’m not sure why, but something feels strange about the man looking at me.

“He is. Let’s face it —” Ella says. “You’re perfect. And you’re not using your assets.”

“No, I’m not. I’m flighty and impulsive, and I’m perennially in school. No job prospects. And I’m fucking depressing when it comes to guys, apparently.” I give Ella a look, and she laughs. I pull my hair over my face, embarrassed.

“You’re not. But if you want a date, that guy is still looking at you. Guys are always looking at you, you know.” There’s a hint of jealousy in her voice, even though there are probably ten guys looking at her. She just doesn’t know it.

“You ain’t so bad yourself, Ella.” I look over my shoulder, and she’s right. There’s a tall guy with nice eyes looking at me. I feel color creeping over my cheeks.

“Come on over and introduce yourself,” Ella says, gesturing broadly to the guy.

I groan. But when he arrives at our table, I have to hand it to her. He is hot.

“Aden,” he says. “That’s my name. Yours?” He smiles, and I get that shivery feeling again. Maybe it’s because I like him. He’s even hotter up close.

Hotter still is the fact that he doesn't seem to know who I am—or at least acts as if he doesn't, which is good enough for a one night stand. It is a little weird though—not because I'm so very famous, but because I can swear I've seen his face before. Can't place where though. He may just be a familiar type. He is very much my type, if I had one. I guess it's not impossible I already went out with him for coffee, or maybe I had class with him. But he’d remember me, if only for my fucking red hair and my bitch of a mother. I am memorable.

He stays and chats for an hour or so, and by then, Ella is already talking to some guy. She’s getting ready to go to another bar, but the week’s work is weighing down hard on me. And the thought of Maddox popping up out of nowhere—that makes me out of sorts too.

I yawn. “I think I’m going to go,” I say. Aden is hot enough to ask back to my place. But I’ve given up on having good sex with any guy. I could try with Aden, but I’m done with trying to make the endless dates and hookups actually work. Instead, I grab my purse and get up abruptly to leave.

“Hey,” he says, catching my arm. “I think you ought to let me walk you home.”

My heartbeat quickens. I don’t like the way he said that, but I like the way his eyes lock with mine. The drinks—far more alcohol than I’m used to having—they’re making everything fuzzy.

“It’s just a mile. I think I’ll go it alone.” I give him a weak smile. When he looks in my eyes, I admit it. There’s a spark there. At least, I think there is.

“No, seriously,” Aden says. “There are some weirdos out there. I think I’ll walk with you. No expectations. Nothing like that.”

Ella looks at me and shrugs. “Go for it,” she mouths in my direction. “He’s cute.”

Aden sees her too and grins. “Like I said, no expectations. I’ll walk you. You ought to let me. A woman needs a man to protect her in this kind of town.”

“I don’t need a man to protect me,” I say, laughing. “If I wanted to, I could have my mother’s security team follow me around on campus. But I don’t.”

I bite my lip, suddenly embarrassed. What if this guy doesn’t know who my mom is? That would be a huge advantage. I let it hang in the air between us, and he doesn’t make mention of it. Instead, he takes my arm in his, like a gentleman. And we walk out of the bar.

We wander out into the night, feeling pleasantly drunk. He puts an arm around me and I lean up to kiss him as we walk. We kiss and walk for a while, and when we stop I realize we've gone the wrong way, which makes me laugh. Then I see his face, and I stop laughing.

Some men get a look in their eyes before they're going to do something bad, like the guilt needs an outlet, even if it's not enough to stop them.

“Aden…” I start.

"It is you, isn't it?"

The next moment he's slamming me back into the wall. I scream—how can this be the one night there aren't photographers on my ass?

A flash of pain in my head.

Blackness.

That's all I remember.

Chapter 2

Avery

The first thing I'm aware of is the sterile lights looking down on me. I've woken up to lights like this once before — a minor operation I had back in college. My disordered mind puts the pieces together and tells me I'm in a hospital. A pair of dark blurs lean over me.

"Avery?" I recognize my father’s voice.

"Avery?" Mom's voice is always sharper, but there's worry there too. Probably worry about her campaign, but still, I latch onto it.

The blurs coalesce in to people and I become aware of another person standing behind my parents, by the wall. Not a doctor from the looks of him, perhaps part of my mother’s security detail. The one I accidentally bragged about to the asshole who knocked me out. Fuck.

Where were they when I needed them?

I’ve refused security at least seven times in the past year. Now my mother is going to use this incident to force it. She’ll get me some stuffy, boring bodyguard, and I’ll be stuck with him.

Fucking dammit.

I groan and try to turn over in bed.

“Avery, don’t try to move just yet. The doctor said the stitches were in a delicate place on your head.” My mother’s clipped accent cuts through the hazy mess of my thinking, and I groan even louder. It’s like her voice is giving me an extra headache on top of the one I already have. I reach up blindly and feel at my head. My eyes are bleary. One of them feels like it’s glued shut. I can feel a neat row of stitches at the top of my forehead. A jolt of agonizing disgust sears through my body when I touch the wound. I pull my hand away quickly.

“Avery,” my mother says. “Stop that this instant. Stop moving around. You’re going to make it worse. And God knows that scar is going to show up on camera and in the papers. People have plenty of sympathy for your attack, but we don’t want a scar showing up when I’m at the convention later this summer.”

I lift my fingers to the wound again, this time just to piss off my mother. The shadowy figure in the corner lets out a sound that might be a laugh. My head is swimming from the morphine, but it sounds comforting, that laugh. Like something old and long-forgotten.

“Avery!” My mother pulls my hand away and puts it by my side. “Don’t poke at it. I don’t want any of those stitches coming undone. Not before the plastic surgeon gets a look at you.”

“Jesus, Mom,” I moan. I close my eyes hard and try to open them again. I don’t add anything because there’s nothing to add. She’s thinking more about my TV appearances than she is about whether or not I might have brain damage.

“Evelyn,” my father says. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing. The plastic surgeon will take care of the scar. Plus, it could be good for the campaign. The scar would remind people of what she went through. Our brave girl. We can spin it just like we did this story. The attack—out of nowhere.”

“Yes, spin it. I’m sure you will,” I growl.

“We’ll have to, won’t we, Avery?” My mother’s voice is thin and angry. The tiny amount of concern that was there before is gone now. “Your appearance is important for the campaign. The scar, though, that won’t look good on camera.”

"Sorry, Mom, I'll try to quit getting mugged," I reply sarcastically. The pain in my head throbs in time to each word. I glance again at the man in the corner. Everything is foggy, and that one eye won’t come open.

“You need to be safer,” my mother says icily. There’s something wrong with her voice, like she’s even more distant from all of this than usual. Gone are all traces of worry. “And you need to have security.”

I lift my hand again and trace my fingers lightly over my eye. Bruised. Swollen. I groan and try to roll away from my mother’s voice, but it’s everywhere.

“Stop touching it,” my mother hisses.

“Evelyn—” my father starts. But he doesn’t say anything else.

“This was bound to happen eventually,” my mother continues. “With you refusing security guards and any kind of protection.”

“I left with him. He was going to walk me home. He seemed nice.” I say the words flatly. “I didn’t know.”

“We’re going to make sure it doesn’t happen again, Avery. We don’t want to see you like this.” She tries to reach a hand out to my arm to be comforting, but I pull away.

I hate how I am with my parents. I feel like I’m thirteen, railing against everything they say. I shouldn’t have to defend my choices, and at twenty-five, I shouldn’t be forced to be a part of their career. Yet, here I am. Trapped. I lash out the only way I know how.

“No, you want to see me on TV, with no scar. You made that perfectly clear.”

“Being a Thomas comes with certain responsibilities. We’re an old family name. Your forefathers helped found this country. I’m a four-star general, and your mother is a senator of this state. You have public appearances and—”

“So I should stay safe and sound and scar-free? Just sit up in my apartment and brush my hair five hundred times a night?”

The man in the corner laughs again, though I can hear he’s trying to hide it. I smile weakly.

“Now that you mention it, you could use a touch up around your face. I like it best when you have blond highlights. The red around your face doesn’t look great on camera.” My mother attempts to touch my hair, but I swat her hand away.

My father sighs. “You’re our wild card, Avery. And this campaign doesn’t need a wild card. There are rumors about you in the tabloids. That you’re going home with men all the time. Is that true?”

“No,” I say, my voice short. “I used to go on a lot of dates, but it’s all a bunch of dumb, boring assholes—”

“If you had a respectable boyfriend like that Gary fellow,” my father starts, “maybe this wouldn’t have happened.”

“All I need is a man to protect me,” I say. “Gary wanted to work for you. Not be with me.”

“What about the guy before that?” My mother touches me again, and this time, I let her. She smoothes my hair.

“He wasn’t into me either.” My eyelids are heavy. Images in my mind all blur together. I don’t want to rehash that particular fiasco, not right now.

“We’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,” my father says. “And then we’ll find a man for you. Someone who is comfortable with the Thomas family name. Someone who respects it.” He pats me on my arm, but I can tell his mind is somewhere else. Spinning the news. Reliving his glory days in the military. Anywhere but here, with me.

Tears sting my eyes, and I turn away from them, burying my head in the scratchy hospital pillow.

The guy in the corner clears his throat, like he’s uncomfortable with my parents’ bullshit. Anyone would be.

I open one eye and look at him again.

He looks familiar, but I can't place why. Like a painting of a photograph of someone I once saw, a long time ago.

If he was in a painting, he’d be in a military painting. Well over six feet tall, broad, built like a tank, each line of him indicating precision and physical perfection. His stormy blue eyes are the thing I notice most, even looking at him, blearily, through my one good eye. They’re distant and cold, but there’s an echo of something kind and patient. His deep brown hair is cropped close, not quite military regulation but almost. And the stubble on his chin indicates he’s not on active duty. But I’d recognize a Marine anywhere, even with a concussion.

“Who the fuck is that?” I force the words out, and it feels like my mouth is filled with cotton and sand. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Language,” my mother replies automatically. I’m not looking at her, but I can tell she’s flipping through emails on her phone.

“Your mother was against it,” my father says. “Very much so.”

The man in the corner sighs.

“Still am,” my mother says. “But the papers like a good redemption story, and your father found one for us. It’s good to show the media we’re protecting you after your brush with danger, Avery.”

“Seven years in the Marines, out on honorable discharge for an injury. He’ll be your new bodyguard. No refusing it after this, Avery. He needs the money. His mother helped us for years. So we’re helping him.”

“How Christian of you,” I say. The man’s face starts to come into clearer focus. My heart skips a beat and then pounds hard. The blood rushes to my face all at once.

The man grins, and my memory pours back in. Warm evenings out on my parents’ roof, the sweet taste of pot and cheap wine. The bitter, angry taste of disappointment that stayed with me the entire summer I lived in Vancouver.

Fuck. Him.

And he’s been here the whole time, listening to my whiny, bitchy ranting.

I turn bright pink. I can feel it in my cheeks.

“I think you must remember Maddox Bryant, Avery. Your father will go on and on about how we promised him a job and how we’re helping him out. But I know you do remember him. He left right after you graduated, didn’t he?”

I purse my lips. “Yeah, I remember him."

Maddox nods at me, but says nothing. The grin vanishes as quickly as it came, but his eyes remain locked on me. That cold gaze flickers over my body quickly, and a jolt like lightning sears through me. I can’t help it. It’s just a reaction.

“He’s been back from Afghanistan for a few months. Injured leg. He’s still stronger than any other man we interviewed. And he needs the job. Don’t you son?”

“Yes sir. I do.” His voice seems to fill the room. Deeper and richer than it was when we were in school together.

“He's going to be your bodyguard," my mother says.

“I don’t need a damn bodyguard,” I say flatly. “I just won’t leave my apartment again. Like I’ve said a thousand times, I don’t want to be part of your shitty political game.”

“You’re part of this game whether you like it or not,” says my father. “And Maddox here is making sure you keep playing. He’s going to be a somewhat unconventional employee in that regard.”

“He’s not just tasked with stopping bad things happening to you,” says my mother, enjoying this way more than she should. “He’s going to make sure you show up on time, properly dressed, freshly showered, and appropriately sober. For everything we need.”

A wave of deep sadness washes over me. I haven’t felt this low in years. They have me where they want me — and this time, I can’t refuse. There are pictures of my injury everywhere, no doubt. I need security. And with this redemption story they’re selling — they need Maddox too.

Fuck.

My heart sinks.

I can't find the words to express what I think about being treated like I'm ten. But in my mind I find the response that I can't say.

I’d like to see him try.

Chapter 3

Maddox

The hospital is a fucked-up place to be.

I’ve spent too many nights in hospitals in the past year. On leave, holding my mother’s hand. That’s one story I won’t be telling Avery.

My mom is sick. Your parents are helping. They talked me into this damn job even though I don’t want to be here.

And later, looking up at the ceiling while my stitches healed, hiding the screws and plates in my leg.

My bionic leg. That’s what my mom calls it. She thinks it’s funny that we were sick at the same time. She still is. But thanks to that godawful asshole, General Thomas, her brain tumor has stopped growing. Her speech is normal. She can lift a spoon and feed herself.

I fucking hate that man. And he’s tasked me with taking care of Avery.

I thought I was done protecting people for good. I left the military with my honorable discharge papers, and I hadn’t intended on returning to any job that had me interacting with people, guns, or sand. I’ve had enough of all three.

But when a man shows up out of the blue with a hundred thousand dollars and a cure for your mother’s cancer, you start rearranging things in your mind when it comes to what you will and won’t do.

I just didn’t think it would be so jarring to see Avery. Even in her hospital bed, I can tell she’s the woman I always thought she was going to be. Full of fire and sass and self-righteous rage. It’s all currently directed at her parents, but she can use her particular brand of crazy for good when and where she needs to.

I watch. I remain silent. Sit in the corner. Bring coffee. Do all the things I’m supposed to do. I fill the lengthy list of requirements that I was given, and I do them all over the course of three days while Avery’s injuries are assessed. She’s wheeled back and forth for x-rays and a new round of stitches. Each morning, her one eye is brighter, as they taper her off of the painkillers. On the fourth morning, she opens the second eye. Bloodshot still, but as blue as the open sky. As sharp and accusing as a cat’s.

She still refuses to speak to me.

No hello. No thank you when I place a lukewarm coffee in her hand. No, ‘Hey, Maddox. How was Afghanistan?’

I’m well aware she’s angry. More at her parents for even getting her a bodyguard in the first place. I can’t imagine that she’s still angry at me for running off. Maybe she is. Who the fuck knows with that woman?

In silent moments, when her parents are at some meeting or another, I sit in the corner and look out of the window at the cars passing on the Golden Gate Bridge. I don’t look at Avery, except when she’s sleeping.

When I do watch her, I don’t like the thoughts I have. They’re not regulation thoughts. Not thoughts I’m supposed to even consider, according to my contract with the Thomases.

But these are the thoughts I have, in no particular order.

Her hair, somehow, is redder. Her lips, fuller. Her eyes are even more penetrating, and her cheekbones more defined. Her body, even under the hospital gown, is ripe and round, with wide hips and a teasing ass, and a pair of perfect breasts. Beneath her gown, I imagine her skin is pale, freckles golden. Her nipples, a pale pink. I’m not entirely sure—but that’s my best guess.

We only kissed. But I find myself thinking like I did when I spent those summer nights on her roof. What she would look like with her legs wrapped around my waist. If she would taste as good as she smelled—like warm ginger and rich spice. If she would feel like fire and heat if she were in my arms.

On the fourth day, I can’t help myself. After her parents relieve me, I walk back to my hotel room, images of Avery filling my mind. I barely make it into the room before my cock is so hard that it aches. I strip and step into a cold shower, but it only makes it worse.

So I give in. I close my eyes and think of her shirt falling off one shoulder, her nipples hard beneath her light pink dress, the one she used to wear after she changed out of her school uniform. I go back to an old fantasy—lifting her skirt, pulling her panties to the side, and sliding my cock inside of her on her roof, while her parents had dinner below. I think of her warmth, her heat, pulsing around me. Legs shaking. And I come, groaning, hot ropes of it against the wall of the hotel shower.

After that I sleep like the dead. Better than I did in all the years I served our country.

When I return to the hospital room the next day, her parents leave for yet another meeting. And Avery finally speaks to me, looking at me with that clear, blue gaze.

“You’re taking me home this evening. They have an apartment for you across the street from mine. I heard Mom on the phone with some furniture company. They’re moving shit in. Hope you like blue. Evelyn isn’t terribly creative when it comes to interior decorating.”

“I don’t mind blue,” I say. I give her a crooked grin. I can’t help thinking about the hotel shower. Nothing will come of that fantasy. I made sure of that seven years ago when I left. It was the same fantasy that kept me sane for years in Afghanistan. Maybe it’ll keep me sane when I’m dealing with Avery herself.

Avery nods, satisfied. She turns her gaze to the dreary hospital window. “You’re getting a fat paycheck. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” I leave the other stuff out. The stuff about my mom.

Avery snorts. “That’s what they do. Paying people to get what she wants. If only her constituents knew what she did on a regular basis.”

“They might forgive her anyway, since she’s helping pass laws they like.” I shrug. In my experience, especially with Avery’s parents, that’s how this shit works. If you’re rich and powerful, you can get anyone to do anything. If you’re a poor, injured vet with a sick mom, you’re the one grabbing coffee and guarding a girl who most definitely hates you.

“Shit’s fucked up, so fucked up it seems I need a bodyguard. Or my parents think I do,” she says, her voice distant and soft. She looks back at me. “But listen, here’s the deal—”

Right at that moment, Avery’s parents parade back in with several doctors.

“It’s been taking all day to get this hospital discharge completed,” Evelyn says.

“You were at a meeting, Mother,” Avery retorts, her eyes still locked on mine.

“I had my secretary on the phone, trying to get them to release you. Guess I need to get them to do it myself.” Evelyn glances at me and gives me a crisp smile. “Now, you know about not letting Avery out on her own for another few days, Maddox. We have the foundation dinner coming up, and she needs to be healed and prepped for that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

“And no funny business,” Evelyn adds.

Avery raises an eyebrow and opens her mouth to protest, but I shake my head at her. Best not to get into the particulars of my contract right here, right now. I know when a wounded soldier needs to get the hell out of dodge, and that’s what Avery looks like right now. She needs her own bed, her own apartment. Her parents in their own home, away from her.

“Maddox knows what he’s doing. He’s a good goddamn Marine, according to his commanding officer,” General Thomas says, above the din of doctors chatting with Avery and signing papers. “He’ll make sure that Avery complies with everything she’s supposed to do.”

I nod. I know Avery wants to rant at her parents right now, but I’m glad she doesn’t.

Unsurprisingly, Evelyn and Richard disappear back into their political world yet again. And I’m alone with Avery. I catch myself staring at her as the doctors and nurses clear out of the room.

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer,” she says through gritted teeth.

I grin at her. I can’t help it. “Just making sure you’re behaving yourself.”

She rolls her eyes and moves to get off the bed. I step over and try to take her arm, but she pulls it away, just like she did with her parents. “I’m fine,” she says, looking up at me with those piercing blue eyes. “Step off. I need to get dressed, so actually, step off into the hallway.”

I drop my hands, my body buzzing like there’s a current of electricity running through me. I can’t help but focus on the image of her in that hospital gown. Her hands undoing the pale tan ribbons holding it together, her body naked beneath.

Back off, soldier, I think. I almost wish I had a cigarette, even though I quit years ago. I wonder if Avery quit, too.

“I’m ready.” I hear Avery’s voice on the other side of the door, and I step inside, taking the wheelchair by the door over to where she’s sitting on the bed. She swats my hand away again when I help her into the chair, but she’s silent again, like she was for the past half a week. She lets me take her down to the parking garage, apparently resigned to her fate.

She still hasn’t spoken when we pull out of the parking lot and onto the bustling street. There are signs for her mother’s campaign across the street, and I grumble as I turn. That’s why they had her here instead of in Berkeley, then. Right across from that big-ass campaign office. I roll my eyes.

The girl sitting next to me, arms crossed over her ample chest. She’s a pawn in her parents’ political game. And here I am, enabling them and their malignant narcissism. I think of my mom. She’s in an independent living facility now, all on the Thomases dime. Richard wanted me because I was trustworthy. So that’ll be my fucking job for the next five months.

“I’m not having you as my bodyguard. I don’t know what you think is going on here. But you can stay in your little apartment and collect your paycheck, but you won’t be doing anything with me.”

My stomach drops, but I just sit silent and let her rant. I sigh and look over at her quickly, but she’s started, and there’s no stopping her now.

“I don’t need a bodyguard, but if I had to have one, it wouldn’t be you,” she spits. “You disappeared without a trace. My parents shipped me off to Vancouver for some political science thing, and I wrote you every day. I called and left messages until your number was disconnected. My parents forced it while I was in the hospital, but they can’t control what I do. And neither can you. I’m not going to that dinner, and I’m not going to their stupid events.”

I let her words hang in the air between us. I was afraid of something like this. I turn onto the bridge, and we cross over into Berkeley. It’s midday and sunny by the bay, but cloudy over Berkeley.

“That’s not how this is going to work.”

“I’m your boss, aren’t I?” She gives me a piercing look. I can feel it, even though I’m staring at the road.

“Actually, your mother's paying me, so she's my boss. And I’m not planning on following your orders. I need my paycheck.”

“I don’t care what you need,” Avery says. “You could get a job anywhere.”

“No,” I say. I pull into a spot by her apartment building. “I can’t. I didn’t go to school. I was wounded, so I can’t go back to the military. And I need to stay in the state.” I don’t add that whatever job I find next won’t cover my mother’s treatments, or her housing.

Avery sighs. “Then pretend to do it. I’m working on my dissertation. I can’t get caught up in their shit. Blame it on me when it all goes south. I don’t care what you do.”

I turn off the car. “Avery, listen to me. I was there when they brought you in. It was touch and go for a while there, whether or not you would wake up. Your parents didn’t tell you, but they think that guy was your stalker. The one who threatened you.”

“He didn’t threaten me—he was harmless. Wasn’t he?” Her voice falters.

I don’t tell her that she doesn’t understand the value of this job for a man like me. Even without my mother involved, I need the goddamn money. Or I wouldn’t be here, following around a girl I can’t have.

“He wasn’t harmless if he did that to you.” I gesture to her face. “And he won’t get to do it again if I’m here. You might not be able to pick up any dates at the bars—”

“I wasn’t picking up dates. I was out with a friend.” Her voice goes quieter. “I haven’t met anyone in a while.”

“I know the feeling,” I say. I clear my throat. “Let’s get you upstairs. I’ll check the perimeter first, and then I’ll help you up the stairs.”

She sighs, but this time, she doesn’t protest. I might have to keep chipping away at her until she understands that this is the way things are going to be, but for now, she’s silent.

As I walk toward the apartment, I look back at her. I had imagined she would have used that raw sexuality to get as many dates as she wanted.

But maybe she’s more like me than I thought. I haven’t had a single relationship that was for real. Not since way before I met Avery, and that was in high school.

I inspect both sides of the building, the lobby and the stairwell. And then I come back to find her, propped up outside of the car, waiting for me. Her hair contrasts against the deep gray of the sky, somehow making everything around her brighter. She shouldn’t be standing by herself, but that didn’t stop her this morning.

I offer her my arm, but she presses on ahead, even though she’s still walking with a slight limp. She even refuses my help when we walk up the stairs.

When I set her things down, she looks at me with what can only be described as a glare. She even crosses her arms. “You can go now. Your place is across the way, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. But I’m checking your rooms, and then I’m staying on the couch.”

“No, you’re not. I have my politics and religion class in the morning, and I’m supposed to talk to my professor about my final project for the semester.”

I shrug and check each room as she watches me, turning back towards her. I can still feel her staring at me, her anger simmering just below the surface.

“Whatever happened to law school?” I ask and she shoots a hot glance at me. I go to her couch and sit down, loosening the laces on my shoes.

She sighs, drumming her fingers against her arm. “I decided on political science because my parents wanted me to go to law school. And you’re not sleeping on my couch. You’re getting up and walking across the street and sleeping on your own bed. I’m sure my mother ordered you one.”

I shrug. “I am sleeping on your couch. You might stumble out of your room and fall down the stairs, and there goes my paycheck. And that douchebag might pop up, and—”

“There goes your paycheck.” She sighs again. “I’m going to bed. One night. Then you’re gone.”

I nod and watch her as she walks to her bedroom.

For a second, she looks more like the girl I used to know. Less self-assured, less hardened. But the mirage is gone when she turns into her bedroom.

She gives me a cold, piercing look when she stands there, the light illuminating her pale, freckled skin.

She closes the door, and it locks behind her.

I spent years thinking I was over Avery Thomas. And I spent the past three months thinking this job wouldn’t bring it back. I assured Richard. I signed papers.

But as the night wears on, I find myself thinking of the sweet, teasing glance of her shoulder, the fullness of her breasts, her curves and where they fall on her body.

There’s a chance I’m not as over Avery Thomas as I thought.

Chapter 4

Avery

My sleep is dark and deep, and for the first time since the attack, I don’t dream of the man, his elbow slamming into my face.

Instead, I dream of Maddox.

He’s on top of me, hard muscles against my porcelain skin. I run my hands over his body and pull him down, closer, so there’s no space between us. My hand moves lower and finds his length. I can barely wrap my fingers around it, and he groans.

He pulls down the sheets, and I realize with a shock that I’m naked too. I usually sleep in a t-shirt and panties, but there’s nothing. I’m bare.

Maddox groans, stroking himself. But he’s focused on me, teasing me with his lips and fingers, his body connected to every inch of mine, all at once. I’m writhing in desire, chasing the pleasure no man has given me in all these years.

I need him now, and he is more than ready. I grab him and pull him to me, and with one virile thrust, he…

My eyelids flutter open, and I sit up with a shock. My beat-up t-shirt is still on my body, and the room is dark. There’s no one beside me. No one on top of me. My heart is pounding hard, blood rushing in my ears, arousal pooling between my legs. I pant and pull the covers aside, letting the air cool me.

I don’t want this, I remind myself. I don’t want a fucking bodyguard. And I don’t want Maddox fucking Bryant anywhere near me.

And I don’t want the crushing disappointment of none of this being real.

I used to dream about Maddox often, especially that long, lonely summer after I graduated. I’d go to bed looking forward to it, hoping I’d wake up and see an email from Maddox. Or a letter. Or my phone, lit up with a voicemail from him.

It just didn’t happen. And now my brain has betrayed me.

I don’t need him in my dreams—it’s bad enough that he’s in my apartment.

I can feel his presence, out there on my couch, silently judging me. For staying trapped under my mother’s thumb. For not having to worry about money. For the trust fund in the bank.

And he seems hell bent on following all of those rules, just so he can get that sweet payout. Fuck him. I’d never expected that Maddox Bryant would be the one forcing me to follow my parents’ rules. That’s what he was hired to do. My body seethes with rage.

I sit there, anger brewing until the faint, purplish light of dawn invades my room. My head is throbbing, but the Advil is in the kitchen, and I’m not planning on seeing Maddox just yet.

I have to figure out a way to get the hell out of dodge as soon as the semester ends next week.

My room has an ensuite shower, so I lock myself inside and avoid him until I come out for Advil and coffee. I hope that some miracle made him disappear so the war of emotions and desires inside of me might stop.

But he’s there. Standing in the kitchen. Making French toast and coffee.

My stomach growls. It somehow makes me angrier that he anticipated my needs. I walk to the kitchen to get Advil, but I stop cold. There are four orange pills next to a glass of water and a steaming cup of coffee on my kitchen table.

I sigh and sit down, glancing at Maddox. “There are too many pills,” I say curtly. “And you’re still here.”

He ignores that last part and continues flipping toast.“The doctor said you need four Advil three times a day for three days. It’ll keep the swelling down. Then you can taper down after that. You can alternate with the Vicodin. Trust me. You want to stay ahead of the pain.”

I take the pills and swallow them with my coffee. “I don’t want any French toast. I need to get to class.”

“You’re not going to class,” he says. “And you’re eating breakfast.”

“I am in fact going to class. I need to—”

“Present your paper? Your parents took care of that for you. You apparently completed everything you needed to do for the semester, so they informed Berkeley that you wouldn’t be attending class. Here’s your breakfast.”

Maddox appears beside me and plops three pieces of French toast onto my plate. I groan. I want to shove the plate off the table, but I’m suddenly starving, and my body feels weaker than it did when I first got out of bed.

“They had no right,” I say, digging into the toast. It’s sweet and hot, and there’s steam still coming off of it.

“They pay the bills for your courses, don’t they?” Maddox’s voice is gruff. He returns to the table and puts down a plate of bacon. I take three pieces and crumble them up over my toast.

And then I eat, refusing to respond to Maddox. The food is ridiculously delicious, each bite melting in my mouth, sweet and salty all at once. Maddox watches me eat, taking reserved bites of his own food the entire time.

“You can go now,” I say, tucking my knees up beneath my chin. “And I don’t want you making my breakfast anymore.”

“‘Thank you, Maddox. That was a great breakfast, Maddox,’” he says, sarcasm dripping from his every word. “Why, you’re welcome, Avery.”

“I’m grown, Maddox.”

“I can see that,” he says. His expression is blank, and I don’t entirely know what he means. There’s a jolt deep inside of me, though, and his gaze doesn’t leave me.

“Then you need to be in your apartment. I need to stay in mine. Got it?”

“No, I do not ‘got it,’” he says.

I suppress a growl and try not to let on the fact that I’m starving. “You live across the street. One night in my apartment is enough.”

“Not when my principal is uncooperative and looks to be a flight risk.” Maddox crosses his arms. “I know that much about personal protection. It would be foolish of me to leave you at this stage in the game.”

“Look —” I start, my head pounding. “I am grown. I promise I’ll check in with you at the end of each night and the beginning of every day.”

“After today, maybe. But that guy might still be lurking around here. I’ll have to set up surveillance in your apartment.”

I blush. I don’t like the thought of him looking at me, but it might be better than him living with me. “Fine.”

“And you promise that if you do in fact flee, you blame it on yourself. Not me. I need this job. And other than your alone time in this exact apartment, I’m on your ass 24-7.”

“Okay.” I cross my own arms. “Now, go. I need that ‘alone time’ you’re talking about.”

“Yes, ma’am. But your parents have informed me that you do not eat breakfast. I’m here to make sure that you do. I take this job seriously since it’s currently my source of income. And my way to get my own home. I’ll leave once the election is over. But for now, I’m doing as your parents tell me. And that includes getting you to eat breakfast, at least while you’re still healing.”

“So, you’re going to make me eat? That’s part of this job, is it? Treating me like a kid so I can show up where I need to show up?”

His hair is still the color of whiskey. It’s short now, a slightly grown-out military cut. His eyes are stormy and distant and somehow sad. I want to rage against him, to show him all the pent-up things inside, to tell him what it’s like to be trapped in a box, observed by my parents and the world at large. But I don’t. Instead, I sulk and slump down in my chair.

“Look, Avery.” His voice is slightly softer than it was before. “I don’t think this situation is a dream for either of us, but it’ll be a hell of a lot easier if we work together. Your parents have rules. I’m here to follow them. And if you do as I say, I won’t have to treat you like a kid. I don’t love following a grown woman around, telling her what to do. But I need the money, and it is what it is.”

I say nothing. Instead I get another cup of coffee, loading it with cream this time. My head isn’t hurting nearly as bad, and my body feels slightly more normal again. I won’t admit it to Maddox, but that greasy breakfast was exactly what I needed.

“Easy for you to say.” I lean against the counter. My kitchen is all granite and stainless steel, and the apartment is nearly five thousand a month. I’m suddenly aware of what my life must look like to Maddox. My parents are even richer than they were before. “I’m the one taking orders.”

“You don’t know shit about taking orders,” Maddox says, a hard edge in his voice. “I took orders for six and a half years. When I was in Afghanistan, there were nights I didn’t know if I was going to die. Or if I’d have to watch someone else die. I didn’t have a choice. I had to fall in line.

“Sometimes you have to follow orders so you can stay safe. I don’t love your parents, Avery. God knows I don’t. But with the election and all the talk of your mom running for president next term, you need protection. It’s past time for it.”

I don't look at him but I can feel my heart pounding. I hate feeling like he’s right. There was always that sense of rightness about him, even when we were both kids. Like he had some part of life figured out that I hadn’t. I’m not sure if it came from the way he grew up, but it was always there. I hate that he makes sense. And I hate even more that everything in me wants to rebel against him and cut him down.

“I’m an adult,” I repeat. “And I don’t want to be forced to my mother’s events.”

“You can’t show up for what your mom does? Because—what? It’s boring? Or is it just to piss her off?”

I scowl. It’s deeper than that, but Maddox doesn’t have the look of someone who wants to listen to that right now.

“You need protection,” he continues. “Go look at yourself in the mirror if you disagree.”

I bite my lip, and then I respond. “You had your years in the military. I don’t know anything about that. My private hell isn’t anything like yours, but I still live in it. My parents drop by the apartment. They show up at school. They do background checks on any guy I date. And when I finally get hurt, all they can do is think about how I look on camera.”

“Poor little rich girl,” he says. His voice is flat, and it’s impossible to get a read on the emotion behind his voice.

He looks at me coolly, and a lump forms in my throat. My eyes prickle, and there are tears. I don’t know this Maddox, the one who calls me names and informs me that he’s going to do everything my parents wish.

“You need to go,” I say. My voice is hoarse from holding back the crying.

“I don’t want to be here anyway. I can keep an eye on you today from where I live. But if you try to leave, I’ll be appearing right back at your doorstep. You need to eat. You need to sleep. And you need to rest. Nothing else.”

Maddox stands up and turns, heading for the door.

I muster up all the anger inside, turning towards him. There won’t be any more dreams. Not if I can help it.

The door closes with an unsatisfying thud. I walk to the window and watch him as he crosses the street.

When he’s inside, it’s clear that his apartment directly faces mine. The window looks into my living room. Before I have a second to think, he goes to his own window and gives a wave in my direction. Knowing my parents, he has orders to watch me whenever and however he can.

This is why I never wanted a bodyguard.

Teenage me would have thought this was sexy. I dreamed of Maddox watching me every day.

But that was then. This is now. I’m older, angrier, and ready to fight.

Fine. If he wants to follow every order my parents lay out for him, there’s no way I’m going to make this easy.

Game on, Maddox.

You can follow the rules.

I’ll be busy breaking them.

Chapter 5

Maddox

I pace the apartment floor. It’s hardwood. The kitchen appliances all work. Yes, everything is blue, as Avery warned. But it’s the nicest place I ever lived.

I sent my mother pictures this morning, and she responded with a smiley face. Her own apartment looks like this now. And she’s going to live, thanks to Avery’s parents.

Still, there’s a growing pit of anxiety in my stomach. Avery Thomas might be a poor little rich girl, but she’s right. She’s a grown woman, and her parents don’t need to watch her every move.

And I don’t need to be the one doing it.

Still, I’m bracing for a fight. I hate feeling that way, but I could tell Avery was digging in. I am too.

The next morning, I go to the window and check on her. I do it a little guiltily, but there’s nothing too private she’d be doing in her living room. Plus, it’s in the nineteen-page document her mother gave me when I started the position a week ago.

Check on Avery’s movements in the apartment each morning. Make sure she’s making a healthy breakfast for herself. She should have no more than one cup of coffee, with two ounces of non-fat creamer. Although it may not be in your power, her father and I would like for her to maintain her weight or drop five pounds before the foundation dinner.

My stomach turns when I think of it. No wonder Avery is defensive.

I look through the binoculars I have on the window frame. Sure enough, Avery is inside, making coffee. She dumps at least half a cup of full fat cream into it, and I snicker. There’s no way I’m following that rule.

And she heads straight for the window. Fuck.

Before I can put the binoculars down, Avery is standing there with an angry, determined expression on her face. The same way she got when she first started thinking about leaving town, leaving California altogether. Back when we were kids.

She moves a chair to the window and drinks her coffee. When she’s finished, she unbuttons the top two buttons of her blouse, revealing the creamy tops of her breasts.

Shit. Against my better judgment, I don’t put the binoculars down. Instead, I watch as she takes off her shirt directly in front of the window. She slips on a dress and shimmies out of the skirt she was wearing, throwing it at the window.

Before turning away, she faces the window head-on, smirks, and slowly raises both of her middle fingers in salute.

She flounces away and disappears into the dark recesses of her apartment, where I can’t see her. Just as I put the binoculars down, my phone buzzes.

Avery Thomas: You’re a creeper, just like my fucking stalker. Leave me alone today, and I’ll tell my mom you stayed on my ass all day.

“This fucking woman,” I mutter to myself. I can’t get the image of her out of my mind. Round tits, full and high and barely contained in her white, lacy bra. I know Avery is no longer a virgin, but I imagine her that way. Pure. Innocent. Untouched.

In the battle of wills between myself and Avery, there’s one weapon for which I have very little defense. Her body.

And she’s made me look like an asshole. I should have turned away. Instead, I stayed glued to the window, and there’s a growing feeling of tightness in my cock. I half-consider jacking off again, just to relieve the tension. But I need to keep eyes on Avery, no matter what she says.

I whip out my phone and type quickly.

Maddox Bryant: Fat chance. Tell me where you’re going.

For a minute or more, there’s no response. I look out of the window with my binoculars again and see no trace of her in the apartment. I look down to the lobby, and there is no evidence of anyone coming or going. Her car is in the underground lot, and I could go over to that exit and wait for her. I’m about to head for the front of the building when I think better of it.

A few minutes later, Avery emerges from a side street, riding her beach cruiser bike, headed straight for campus.

I hadn’t thought an injured woman would climb down her fire escape to the street below, but Avery isn’t the average woman.

Clever girl. Not clever enough.

I bolt down the stairs to the motorcycle Avery’s parents gave me for the job, and I catch up to her easily. It takes a minute for her to notice me. I nod at her. She gives me the finger.

When we arrive on campus, Avery parks her bike, ignoring me while she fiddles with her lock. I park nearby, watching her. She’s still a little unsteady on her feet, but she has her laptop bag slung over one shoulder, and she appears determined to make it into a classroom before the end of the term.

She doesn’t turn to check where I am before she marches off to class, her bag bouncing against one perfectly sculpted hip. I catch up to her easily and grab her by the arm. Not so hard that I could hurt her, but hard enough that she can’t exactly run away.

“Avery, you’re supposed to stay at home. For the next week.”

“Let go of me,” she hisses. Her icy gaze meets mine. “Don’t you get it? I want to be here. This is what I do with my life. I want to be left alone and write my dissertation. Graduate. Have a life that doesn’t involve my parents.”

“Avery. You’re hurt. You’re still limping. What they’re asking is just that you take time to heal. Everything is worked out so you don’t have to go to school right now.”

“They’re taking everything away from me until this election is over. I just want this one thing. Just until school is over. Or is that prohibited in your contract?”

My expression goes blank.

“Oh, you don’t think I know about whatever contract they made with you? I have my own little booklet of where I’m supposed to be and how I’m supposed to behave. My mom wrote one for my dad too, and one for his personal security detail. They live for this kind of thing. You know, they tried to get me to take a bodyguard seven different times in the past year? I know what they do. Remember that. You’re just learning.” She takes her free hand and uses a manicured finger to poke me straight in the chest.

“I’m fairly familiar with their style, Avery. But they’re right about this. You need to be on your sofa, watching Netflix, Avery.”

“I’m not a child,” she says, trying to pull away again. People are beginning to notice us, but no one says anything. Everyone knows who Avery Thomas is, and it’s clear enough that I’m her new bodyguard.

“Then don’t act like one,” I say. “Act like an adult who’s just spent four days in the hospital. And fucking take care of yourself.”

My heart is beating hard now. This is as close as I’ve been to Avery in seven years. Her hair still smells faintly of ginger, and her skin is warm and supple and soft. Even with the fading wound across her forehead, she’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

“Maddox,” she says, “I’m going to class. Then I’ll sit around the entire rest of the day. Deal?”

I nod. Finally, I let her pull her arm away. She walks towards one of the lecture halls, and I begin to follow her.

She whips around. “No. You do not get to follow me inside. That's one step too far. These are my friends and teachers. I don't want them to start looking at me differently. You can wait out here."

I pretend to consider this. "Fair enough."

I flip through my phone and see that Avery Thomas has no classes scheduled for today.

I knew it.

I sit on a bench outside the lecture hall and Avery heads in. As soon as she is inside, I stand up and stroll back the way we came, arriving at the main doors just in time to see Avery ducking out of a fire exit and running back towards her bike. I can't help admiring her tenacity, she really doesn't give up. I let her get on the bike and head off before I follow her. I think it'll have more impact on her this way.

The bike suits her. I know I shouldn't be thinking like this but it's hard not to when I'm following her on her bike, my eyes glued to the perfect curve of her ass, thrust out behind. I can't decide if this would be easier or harder if she didn't look so incredible. But I can't say I'm sorry that she looks how she does.

She heads down a side street, and I speed up to catch her.

Part of me knows this is dumb. I'm supposed to be protecting her and instead I'm chasing her through traffic. And I'm enjoying it. I chased Avery Thomas the last summer I was a free man. It brings back old memories. I smile.

When I turn behind her, Avery hears me, and looks back. She rolls her eyes dramatically and turns down an alley.

The electric feeling that I got when I saw her at the window this morning returns. I follow her, slowing down on my bike, barely puttering through the alley.

“This is part of the job,” I say to myself. “It’s all part of the job. It’s just a bonus if you like chasing her.”

She keeps about a quarter mile ahead of me, and I follow her. By her body language, I can tell she’s angry. Enraged. She had some plan to ditch me, maybe for the rest of the summer.

As she hits the next corner, however, she takes it badly. The bike slips from under her and she comes off, rolling over the pavement. I scream to a halt and leap off, letting my bike crash to the ground, my heart in my mouth.

"Avery! Are you okay?!"

"No thanks to you!" She pulls off her helmet. Her face is pink with anger and shock. "Look at my damn bike."

The teal beach cruiser has a bent wheel, and the seat has nearly popped off.

"Can you walk?" I ask.

I try to go over to her and help her up, but true to her nature, she refuses.

She smacks my hand away and pulls herself up on her own. "Of course I can damn well walk! And now I have to walk home!"

"I can take you,” I say. “It’ll be safer.”

“Since when are motorcycles safe, Maddox?” The tone of her voice makes me want to grab her and shake her and kiss her violently all at once.

I growl. “Avery, you will not make me lose this job.”

“You will not follow my every move, then, Maddox. My parents are busy with their career. They won’t know if you let me off the leash for half a day.”

“That’s not the point,” I say, my voice angrier than I intend.

Without a response, Avery marches off in the direction of her apartment. The hemline of her dress is ripped, and her laptop bag is scuffed. There’s an impressive road burn on her elbow.

“Avery,” I say, loud enough so that she turns in my direction. “I’m sorry.”

She looks at me oddly for a second, surprised to hear the words from me.

"You're what?"

"I shouldn't have chased you like that. It was dangerous and stupid."

For a moment she is silent, looking at me in that smartly appraising way of hers that I fell for all those years ago. “Yeah, it was. But I was the one on a bicycle, trying to lose you.”

I shrug. It’s a beginning. I guess.

* * *

“Are you okay? Is anything broken?”

“Stop asking me that. I’m fine.”

Back in her apartment, I keep asking her questions she finds absolutely irritating. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the tone in her voice. The one that lets me know I’m affecting her.

That’s not on her parents list, come to think of it. I can irritate her all day long.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” She smirks at me as she sets up her laptop and starts tapping away, presumably working on her dissertation.

“No, I don’t. I want to know if you’re okay. If you’re going to put any bandages on that road burn. I’ve been riding a bike for seven years, and I know what that feels like.”

“I didn’t know that,” she says flatly.

“Didn’t know what?” I watch her back as she types.

“I didn’t know that you rode a motorcycle. A bike. Where I’m from, bikes have spokes and bells. And maybe a basket.” She doesn’t look at me. Instead, she continues typing. There’s something edgy, something angry in her voice.

“There’s a lot you don’t know. It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, it has. You made sure of that when you took off and didn’t respond to a single message I sent you. And you reappear, hired to treat me like a kid and follow me around my own town.”

“You wouldn’t need someone to do that if you just paid attention to your body. If you weren’t so unsteady on your feet, you wouldn’t have fallen today. You need to rest. And—shit—have you eaten today?”

“Back off, man,” she says, eyes glued to her computer. “Go back to the apartment that Evelyn and Richard had outfitted for you. I bet there’s a fifty-inch TV. Or if you like motorcycles so much, you can go ride yours off a cliff.”

I stare at her. I’m both angry and turned on, and I hate myself for reacting at all. This was just supposed to be a job, and here I am, wrapped up in Avery’s shit. I have to keep reminding myself she’s someone I don’t know anymore, and of course she sees me as her enemy.

“I might just do that.”

“Good. It might dislodge the stick in your ass.”

I growl in frustration. “Look, your parents are paying me to make sure no harm comes to you. It’s my job. I have to follow you. We don’t know if that guy is still out there—”

“Fuck him if he is,” she says. She’s still typing. It’s eerie how fast she’s going—and she’s still paying attention to what I’m saying. “I know what he looks like, and I can steer clear of him.”

“That’s not how this shit works, Avery.”

“If I die, you don’t get paid? Is that it?”

“I’d rather not find out about that clause in the contract.”

Avery gets up and slams her laptop closed. “Okay, Maddox. I’m going to change clothes and get the hell out of here. Turn around if you’re a prude. But it’s clear you weren’t this morning.”

She marches across her living room and into her bedroom, where she leaves the door open as she begins to change. I turn away from her, and I suppress a shiver in my body.

I can't have this conversation staring at her half-naked. It's bad enough knowing she's half-naked just behind me.

I’m silent, and I wait. At least she might let me know where she’s going today.

I feel her hand on me and she turns me round to face her, standing close as she had the night before. "I think you'll find that I can keep myself safe. If you need to tag along for your own personal gratification—or a paycheck, I guess I can live with that.”

She’s wearing a flouncy white dress, and beneath it, what looks like a red bikini.

I swallow hard. This was what I dreamt of every night when I was twenty. The fact that she seems to hate me makes this particularly brutal.

“Let’s go.” She picks up a bag from the couch and looks at me, kinder now than before.

“And where are we going?”

“The beach. It’s finally nice today, and I need to do some reading for the next chapter in my dissertation.”

“The beach? Seriously?”

She gives me a teasing look, her eyes dancing. “I study there. It’s quiet during the day like this. And it’s finally warm outside. We should go. If you’re up to the challenge of body guarding at the beach.”

There are a few other things I’d like to do to her body, but I’m well aware of how Avery feels—and what my contract says.

“And you want me to come with you?”

“No. Not really. But you can drive me. I’m not supposed to drive, remember? Not for a few days. So, you can take me and creepily watch me study. And you can tick off all the boxes my parents have for you.”

“Fine. We’ll take your Range Rover. Your parents gave me the keys.”

“Of course they did,” she says quietly. She hands me her laptop bag, and we head out. “Why don’t we take your bike?”

“Out of the question,” I say, moving towards the parking garage. “Today was an emergency. We won’t be doing that anymore.”

She stops me with a touch on the arm, peering at me with those wide blue eyes. “Come on.”

“Fine. It’s closer anyway.”

“And it’s like five minutes to the beach. We’ll be fine.”

I sigh, but I like riding. When she hops on behind me, I like the feeling of her pressed against me too.

Were there a list of things I shouldn't be thinking about as I take the woman I'm supposed to be protecting to the beach, then how good her arms feel wrapped around me would be pretty high on it. She holds on tight, her small hands clutched to my chest.

"Man, you've got some muscles," she breathes, half to herself.

"Thanks."

"I don't really like muscles."

I roll my eyes. The way her hands hold onto me, I would never have guessed it.

I feel her breasts pressed against my back, tight enough to feel each excited breath. When we arrive she sits back, her eyes gleaming her chest still heaving.

"That was quite a ride,” she says.

On the beach she strips off her dress to reveal a bikini that’s not skimpy—it’s more classic. Like something Marilyn Monroe might have worn for a photo shoot. High-waisted red shorts, and a red and white striped top that was molded to fit her.

Of course it was. It was custom made. I’d bet anything.

I swallow through the dryness of my mouth and try not to stare.

"What do you think?" She does a little twirl, and then her cheeks turn red. She isn’t supposed to be flirting with me—she catches herself. This is the girl I knew years ago, and I smile for just a second.

“It’s your color.”

“Thanks,” she says, a little shy.

I watch as she lays down on her belly with a book open in front of her. She looks back at me, her gaze meeting mine for a little longer than it should. “You can sit wherever.”

She doesn’t care—or doesn’t notice—that the several men on the beach are watching her. It makes my fists itch. But I sit on the sand and take off my shirt, stretching out, watching Avery.

She’s reading an advanced text on the history and historiography of political science. For something to do with her book she’s writing or her dissertation or whatever the hell it is. From the deal her parents made, she doesn’t have to do anything. She’s doing it because she wants to. Because it’s fun for her to get ahead.

It's no effort for her to be better than everyone else. Just like in school. Maybe she wouldn't have acted out so much if she had been remotely challenged. She switches to lying on her back, toes pointed to the water. She also switches books, taking out a text on politics and religion in early America.

Nothing seems to be happening to warrant my attention and I let my mind drift. When I got out of the Marines, I was struggling to make ends meet. Avery has no idea what that’s like. It’s not her fault.

Avery could guess how much I’m getting paid, but she knows nothing about my mother. Nothing about the fact that I was living in a shack in Los Angeles when I got out of the hospital. Unable to find a job because I could barely walk. Still, I was visiting my mother every day, sitting with her through chemo treatments, funneling every dime I had from my stipend to her home care.

Now it’s all taken care of.

And I can figure out what I want with my life, after I get this job done and say goodbye to Avery Thomas forever.

What do I really want in life?

Without meaning it to, my gaze has drifted back to the woman on the beach. The one with the cherry red bikini and the hair that almost matches it, lying back lazily, and reading about politics and religion.

Chapter 6

Avery

Maddox hasn’t exactly been pleasant since that afternoon at the beach. I have a sinking feeling every time I think about it, like I must have glanced at him too many times.

Sculpted body, outlined against a perfectly blue sky. Leaning back on the sand, sun reflecting off of each strong, fierce line of his body.

He’s been somehow more intense since then, less likely to glance in my direction when he’s speaking to me. He’s followed at a distance, letting me attend class and wrap things up with my professors for the end of the semester. The thinly veiled insults and things he said to shock me—they’ve stopped coming too.

Call me fucking crazy, but I miss it.

He even let me get away to see my friend Ella today. Alone.

I’d just started getting used to the idea of letting Maddox guard me, at least until the end of the election. But then he goes silent, cold. More distant than he was to begin with.

It’s confusing as fuck.

I stir my drink and look over at Ella. She’s scrolling through her phone. We’re sitting outside of a little cafe in Berkeley, and I look around, wondering if Maddox might be watching me. He could be. It is his job.

“Looking for him?” Ella says without taking her eyes away from her phone. “You were talking about him the night before he appeared. Fucking creepy if you ask me.”

“You brought him up,” I say. “You’re the creepy one.” I take a sip of my mojito. It’s refreshing, delicate. Full of citrus and mint and the promise of summer.

“And where is he today, may I ask?” Ella puts her phone down and looks at me. Or I think she’s looking at me. She’s wearing sunglasses. It’s hard to tell what she’s looking at behind the lenses.

“Dunno. Wandered off somewhere. Left me alone. It’s weird. He was on my ass about everything, and then he’s cooled it. We went to the beach—and then—” My voice trails off.

“And then he saw you in your skivvies, and he couldn’t handle himself.”

“Don’t be cute,” I say.

“I’m not being cute. I’m being serious. He was in love with you back when we were kids.”

I shrug, but I can feel my cheeks getting hot. I can still remember the feeling of his lips against mine. It wasn’t my first kiss, but it was my best kiss.

“That was quite a while ago. And he disappeared.”

“Yeah, but why?” Ella sips her drink and crosses one long leg over the other. “It’s always important to ask why when it comes to guys.”

“He’s not a guy. He’s Maddox. He’s a hired bodyguard. He doesn’t see me that way. Not anymore.” I stir my drink again and take another sip.

“Okay, Avery. What did you do to boys you liked when you were little? Like really little.”

What did I do? I laugh. “Threw things at them in class, got them in trouble, teased them. That kind of thing. I’m not proud, but it’s true.”

“And I’m going to guess you’re doing that to Maddox? I’ve seen you do it a thousand times. You’re so weird around men. They all follow you around like puppies, but you don’t know whether to take them home or slap them in the face.”

“No—I’m just trying to figure out what to do with him in my life,” I sputter. “So I mean, I guess I’ve been a little bit—prickly.”

She laughs. “And then you took him to the beach with you? And stripped down to your bikini.”

“It’s a conservative bikini.”

“Your body is not conservative. And I can guarantee Maddox noticed.”

“But he doesn’t see me that way.” I swallow hard and watch the beads of water gathering on my glass. He doesn’t see me that way, right?

“Yeah, okay, sure. But you know, those first loves? We don’t forget them. Even if he thought he could forget you, I’m willing to bet he didn’t.”

I sigh and sit back in my chair.

“So what if he does think of me that way? He’s in this annoying, superfluous position.”

“It’s not superfluous when your mom is a swing vote in a highly contested area. And it shouldn’t be annoying that someone is trying to protect you from your stalker. Or whoever else is out there.”

“Muggings usually aren’t political,” I say. “No one knows if it was my stalker for sure. That’s what my parents told me.”

“Okay, that’s all beside the point. What I’m telling you is that you have a thing for Maddox. And I’m guessing it’s more than reciprocated. That’s why he’s acting weird as fuck.”

“What?”

Several people turn their heads and look at me. I didn’t realize how loud my voice had gotten. Demurely, I sip more of my drink.

"I do not like Maddox," I hiss under my breath. “He left a long time ago. I did care about him. But this is now. That was then. He’s irritating. All he cares about is following my parents’ rules.”

“And keeping you safe. And—again—why did he leave?”

“I don’t know. He won’t say. And he’s tight-lipped about why he took this stupid fucking job, too. I know there’s more going on there—but it couldn’t have anything to do with me.” I chew my lip, thinking. There’s a nervous jolt in the base of my spine. I hate that he makes me feel that way, after all this time. Like he’s a cute boy in my class, and I’m trying to figure him out. “Maybe I’m reading too much into it.”

“You’re not,” Ella says quickly. “Something weird happened there. I heard his mom didn’t even know where he was for a while after he left, and then she disappeared too. And he’s back, just for a job with you?” She shrugs.

“That all seems too weird. Like conspiracy theory weird.”

Ella throws up her hands and laughs. “Probably aliens, man. But if it wasn’t aliens, it was probably someone making him leave town. That’s my thought on it, now that he’s back. Just a hunch.”

“No,” I say, absently looking at the TV over on the wall. “I doubt that. I think he just left. Like some people leave—”

“Well if you want my opinion on it—which you clearly do—you should fuck him and get it out of your system.”

I nearly choke on my drink and disappear into my seat all at once. I usually tell Ella everything, but I don’t want to let her know that that’s the exact thing I’ve been thinking of doing since I woke up and realized it was Maddox in the hospital room.

“Shit, look,” I say.

Ella turns to the TV too.

I've never been more grateful to see my mother than at that moment. She appears on the TV screen behind the bar, providing enough of a distraction for Ella to abandon her train of thought before saying something I don't want to hear. But, as ever with my mother, my gratitude at seeing her does not last long.

"Senator Thomas," the reporter says, "the way you've run this campaign seems focused on national issues as much as local ones."

Mother nods sagely—a look I've seen her practicing in the mirror before important interviews. "Well Mary, local issues affect national issues. If a politician in my position isn't trying to address those things her constituents need then her ability to do good is compromised. I don't apologize for seeing things from a local—and a national—perspective."

A sinking feeling starts to claim my stomach. Surely she wasn't thinking about... No. She wouldn't. Not at this stage in the election. Not without meeting with me and Dad. There’s been talk about it, sure. But it isn’t something I thought she’d entertain so soon.

"It's a tactic that has led some commentators to wonder," the interviewer continues, "if you are perhaps looking forward to a higher office in the future."

"I can't comment on other people's wild speculation," she says. She’s carefully failing to answer the question and doing nothing to silence the alarm bells ringing at the back of my head.

"Are you considering running for president in the next election?” asks the interviewer.

My mother smiles. "I have no ambitions in that direction, unless my state and country call for me to do so. Then—we’ll see. I have a great team supporting me, so we would be prepared for a national run.”

“Ladies and gentleman,” the reporter concludes, “I do believe that means yes.”

Apparently the interview is not live as the program switches to the reporter being interviewed by a news anchor.

'Do you think she's going to run, Mary?', 'Yes I do Bob' and so on. They bring up graphs and charts showing my mother's support base broken down by demographic, statistics showing how the gender issue might affect the outcome and endless analysis of my mother's positives and negatives. I could give them a few negatives. And just as I think that, there in a list of her positive personality traits is the word “family.” That means my father. And me. I nearly spit up my drink laughing.

What a wonderful family woman she is, I think.

A lump forms in my throat, and I taste salt and metal. The taste of fear. This means that the next two years won’t give me any kind of break. My life is just going to get worse. More and more like a damn cage.

"No. She can’t run,” I moan.

Ella looks at me, confused. "I don't think you get a whole lot of say. Your mother is a pretty determined woman. Once she makes up her mind, that's it. And she didn’t say she was going to for sure —”

“She did. That’s what politicians have to say.” I down another few sips of my drink and groan again. “I can't stop her from running. But I don't have to be there when she does run. I can get out of here for the rest of the election—”

“Avery, what are you talking about?”

I close my eyes and think about all the times I tried to run away when I was a teenager. I’d walk down the street with my backpack. Just a change of clothes, a Diet Coke, and a few snacks. The cash I’d saved from babysitting. It seemed so possible then.

It’s immature and brash, and it’s stupid. But the mere thought of sitting on my mother’s jet, hitting every spot in Northern California, making small talk about how amazing my mother is, letting old men leer at me, putting myself on parade — it makes my whole body seize up with rage and heart-pounding anxiety.

All for them.

No one has ever stopped to ask me what I believe. Hell, my parents didn’t even ever ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up.

“There’s a place in St. Croix,” I start.

“Avery, come on. How would you finish school?”

“All I need after this term is an oral exam. After that, it’s my dissertation. Professor Chou will work with me on the first part. And my laptop is all I need for the next. If I’m out of the country — maybe that’ll send a strong enough message.”

“You can’t just do that. Like just leave your whole life.”

“I was going to once with Maddox. There’s no reason I can’t do it now.”

“Avery, no.”

“I’m twenty-five, Ella. It’s about time I started living life for myself.”

I let that hang in the air, and then I quickly change the topic. Ella lets it drop, and I pretend like I didn’t say any of it.

But my mind is working, and I’ll figure out where to go from here.

* * *

Later, when Maddox comes to pick me up, the sun has gone down, and the air is chilly again. I wrap my long cardigan around me and let Maddox walk me home. I’m tired, and I look out at the city, wondering if I could leave it. Wondering if I could leave everything.

Is it my home, or is it just a cage?

"I saw your mother on TV tonight," says Maddox, as we walk home.

“When?” My emotions are blank when I say it.

"On my phone. Amazing what they can do with technology these days."

"Sure is, Grandad."

"You must be grateful she's not running for president,” Maddox says, utterly oblivious.

I turn to look at him. "Are you trying to be funny?”

He looks bewildered, which only makes me angrier for some reason.

“Maddox, come on.”

"She said..."

“It's a politician's answer,” I say. “She's going to run. She’s been talking about it for the past fifteen years.”

Maddox takes this in, and he doesn’t speak for a few minutes. We just walk in silence. I feel like I want to take his arm, but that’s stupid. And I won’t do it.

“That is going to suck for you,” he says, finally. “I’m sorry.” He seems to mean it.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I snap back.

"You're in a nice mood tonight, aren’t you?”

“I am indeed,” I say. The streets are misty and cold. I think of St. Croix. It’s never cold there.

He shrugs. "I can't imagine what it would be like to be in that position. I'm sure I wouldn't like it. Look, it's not my place, but if you ever need someone to talk to about this stuff then..."

"Sure, and have you report back to my mother, I suppose?"

"I would never—”

"She's the one who pays you. You made it very clear who you work for."

Maddox looks at his feet. "Well that's true, but..."

"Oh don't give me the 'aw shucks' bit. It's wearing thin." My voice is angrier than I intend it to be.

I can see him starting to get irritable now. "I get you've had a bad night but you don't have to take it out on me."

“You’re the one who’s bringing it up. Badgering me.” I pull my cardigan tighter and try to walk a few steps ahead.

Maddox catches up and takes me by the arm. “I’m here to protect you, and that includes anticipating your needs.”

My heart thrums when he says that, and I’m silent for a moment. His eyes meet mine. He looks somehow older than he should be, and I remind myself what he’s been through. When I’m gone, I’ll make sure he gets whatever my parents offered to pay him. Somehow.

“It just seemed like you didn’t care, Maddox. It’s a bunch of rich person drama. I didn’t think you wanted to hear about it from me.”

"You're wrong about that." Maddox strides up to confront me, his broad chest level with my nose. "I cared about you back when I knew you. I thought the sun rose and set with you, Avery Thomas. This new person I’m stuck with—she’s still smart. And witty. But she’s angry as hell. And impulsive. And she can be mean. ”

I’d like to explain it, but I can’t. All these changes. I guess that’s what happens when someone feels trapped, but that’s a stupid thing to say to a man like Maddox. A man who’s actually been through hell. We stand together under a street light, and I huddle into myself. The air smells like wet and salty, like the California summer.

“You’re still the old Avery Thomas, though. Just an updated version, I guess,” he adds, eyes locked on mine. “And I liked her. She was smoking hot, actually. Funny. More easygoing. Less frustrated.” He gives me a grin.

Without thinking about it I bounce up on my toes, looping my arms around his neck to pull him down to me. Our lips meet for the first time in seven years, and suddenly I'm back there, kissing someone who is not just one more boy, but who is The Boy, the one who makes me feel safe and secure, who makes all the dumb things I do seem alright, the one I don't ever want to let go.

Maddox's arms seem almost reluctant as they wind around me and draw me closer, holding me, protecting me. I don’t usually do this with men—I proceed with caution. There’s desire, or the hint of it. But this is more like need, sharply edged, piercing through me like a knife.

But I can't do this.

I push him away and Maddox steps back, looking shocked and embarrassed.

I want to pull him back to the apartment with me, let him carry me upstairs. Throw me down on the bed. But I don’t.

Instead, without a word, I turn and walk. I can feel Maddox trailing behind, keeping his distance. Back in my apartment I tear off my clothes and get into a cold shower. Tears come fast. What the hell is wrong with me?

I don't know. But the need isn't going anywhere. I stand naked beneath the shower, one red hot, raw nerve. Even the touch of the water arouses me beyond endurance. I haven’t felt this way since Maddox left. No man was capable of making me feel like this.

But he’s my mother’s hired guard for me.

And if I slept with him, it would all be too real. It would give me a reason to stay. With everything that’s happened, I’m beyond that.

I want what I can't allow myself to have. And now I can't stop crying.

Chapter 7

Maddox

When I wake the next morning, Avery is the first thing on my mind. It’s been like that a lot these days. Too much so. Maybe it’s the fact that I finally have a salary, or that my mother’s cancer may be in remission. Maybe it’s just that my mind needs something to latch onto. Avery could be just a convenient distraction.

The throbbing, aching need in my cock tells me otherwise. I never imagined Avery Thomas would affect me this way after all this time – or I wouldn’t have taken this job. No amount of money is worth seeing a woman every day and knowing I can never have her.

And she’s leading me to break the rules. Every rule spelled out in my contract.

I broke the rules last night. Twice. I broke them audaciously when I kissed Avery.

Technically, she kissed me. But I didn’t stop her. Instead, I let that shudder at the base of my spine rise into my core, take over my body, and I pulled her into my arms and held on.

When I got back to my apartment, across the street from hers, I didn't check on her. That was the second rule I broke, straight out of her mother’s fucking Book O’ Rules.

I couldn't look at her. After what had happened it would have been unbelievably intrusive, even voyeuristic. If I had looked, would I have gleaned some clue as to why she kissed me? Why she stopped kissing me? Why she walked away from me? Who knows?

Maybe I would have seen her with another man. That would explain why she ran away from me. The thought makes my fists clench with anger — not a good sign for my prospects of maintaining long-term employment.

I need to get my head straight and back on the job, and fortunately there's something that needs my immediate attention. I didn't spend too long on it last night because there were other things on my mind, but Avery was acting oddly even before the kiss.

She was lashing out even more than usual. Why?

It all hinges on her mother’s TV appearance. She had every reason to be upset about that, but my gut tells me that something else is going on.

I ignore the aching feeling in my core, the rock-hard length of my cock demanding attention. Instead of gratifying myself, I take an ice-cold shower. Then I dress and head out to the coffee shop below my apartment, watching the door to her apartment building.

I pat a new pack of cigarettes in my pocket. Since seeing Avery, I’ve been tempted to smoke again. And drink. I even have a half-baked craving for strawberry Boone’s Farm.

“Stay on mission,” I say to myself, sipping coffee. I take two bites of an over-priced croissant that tastes like it’s a day or two beyond expiration. Instead of flaky perfection punched with fruity sweetness, it tastes like fermented something wrapped in cardboard, with a decided metallic aftertaste. At least it’s better than MREs.

I close my eyes for a moment and think back to the Avery I knew before. She always teased and taunted me, but she was friendly. Kind. She always asked after my family.

When she was getting ready to do something impulsive, she was snappy and half-crazed — just like she was last night. She’s planning something.

When I open my eyes, Avery is seated across from me, facing me. My surprise – shock – at her suddenly materializing in front of me amuses her. She grins, and her eyes dance.

"And you keep telling me to eat a healthy breakfast.” She lifts my almond croissant from the plate and takes a bite. Her amused expression rapidly descends into genuine disgust. “This is shitty. Really shitty.”

“Yeah. It’s not great.” I stare at her for a moment, as if willing her to talk about what happened last night. “Look, Avery—”

“Okay, here’s the thing,” she interrupts. “You’re super hot, Maddox. And I had two—no, maybe three—mojitos while I was watching my mother nonchalantly say she might run for president. Which means she will. And if she has anything to do with it, she’ll take it all the way to the end. I was emotionally vulnerable.”

I wondered how she would address this delicate topic. Of course, she just drives straight in.

I shrug like it’s no big deal. I think fleetingly of what it would feel like to wake up with Avery Thomas beside me. My cock throbs in response. There’s a naked, needy pit inside of me, but the military trained me to push those things down deep. So here I am, chatting with the prettiest girl in California, like nothing happened at all.

“Lines get blurred,” I say. It’s all I can think of, and it seems to fit.

“Yes,” she says, looking down. “Lines get blurred. But we have a business relationship now. No matter what we were back when I was in high school. I guess we weren’t anything, even then.”

I pause. I believe we were more. But she’s right, there was never anything official. No conversation to define what we were. Then her father had me shipped away for basic training, and I was sent to Afghanistan after that. Then Iraq. Then back to Afghanistan.

There’s a whole mountain of time and life experience between us. Maybe we just slipped up for a second, but it doesn’t feel like that.

She nods. "I've got some errands to run. I'm doing them on my own. Don't argue. Please.”

"I still have to come with you and you know it." I say.

"You're not coming."

I lift an eyebrow. "I am."

"Then you'll have to catch me."

As she gets up I grab her arm. The feel of her silken skin against my fingers recalls memories of last night’s kiss, but I shove them back down in that black pit in my soul.

"Let me go,” she says. “I just need to do a few things, and you’ll be free to do whatever boring thing you want. A day off.”

I ignore her. “Where are we going?" If this is a battle of wills, I know I’m going to win. I made it through basic training, through Fallujah, and the through latrine duty inside the Green Zone. She has no clue about the shit I have – quite literally – endured.

"We are not going anywhere, Maddox. Please.”

"I'll drive you." I still haven’t let go of her wrist. It’s got to be starting to sting by now. For some inexplicable reason, holding her like this turns me on. Just a little bit.

"Let me go and I'll tell you,” she says, keeping her voice steady.

I let her go, and she snaps away, marching off with purpose. It takes me about thirty seconds to catch her. I take her by both arms, and without thinking, I pull her in close to my body. It’s not strictly a regulation move, but it doesn’t break any rules. Not exactly.

"How did you think that was going to end?" I lean into her and whisper.

She stares at me, her eyes angry and somehow sad. “With you acting like a normal person with human emotions and letting me go pick up a few things from the store.”

"What do I have to do to make you follow the rules?"

She gives me an arrogant, humorless smile. "A lot of people have asked that. So far, none of them have found satisfaction. That’s why my parents gave up on giving me a bodyguard.”

“I’m a nontraditional bodyguard, Avery. I can make you follow the rules.” I don’t know where this is coming from, but the words rise from me like a tidal wave. Unstoppable, a force of nature. I pull her in tighter.

She gasps. “Let me go, Maddox,” she stammers. “If this is about the kiss —”

“Is it, or is it not? You tell me what this is about.” With her standing this close to me, I can’t help thinking of how soft her lips felt, or the ginger-scented warmth of her skin. What would it be like to tame this woman — show her what she needs?

“The kiss — that was nothing. A mistake, like I said. I just want to go to UPS. And Target. Pick up a few things and feel normal again.” There’s a tiny hint of sadness at the last part of that statement, and I ease up my grip.

“Fine. I’ll take you. I’ll stay back a hundred feet. You won’t know I’m there.”

“No,” she says.

“I’m nontraditional, Avery. And I’m making sure you follow the rules from now on.” I lean into her again and whisper, my voice low. “Or you’ll get a spanking. I’m not lying. Girls like you need a little reminder from time to time.”

“You wouldn’t. I’ll tell my parents what you’re saying to me.” She could easily slip away, but I note that she doesn’t. Instead, she stays exactly where she is, panting softly, her breasts heaving.

"Try me,” I say. I give her a half-grin.

No, the military didn’t teach me this. And I’m fairly certain her parents wouldn’t approve of this method of intimidation.

But Avery turns beet-red, biting her lip. She’s frozen, like she wants to make a move — but she’s far too sober to do it.

“If you’re that determined to follow me on my boring errands,” she breathes, “then have at it, Maddox.”

I smirk.

I walk her out to my car, and ten minutes later, we’re in the parking lot of the UPS store. I can’t get the idea of spanking her out of my head now that it’s come up. It’s a good thing she doesn’t know what’s in my head.

"What the hell do you need at UPS?” I ask, my finger on the car door lock. She tries to open the door, but I won’t let her. Something still tells me she’s up to no good.

"Not that it's any of your business, but Ella and I are planning a trip next year and my passport needs renewing. I need a new picture."

"Where are you going on your grand adventure with Ella?”

"Anywhere you're not." She’s staring out of the window. Looking at anything except me.

I laugh and shake my head. Ella and Avery going away together for a holiday is perfectly plausible. But I know Ella Hughes, or I remember her well enough to know she wouldn’t plan anything a year ahead. Avery might. Ella would have a panic attack if she had to plan something a week in advance.

I let Avery open the door, and she moves to get out. Before she does, she turns to me.

"We were friends once, weren't we?" she asks. “I didn’t just imagine that?”

She smiles the purest smile I've seen from her in all the time I've been her bodyguard.

"Yeah. Yeah we were.” I say. “More than that some days.”

“What went wrong?” she asks, then holds her hand up, looking away. “Actually don't answer, I don't want to know. I’m sure it has something to do with my parents, and money, and not wanting to be around someone like me.” I see her eyes go a little misty.

"Shit just happens, Avery. Shit happens." That’s the worst fucking excuse I’ve ever heard, but it’s all I’ve got. If I told her what really happened, I don’t know who she’d kill first, me or her father.

She nods, swallowing hard. "Even if shit hadn’t happened – as you so eloquently put it – I guess we wouldn't still be running around the garden chasing butterflies."

"Jarheads who do that get sent in for psych eval,” I reply, lamely trying to lighten the pallor that has descended on this conversation.

"Everybody has to grow up." Avery glances at me. "Although you haven't changed that much."

She’s obviously not a keen observer of details. I've changed enormously. For starters, I’m not a skinny teenager anymore. I’m confident now. I know my strengths and my weakness, and have a very clear understanding of my limitations – which are legion.

Maybe I've changed so much I don't fully recognize the girl I once knew, even though she's right here in front of me. Maybe I’m too afraid to look beneath her armored veneer to see the Avery I fell in love with, sitting on the roof all those years ago. When I was nineteen I thought she hung the moon and the stars. If I let myself see her that way again, I fear I’m done for, and I can’t let that happen.

I shuffle in my seat uncomfortably.

“Well, the subject is closed,” I say. “I’m not your type, I’m sure.”

“I guess not,” she says.

I’m praying – and I’m not a praying sort of man – that the subject is closed, permanently.

"I assume you'd like me to wait out here?" I ask.

"And I assume you're going to insist on coming in?"

I shrug. "You’re an adult. You want your folks to stop treating you like a kid. I trust you to behave yourself and not try to get me in trouble."

"Would I ever try to get you in trouble?" She asks, smiling at me sadly.

She trips off towards the building. I stare after her then force myself to look away. It's hard to even look at her without thinking about feeling her in my arms, recalling the taste of those sweet, full lips. It is always hard to look at her without my mind slipping into objectification; admiring how beautiful she is, how incredibly smooth her milky skin feels, wondering at the gossamer sheen of her red hair. Last night's unexpected kiss has given those thoughts some definite focus. I'm not remembering the kiss as it happened. I'm remembering it the way I wanted it to happen — more intimate, heated, long-lasting – and naked.

I start upright in my seat, feeling flushed with an uncomfortable tightness crushing against my jeans.

I spend a little while thinking about what other jobs I might be able to get — anything that would allow my mother to stay in her independent living community after the trial is over. It's not a long list. Body-guarding is a good gig for a guy with few skills, fresh out of the service. But if I quit my first job then that's going to make getting a second one difficult. I need to stick it out and do a good job of saving Avery's ass rather than staring at it; which is a hell of a lot more complicated than it sounds.

I glance over towards the UPS Store. She's taking way too long.

I get out of the car and hurry into the store. There is no sign of Avery.

Chapter 8

Avery

I need to get the fuck out of here, Maddox or no Maddox.

We kissed, I remind myself. That’s all. You do not owe him anything. You just need to get out of dodge before you have to hit the campaign trail with Mother.

Maddox was the one who disappeared after all that talk about running away together, abandoning me into the claws of my self-serving, narcissistic parents who believe they brought me into this world to serve their purposes exclusively. He didn’t ever call, or write, or provide any sort of explanation.

Just ‘Shit happens,’ after turning up here after so many years and turning my head inside out?

I’ll show his uptight, well-regulated, rule-following ass what ‘Shit happens’ actually feels like.

I have the fleeting image of him spanking me, and I suppress a shiver. He wasn’t serious. And if he was — well things like that are short-lived, especially in my life. After all that’s happened between us, he doesn’t deserve the chance.

I go into the UPS Store and sit for the photo, pay, and then slip the little envelope with my photo strips into my purse. Instead of heading out the front entrance, I go out the back, dodging through the employee parking lot, then heading north on College Avenue. Whatever ‘shit’ happened to make me so easily forgettable – especially after all that ‘sun rose and set’ bullshit – must have been a pretty big deal. Whatever I was to him then, it wasn’t enough to make him stick around or even think enough of me to send a postcard. And now I can see it in his eyes every time he looks at me what an epic failure and a disappointment I am to him.

Who's the failure now, Maddox? Me, or the bodyguard who can't even keep his principal in sight?

After walking for an hour – long enough that the straps on my sandals wear raw spots on my heels promising to become blisters – I decide that since I've made my point already, the best thing I can do is head home.

Settling in on the stone landscaping at Willard Park, I book a Lyft for the short ride home. Once there, I settle down to enjoy the rare treat of not being watched like a cell on a slide under a microscope. I know it won’t be too long before Maddox figures out where I am.

Sure enough, twenty minutes after I settle in to my easy chair with a good book, the intercom sounds. I don't even worry about who it is, I just buzz them into the building. A few minutes later there's a knock at my door. There’s a tightening in my core, and a small flame of excitement starts in the very pit of my gut.

Maddox.

I walk over to the door, trying to prepare my words.

I had to get away. I had to be alone. Just give me this one thing—

I open the door.

Instead of the towering monolith of muscle that is Maddox, I’m greeted by a five-foot-five ice queen who’s recently frosted her reddish-gray hair blond. For her constituents, no doubt.

“Mother,” I say. “How great to see you.”

My voice falls, and I realize how much I wanted it to be Maddox.

"I hope you don't usually just buzz people into the building without checking who they are. What does Maddox say about that?"

Standing outside the door are my parents.

"For goodness sake, Avery, close your mouth. You’ll catch flies."

"I was... I was expecting someone else,” I stammer, breathless.

I can't help but notice the slight rise of my mother's eyebrows. "Were you?" she asks pointedly.

"Ella," I clarify, my mood plummeting beneath the floorboards. "Why do you always think the worst of me?"

"Past experience,” she replies, her tone as dry as chalk. “May we come in?"

My mind races. Maddox is going to be here any second – probably in a pissy huff. “It’s not really a good...” I start to say, but my answer doesn’t matter. It never matters. My mother pushes straight past me without waiting to be asked, followed by my father, who smiles almost apologetically.

"Did you want something?" I ask, closing the door behind them.

Mother is looking around the room frowning. I assume initially she's disappointed to find nothing she can criticize, but it's something else.

"Where's Maddox?” she asks. “He should be here." She strides to the window and stares out across the street to his apartment."He's not there either. He hasn't got eyes on you at all? Where is the man? What the hell am I paying for? For all he knows, you’re out drinking with inappropriate men again.”

"Or getting killed," I observe.

Mother has the decency to look a little embarrassed by the slip. "Well that goes without saying. The point is — why isn't he here?"

There it is. The opportunity I've been waiting for. All I have to do now is tell them that this is pretty typical behavior, that Maddox usually pops out for a few hours during the day.

I open my mouth to speak, but the words won’t come. I could easily convince them that Maddox hasn’t been doing his job, that he’s been slacking off and ignoring me. It would be easy, and it would solve my bodyguard problem, at least for a little while.

"How long has he been gone?" my father asks while I'm still thinking.

"And what have you been doing in his absence?" Mother wants to know.

You've got to admire her consistency in mistrusting me. She just assumes that as soon as my bodyguard is out of the picture, I throw caution to the wind. She must think that I keep an on-call supply of 'inappropriate' men on speed dial for just such an opportunity.

"What do you think I've been doing?" I ask, crossing my arms across my chest. I glance down at the book I was very intently reading when they arrived. It’s McBriar’s Fabian Socialism & English Politics, 1884 – 1918, from Cambridge University Press. Great light reading if you’re into that sort of thing, which I am.

"I'm sure I wouldn't know," says Evelyn, primly unapologetic.

"Would you like to search the apartment? Check under my bed?"

"We just want to keep you safe,” my father says.

"And you have to understand how important this election is," Mother adds, emphasizing the most important aspect of this whole exercise.

"Oh, I understand how important it is," I say sharply, feeling my ears fire like hot coals. "I saw you on the news."

It would be nice if she looked a bit shame-faced now, like she has been caught in something and knows she should have talked to me before making certain career decisions, but she has no such scruples.

"There are sacrifices you have to make for the privileges you take for granted," my mother states. "One of them is privacy. Your life will be under public scrutiny, and since you cannot be trusted to behave as if people are watching you – or don't care what impressions you make – you need someone who can bring some discipline to your life.”

Where is Maddox?”

The last part, she almost barks. She would have made a wonderful poodle — yappy, mean, and inclined to bite.

At that instant, Maddox bounds through the door.

"I warned you what I would—” His intent at delivering on his earlier threat to me is halted short by the sight of my parents. He flushes a deep red, then, with a pulsing vein popping at his temple, he shades to a subtle shade of purple. I can’t tell if he’s pissed or scared to death — or embarrassed that he was about to shout out something about spanking me.

“Where—” My mother enunciates the word in a tone like a pistol being cocked. “Have. You. Been?”

“I ditched him,” I say, before Maddox can speak.

I don’t like the way Maddox treats me, and I don't like the way he judges me, but I don't want to put him out of a job. I could do it, without question. My mother is already so angry that all it would take would be a word from me and Maddox would be back where he came from — unemployed and unemployable. But however much I’m annoyed with him, I don't want to do that. I don't like the way he looks down on me or feels like he has some sort of moral superiority, just because he went and joined the Marine Corps.

My mother looks at me with daggers in her eyes. "You did what?"

“I’m sick of Maddox,” I say simply. I cross my arms and look between the three of them. “I don’t like him following me around.”

"He's supposed to. He's your bodyguard. That's what a bodyguard does! Were you unclear on this?"

"I didn't ask for a bodyguard," I bite back. "And I don't need one." I stomp my foot, just to emphasize the point.

Evelyn snorts derisively. "That you would do something so childish is proof that you do, in fact, need adult supervision."

“This is bullshit,” I say.

My mother fights for words to express her rage. She comes up short. "I don't have time for you now,” she says, her voice dripping with rage.

"That implies that you did at some stage,” I spit back.

She levels a malevolent glare at me, locking her beady black eyes on mine. "When this election is over, I will make you wish you had never been born."

Bingo. There’s my opportunity. "At least then we'll have something in common." I strike back with a shattering upper cut to her flimsy pretense at love of family, home, and apple pie.

The sad part is that this isn’t just a game I’m playing with her. Often, I wonder if I was just a necessary component that had to be plugged in to the machine propelling her career to make it go faster. Politicians with a family – with kids – are more successful than those without. Still, I see the tremor shudder across my mother's face when exposed to her own cruelty. I landed a blow that stumbled her, and she has to draw back to her corner to regroup.

She turns to Maddox. "Is this the first time she's done this?"

"Yes, ma'am,” he answers honestly. He doesn't mention that it's not the first time I've tried to ditch him, just the first time I succeeded.

"What else has she been up to? Anything we need to know about?"

I try not to look worried but if he tells them about me going to have passport photos taken, then my plans are sunk.

Maddox shakes his head. "No, ma'am. She maybe goes out drinking more than you'd like, but nothing untoward. And I’m always right there."

He stays within the confines of the truth but walks right up to the line. That's probably as close as Maddox gets to lying. God, he’s such a squared-away, good little soldier boy.

Mother is genuinely pissed that there's nothing else she can seize on to criticize, so she just replies, "I'm glad to hear it." She meets Maddox eyes. “We just stopped in to check up on things. See if you can keep her on a leash from here on out. If you lose her again, you’re done. Do you understand me?”

“Yes ma’am.” He stands square, shoulders back, meeting her eye as coolly as he can contrive without spitting in it. I know that look and I know what he’s thinking. He thinks she’s as much of a dragon as I do.

When my mother and father have gone, Maddox and I look at each other and haul in a collective sigh. We're probably both thinking the same thing, but I speak first.

"So, we both had the opportunity to screw the other, and neither of us took it."

"Is that your way of saying thank you?" he asks me, his color finally returning to normal.

"Was that yours?" I ask, hands on hips.

He offers a reluctant, crooked smile, which is actually kind of cute.

"Thank you,” he says, nodding once.

I demur. "My pleasure. I don't want her to fire you."

"Why?" He raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms.

"I want to make your life unpleasant enough to make you quit.” I quip. “And thank you, too."

Maddox shakes his head at me. "You've never had to worry about work in your life? Or paying bills. Or being responsible for anything heavier than a term paper? Have you?"

"No.” I say, bristling. “Which is hardly my fault."

"You don't even try to understand other people's point of view. You’re entitled. Self-absorbed. Not willing to see anyone else’s point of view.”

"You're not exactly stretching yourself to see mine," I snap back, cutting him off.

"I know you," Maddox snarls in reply.

"You used to know me," I correct.

"And that's the point. I know who you were, which is how I know that you don't have to be the person you are now. You made a choice."

He stalks closer to me, looming over me while leveling his judgments.

"You chose to be what you are — spoiled, entitled, and rude." He almost spits, his nostrils flaring, his pupils narrowing to pinpricks. He presses into me, trying to back me up. I stand my ground obstinately until we are chest to chest, staring one another down, unblinking, breathing each others air.

This time it's Maddox who instigates the kiss. If he hadn't, I would have. His presence so close, the scent of his aftershave, his sweat, the anxiety of losing me – it’s all wafting about him and it’s intoxicating. He grabs the back of my neck roughly and slams his lips to mine, our teeth clashing, his tongue thrashing, until I suck him in and then shove him back.

"And you’re a boring, uptight, pain in the ass,” I growl, my hands still pressed hard against his chest, the flush in my cheeks still pinking.

I grab his head and pull him down for another kiss, biting his lip and tugging on it till he pulls me hard against him, sucking me in with an aggression I’ve never felt from anyone previously.

“I’m so fucking pissed at you.” I growl as he pulls back for air.

“I know,” he whispers, just before landing his mouth to my mouth again, his right hand wrapped firm around my nape, his thump pressing my jaw, tracing the hard line around to my chin while his left hand slips around the small of my back and falls down, taking a handful of my ass in his grip. He breathes me in and he doesn’t stop. I don’t want him to stop. This is everything I’ve wanted since — since as long as I’ve known him.

Chapter 9

Maddox

It’s become glaringly obvious to me that I seriously suck at being a bodyguard. I think that if there was some actual danger present, then I'd be good at that bit. But there's no disguising the fact that today I lost track of my principal. And now, I’m kissing her soft, full lips, with my fingers tangled in her fiery hair.

I'm aware of this, but the idea of not kissing her, not pulling her so tight against me that I feel the heat and pressure of her tits, hard against my chest, isn’t even on my radar. Her hands slide around my hips, then up my back, then lift further, cupping my neck, gliding into my short hair. As I suck her tongue into my mouth and nip at her sweet cherry lips, her fingers slip under my shirt, caressing my bare skin, tracing the path of my abs, down, and down. Oh, good lord, she goes there, dancing her fingers over my bulging cock, pressed uncomfortably inside my jeans. This girl apparently runs incredibly hot, and it seems to be infectious as I'm following suit, grabbing handfuls of her fabulous backside, trying to shove her into me in some kind of simulation of what I really wish we were doing. Fuck.

I'm not sure when she unbuttoned my shirt, but it's open, fully un-tucked, and Avery's hands graze my stomach like she’s fondling something precious. Without warning she grabs me by the lapels, pulling me forward on top of her as she tumbles backwards onto the couch.

"I think we need to get this out of our systems," she murmurs, gnawing her way down my neck, kissing my skin, finding my nipples and biting. My cock feels like it might explode inside its prison of clothing.

My mind goes hazy. All I can see is red heat. I’m all for getting this out of my system. It’s all I’ve fantasized about for more than seven long years. I have never wanted anything more in my life than to pin her to that couch and then hammer her into it, to show her the difference between the pretty little boys she hooks up with and a real man who is devoted to her. I've never wanted a woman this much in my entire life and, as strange as it seems, with our history it really means something that she seems to want me just as much.

At the back of my mind there is one little shred of haunting self-control that hasn't been swamped by intoxicating lust. It's that kernel of my character that never falters or gets over-run; it’s duty. It's not just that I know this is the wrong thing to do – a bodyguard should not sleep with the body he's guarding. It's also that I know she's up to something. While she was obviously having fun with me today, running off the way she did, she went to get passport photos for a reason. I need to know what that reason was.

My cock is telling me I don't need to know right this moment. I could wait until afterwards and quiz her then, but I have a feeling I'll have more luck getting honest answers out of her when her mind is distracted by the white heat coming off both of us, and by the threatening bulge at my crotch, which she can’t seem to stop touching.

While she's too fired up to be careful, I hold back hoping she'll be more likely to give up the truth. I've never blackmailed a woman with sex before, and I don't want to now — I really don't want to — but it might just work.

I pull away, looking down at her, holding above her in a push-up, my hands planted on either side of her shoulders. "Why do you need to update your passport, now?" I ask, breathless, pressing my cock into her hips.

She is, understandably, confused by my conversation.

"What?"

"Tell me." I rock into her, simulating a hard thrust. Fuck, I want to be inside her. I’ve dreamed of it all my life.

Avery shakes her head, laughing. "Damn Maddox, that is just some God-awful dirty talk!"

I sit back on my haunches, pinning her hips beneath my own. I reach out, my fingers tracing her belly, slipping higher, underneath her shirt to touch the lace of her bra.

She whines, wrapping arms and legs around me, trying to drag me back down on top of her. I'm a lot stronger than she is; her protestations have no apparent effect. It's not easy remaining cool and reserved with Avery gripping me and writhing her body against mine, but I manage it.

"It's important," I say. “What are you up to?”

"And this isn't important?" she coos into my chest, lapping at my nipples with expert technique.

I shrug.

"Ella and I are going on vacation next year and..."

I unfasten her arms from around my neck. Her head and shoulders drop to the couch with a thump.

"What are you doing?!" She sounds satisfyingly frantic.

"I don't have sex with liars," I say as I unwrap her legs — and she’s got a promising grip — from around my waist. I push her to the side. My cock aches. He’s not happy. My poor, blue balls are even less so.

"What are you talking about?”

I push her away and get up from the couch. I've been in a war-zone, but this is the single hardest thing I've ever done, in more ways than one.

"No,” I say. “This isn’t quite how I envisioned this playing out. I have too much respect for you to lie about anything, and I have too much self-respect to accept anything except honesty from you. Put your clothes back on.”

At some point during this fiasco, her skirt came off. I gather it up from the floor and hand it to her.

"Hey—” She starts to protest. I’m walking away, buttoning my shirt.

"There's something you're keeping from me and you're trying to use our history to stop me thinking about it. Which isn't going to work. I don’t think with my dick."

Avery bounces up off the couch like a red-headed jack-in-the-box. She is on me before I can stop her, thrusting her tongue into my mouth and groping at the front of my pants with her hand. "If you’re not thinking with your dick, then what the hell is that?"

I shrug as casually as I can and remove her hand from my cock. "He's not that fussy. He takes it when he can. I do the thinking."

"You’re a fucking asshole, Maddox Bryant,” she hisses at me, scrambling to slip her skirt back on over her hips. “Sun rising and setting on me, my ass. You’re just as bad as my folks, trying to manipulate me for your benefit.”

Now that hurts.

“It’s not like that,” I tell her, but I can tell she’s not listening. "Let's get back to the subject of the passport photos. I don't think it's an accident this little day trip comes after Evelyn’s interview on TV."

She looks at me for a moment, her expression chilling. “You’ve got me all figured out, haven’t you?” she says, her brows knitted together.

“I do,” I say.

“You know about everything I’ve been through, don’t you? The endless campaigns, rolling around the country giving speeches, talking to men groping my ass at dinner parties. Selling this idea of some family I’m not even a part of. You know all about that, don’t you? Except you don’t. You left.”

“Poor you,” I spit. “That sounds so miserable. Flying around on your jet. Wearing pretty dresses. Looking nice on camera. All so difficult. And what do you get in return? Only your education, a fully paid for apartment, and anything you want from your parents.”

Her face falls. “Maddox — what happened to you?” She takes a step forward and puts up a hand like she’s about to touch my face. But she lets her hand fall instead. “I know you went through shit. Growing up, and then the military. That couldn’t have been easy. I know my life has been easier. But it’s not what I want. I just want to teach, and write. And be left alone. Instead, I’m carted around and shown off, and I’m living half a life.” She purses her lips. “You wouldn’t have said this shit before.”

I want to go to her, to hold her, to show her what I want to do to her. But I don’t.

“It’s not before,” I say instead.

I think of my mother. I think of losing this job and all it would mean. It’s not worth it for a quick roll in the hay with this girl. Flirting aside, things like this — they never end well. And with what she was doing today, she intends to bolt anyway. And fast.

She marches off to her bedroom.

"Where are you going?" I demand, hearing myself shout, not meaning to.

"Let yourself out,” she says. “I’m done with you."

Her words leave me cold, an emptiness hardening in the pit of my stomach. I’d assumed she’d come around and tell the truth. I wait for it, standing there like a jackass in the middle of her living room. Minutes pass, and I only grow angrier.

I start in after her. "I'm not done with you!"

I enter her bedroom just in time to see her strip off her top, revealing an ample volume of silken cleavage that has taunted my dreams for the better part of a decade.

"Some men knock before coming into a lady's bedroom."

“Are you a lady?” I raise an eyebrow.

Avery shrugs. "If you're planning on staying then you're going to see some pretty compelling evidence."

"I'm just trying to do my job," I say. It’s lame. I’m losing focus – again.

"And I'm just trying to go to bed. It's been a long day and I'm tired."

"You weren't tired a minute ago," I observe. My mouth is dry and my dick is hard.

How did this turn into me being the one desperate for sex? Stop, you were convinced ten minutes ago that you were going to let this all go.

"Boring conversations tire me," she says. She slips her skirt off and kicks it across the room casually. "As you can imagine I get tired around you pretty quickly. If you don't want to talk then I guess that's a different matter."

"How about we talk first?" I suggest, trying to sound seductive. I don't really do seductive, but I’m trying out new material. Avery is a challenge.

She shakes her head. "I doubt I'd be able to stay awake. You should probably just go."

Our eyes meet and the look passing between us is enough to let me know that, regardless of her posturing, she wants this as much as I do. She's just a lot better than me at pretending she's not interested. So, who's going to crack? If I turn around now and walk out, will she let me go? Or will she rush after me and drag me back into her bedroom? I think she might. On the other hand, if she does that, I'm not sure I have the self-control to keep asking her questions. It's hard to think clearly with her standing beside the bed in just her lacy lingerie, staring at me with those deep blue eyes.

"I'm not leaving till you tell me what you were up to today," I say with as much stalwart determination as I can muster. It isn’t a lot.

Avery shrugs. "Suit yourself. Sleep on the couch."

"I'm not leaving this room." Good lord, why does this have to be so tedious?

Another shrug. "The chair's pretty comfortable. Or there's room in the bed." She pulls back the cover, climbs in, then scoots over to make room for me.

"You'd like that wouldn't you?" I say. I’d like that.

"I think we both would," she admits, a self-satisfied smile creasing her lips.

"Then answer my question," I insist. I really am trying to be the stronger person here.

Avery just laughs. "Take the chair. Sheets are in the closet in the hallway. At least get undressed. Sleeping in clothes is the worst."

I pull my shirt over my head, not bothering to unbutton it first. I really don't know how this is going to play out, but I can feel Avery's eyes on me. She's clearly enjoying what she sees, however much she tries to hide it. Maybe time to go on the offensive again. I take three steps closer to the bed.

"You remember what I said would happen if you didn't do as I told you?" I threaten.

Avery rolls over onto her stomach, bearing her ass to me. She's wearing thong panties. She wiggles provocatively in my direction.

"Go on then. You wouldn't be the first."

There are so many things I am aching to do to Avery right now. Stepping up, putting her across my knee and giving her a spanking she'll still feel a month from now is definitely ranking in the top three. But I can't, and I don't generally like guys who would do something like that. I stride over to the bed, grab her by the ankles and flip her onto her back. She squeals like a kitten.

"Go to bed if you're going, I'll take the couch," I growl at her. “But show some self-respect.”

With that, I march out of the room. She doesn't follow, and my whole body pounds with frustration. I pull off my pants and flop down on the couch. I don't need a sheet. I'm hot enough that the fabric beneath me might burst into flames any moment.

I stare at the ceiling, my mind racing. It's hard to think clearly while this aroused – all the blood is going somewhere other than my brain. I can't back down after having given her an ultimatum. There has to be some way I can go back in there and give us both the best night of our lives without compromising my authority. Maybe if she were to come out here then it wouldn't be quite such a capitulation.

I glance towards the door. Nothing. Of course. Avery is in the same position and is just as stubborn as I am. She threw herself at me, and I turned her down. She's not going to do it again. She's waiting for me to crack.

And so here we both lie. Both in our separate rooms, agonizingly frustrated.

What the hell for? I've wanted Avery for as long as I can remember. She's grown up into the best-looking woman I've ever seen, and she wants me. And I'm lying here on my own because of pride? Because of a business contract I signed? What the hell is wrong with me?

I rise and cross the room, grabbing the bedroom door handle and turn. It won't budge. I yank it as hard as I can and when the door releases I find Avery on the other side with the opposite handle still in her hand. We don't wait for explanations. We're in each others’ arms in an instant, and on the bed a heartbeat after that.

I've never really thought about what ‘good’ sex means. Everybody says it's best with someone you care about. My life being what it's been there's never really been anyone I care about more than the next. Romance and lasting relationships have been conspicuous by their absence. And yet I enjoy sex enough to make me think that this ‘it's better with someone you care about’ stuff is so much Harlequin Romance novel manufactured crap.

Do I actually care about Avery? It's my job to look after her, but that's not the same thing. I'm physically attracted to her but that's not unusual. I love looking at a lot of women, imagining what it would be like to fuck them. I maybe loved Avery in a naive way when we were kids, but that was a long time ago and we are different people now. She irritates and angers me frequently, and some of the wounds she inflicted when we were in school feel as fresh now as when they happened. At best, my feelings towards her are confounding. She makes my head spin. She distracts me. I forget myself when I look into her eyes. I forget everything.

When our bodies come together on top of her bed, skin on skin, something happens inside me that I’ve never experienced before. It’s not just raw heat, but unsheathed electricity passing between us. Her flesh against me sticks and burns, searing into my own, soldering us together like hot wires – fused. I press her hard into the mattress, shoving my tongue into her mouth, sucking her essence into myself like a man whose been starved. My hands fumble to release her breasts from the bonds of lace and wire, and doing so, I’m weak to my gut and down in my knees, my lips lapping at pink nipples tipping hard in response to my attention.

Avery moans, her back arching beneath me, her eyes pressed shut.

I’ve waited my whole life for this.

My tongue traces the line from between her breasts down to her navel, then lower. I smooth my hands around the fullness of her milky soft, pale hips, then slip my thumbs under the band of her lace, low-cut panties. I feel my breath catch in my chest as I slip them down over her thighs. I trace my fingers through the curls guarding her sex. Her hips rock up in response.

“You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen,” I murmur into her crotch before burying my face there, finding her salty lips and her hard clit with my tongue. I press fingers in, circling her wet depths while my tongue slathers her clit in attention.

“Oh...” She moans. “Oh… god...” Her hips rock into my face. I finger-fuck her gently, teasing inside her, tracing her contours, grazing her sensitive folds with the rough part of my thumb.

Her muscles tighten as I suck and lap her clit, my nose humping her pubis. I feel her vaginal walls tighten against my fingers, then grip hard.

“Oh god damn...” she whimpers, her hands falling to either side of my head as she pumps against me. She tenses up, shudders emanating from her snatch, then she just thunders hard, rocking into me like the tide coming in, whining, grinning, and then laughing.

I’ll give her something to laugh about.

Before her orgasm subsides, I haul myself up, hanging above her. With my already familiar fingers, I guide myself in, past quivering, tight muscles. I have to shove in hard to get past her body’s protestations.

“Awaah!” she cries as I punch in. It’s a cry of pleasure as much as anything else. Her legs circle my hips and she grips me hard, pulling me in with her strong, soft thighs. I thrust into her, my mind slipping away. Her tightness, the heat that envelops me, is more than can be understood or properly described. I’ve imagined what this moment with Avery might be like, and now I know that my imagination has utterly failed me. I’m wholly unprepared.

“Oh, god. Maddox. Fuck… fuck me. You feel so right.”

Her words float on the air like the bells of some cathedral singing to the faithful.

Her fingers dig into the muscle below my shoulders. Her ankles hook firm at my ass as I thrust into her, forcing my full length past tensed muscles gripping me, shoving onto a mound that meets me with every motion.

“Oh… fuck… Oh… fuck… Oh… don’t stop… Oh god.”

Avery stops breathing. Every muscle and nerve in her body tenses. I feel her body gripping my cock, then shudder with irregular spasms. All of a sudden, a liquid explosion pours onto me, the tide of her orgasm flowing out, crashing, pounding hard as she moans, trembling beneath me. It’s the sexiest, most debilitating thing I have ever encountered or witnessed. Her eyes flutter in her skull, her hands, pressed against my back, shake.

And that is all it takes. One last shuddering ripple inside her, milking my cock, and I break, pounding hard without shifting my focus from her eyes. She meets my gaze and watches me as I cum, hauling into her, heaving my body like a jackhammer on rails. I’m pounding in, filling her up, my cock buried deep into her tender flesh before a terrified thought crosses the last remnant of coherent responsibility lurking like a demon in the back of my mind.

I haven’t used any protection at all. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

I bury my face in the nape of Avery’s neck, drinking in her scent, tasting her flesh on my flesh as I rock in again, milking the last drop of me into her.

Oh fuck.

She takes in a deep breath, then she laughs. Is she laughing at me? Was it bad?

I pull back, up to a position hovering above her. Her cheeks are pink and there is a wide smile on her face. She’s giggling – but not at me. She’s just laughing.

She grins at me between snorts of convulsive laughter. “I can’t help it,” she apologizes. “Oh, my god. It feels so good…” Her voice trails off and she laughs louder, wrapping her legs around my hips even harder.

I’ve heard about this. Never experienced it before, but whatever. If I make her laugh because I make her feel that good, so be it.

Despite all that, I have more pressing concerns. I pull out and roll over, settling in beside her, pulling her up into the crook of my arm, stroking her hair and her supple, milky white shoulder.

“We didn’t plan this very well,” I say apologetically. “I didn’t use a condom.”

Avery sighs. “It’s okay.” she says. “I’m on the shot. And I promise I’m clean. I’ve been pretty boring in the past few years.” She lifts her head and looks up at me.

“Okay,” I murmur. I tangle my fingers in her hair, like I always dreamed I would when I first met her.

“And I was planning to escape my parents. With the passport. I still am. But you’re giving me a few reasons to stick around — for now.”

I laugh. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks for telling me. It only took sex to get it out of you.” I say it nonchalantly, but something seizes up in my gut. Anxiety. Guilt. Anticipation.

“Pillow talk,” she says, eyes drifting closed.

My principal just admitted she’s a flight risk — and I let her get to me.

I think of my mother in her retirement community, alive because of these shitty, awful people. The people who are making their own daughter prep to leave the country.

Avery curls up inside my embrace, my arms wrapping her up. She settles peacefully, and in a few moments, she drifts, sleeping sweetly. I hold her, still feeling the soldered skin, the searing heat of her body melded into my own. I can’t sleep. I hold her close, listening to her faint trailing, feeling her breast rise and fall in rhythm with my own heartbeat.

In the early morning, with thin light streaming through the blinds, I stir, finding that Avery has rolled away onto her back, purring next to me in peaceful slumber. I watch her, my head propped up on a bent elbow. Her hair is adorably mussed and a small smile paints her face. I’d like to think I put that smile there. Just looking at her I feel my cock wanting for more.

I know that if I start again now in the cold light of day, not drunk on my own desire, then that's a decision I can never undo. I can't protect her while being her lover. I’ve crossed every line there is. I have broken every rule in the book.

There's another concern lingering in my head too. I know how she treats men. I know there's a long line before me who thought they mattered. She said herself that lying was part of sex. Last night she seemed to be as invested as me.

But there’s the issue of this job. There’s my mother.

And there’s the distance between us — the years spent apart, where we both became different people.

She’s the client. And I’m the help.

I run it all over in circles in my head. Avery. Her passport. Her parents. My mom.

By the time the sun is fully risen, I’ve convinced myself that this meant nothing at all to her. It was fun. It was one time. And that was all.

Now I have to let her know that it meant equally little to me, or I lose my authority as her bodyguard. Protecting her has to come first. That’s the only reason I’m here.

I slip out of bed, gather up my scattered clothes, and I head out before she stirs.

I look at my phone before I head out. The foundation dinner is coming up in a week. And there’s no way I can continue this with Avery if I want to get her there and make this job work.

Chapter 10

Avery

Maddox Bryant is even more of an asshole than I had originally thought. And that’s saying something.

I go over the evidence, again. For the thousandth time this week.

1. He ditched me on the night of my high school graduation.

2. He took a job with my parents, who are also assholes.

3. He showed up out of the blue after seven years just to stalk me and collect a paycheck for it.

4. And finally, he gave me the best sex of my life a week ago, and now he refuses to talk to me.

I had myself convinced that last part was just fine up until tonight. He’s kept mostly to himself. I’ve stayed in my apartment, working on my dissertation. And when I’ve gone over to the beach, he’s stayed back a thousand feet at all times. That seemed okay. It seemed not hurtful. Not purposeful.

Now it’s the night of the foundation dinner, and I know he’ll be on my ass all night long. I won’t be able to avoid him. For some reason, it’s made something inside of me break open, like a flood.

I sink down onto the floor next to my bath. The hot water is still running, and I reach up and turn it off.

I scroll through my phone and read the text again.

And then again.

Then I type out another text to Maddox and delete it. Then I do the same again. He’ll be here any minute.

I check the time.

We’ll be late, and he’ll be in here, yelling at me. I’ll have to hear his voice.

And that will make me look at my texts again. And write another one. And delete it again.

Who goes into the bathroom to take a shower and takes their phone with them? A pathetic, attention seeking, child, that’s who.

Christ, what am I doing? Am I really this needy?

I look back at that first text. The one from the morning after.

Maddox Bryant: I’m sorry. It should not have happened. I was unprofessional. It can’t happen again.

I woke up that morning, expecting to find him lying beside me, right where we fell asleep, him cradling me in his arms. But he was gone without a word, disappeared.

I tried calling him. I texted him. And that text is what I got in response — the ultimate, callous blow-off. I want to be angry, but all I am is hurt. The hurt aches in my body like somebody cut out my heart with a dull blade.

It changed something in me — this whole thing. It killed my anger, my impulsive rage. And it just made me sad.

The worst part about this whole catastrophe is that no matter how hurt I feel, I still have to put on my fake happy face and go out into the world. I have to smile for the cameras that appear more and more frequently everywhere I go. I have to show up and play the part of the dutiful daughter in support of my mother’s campaign for the Senate. And I have to see Maddox every single damn day. He’s my body guard. He won’t look me in the eye and he tries hard not to be alone with me for any length of time, but he’s still very present. And that presence is almost killing me.

I look down at the next text, sent in response to my demand for an explanation for his stonewall treatment.

Maddox Bryant: Please don’t send me anymore texts. Please don’t call my personal line. Give this up. I want to keep this job. Please don’t make it hard on me.

How the hell am I making it hard on him? He’s the one who’s treating me like I’m contagious.

That text was sent five days ago. Tonight I’m sitting here looking at his last text, sent only yesterday, begging him to just talk to me. The water is running in the shower behind me and the room is filled with steam. Maddox is waiting for me and has been for thirty minutes. We’re due in the city in less than an hour, but I can’t make myself move. I don’t want to go to another horrible fundraiser for my mother’s charity foundation. I don’t want to have to smile, and tell lies, and watch everyone fawn over ‘Evie’ like sinners seeking indulgences. Her pretense to philanthropy and this charity fundraiser tonight is just another route into the pockets of potential campaign contributors.

Maddox Bryant: Avery. Please. Stop. I’m only human. You’re killing me. I can’t run away anymore. I need this job.

All he cares about is his job. My entire life is slipping out of my hands, and he’s worried about his stupid muscle job. That’s all he is to my mother – the help. He knows that and still… What a coward. I fucking hate him.

As if on cue, I hear the door to my apartment open, and suddenly, Maddox Bryant is physically closer to me than he has been in a solid week. His voice booms across the apartment, and heavy footfalls head toward the bathroom. He slams his hand down against the solid wood door.

“Avery. You need to hurry up. We’re already late.”

There’s a brittle edge to his voice.

“I’m not going,” I say. My voice is hoarse, and I hope he doesn’t realize it’s from my crying. That would ruin my carefree, party girl reputation. Hell, he’s ruining that shit singlehandedly.

I read his text again. Like I’m seventeen and wondering why the quarterback dumped me on the way to prom.

Maddox Bryant: Avery. Please. Stop. I’m only human. You’re killing me. I can’t run away anymore. I need this job.

“God dammit Avery! Get your ass in motion. We’re late!” Now Maddox is pounding on the bathroom door with his fists. “You’re supposed to speak before your mother tonight! We need to leave!”

I’m just the puppet on the wire to all of them. Stand here. Smile. Do this. Do that. Be on time. Be gracious.

Screw them all.

I jump to my feet in a rage, gripping my phone in my fist, ready to use it to smash something – or someone.

Screw my mother and her fundraiser and all those corporate bastards trying to buy her loyalty. And screw him!

Without even thinking, I open the door, swinging it wide. Maddox is standing directly in front of me, wearing an expensive, immaculately tailored suit, and a frantic expression.

“Ave...” He eyes fall away from mine, slipping down to follow the angles and curves of my nearly naked body. I’m wearing only a bra and lace panties, standing there, pissed off, with beads of sweat clinging to my brow. In that instant, foaming with rage, I see Maddox’ expression change. He sees me again. He sees my full hips and round breasts, and my skin that he said was like creamy milk. He sees my angry blue eyes glaring at him.

And I don’t care if he sees me again. In that fleeting instant I hate him. I launch at him with everything I have, swinging hard.

Sadly, I’m no match for a former combat Marine. Maddox blocks my left fist and grabs my right. He pulls me forward, rolling me off-balance, then shoves me backward, pinning my wrists to the door so I can’t throw any more punches at his pretty face. I whine at the strength of his grip around my wrist, then I kick at him – but I miss. I can’t even get that right.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” Maddox insists, holding me firm. “Calm down.” His voice is low, soothing. He has me pinned against the open bathroom door, completely immobilized. Completely in his power.

His face is an inch from mine. I taste his cologne in my nostrils and feel the heat of his breath at my throat. The cloth of his suit jacket dances against my erect nipples, and I feel the press of his shoulder holstered gun hard against my ribs.

I stop fighting, giving in. It’s impossible for me to sustain my rage against Maddox. One moment I want to tear his eyes out for choosing his job over me, and the next moment I want to fall into his arms. He takes all the fight out of me.

I’m such a basket case. I’m completely impotent in his presence.

Maddox releases his grip on me and takes a step back.

I shake him off and walk past, then sit down on the edge of the bed, pressing back tears that I know are just going to choke me up and make my face red. That won’t please mother at all.

“Avery. Please, I don’t want to fight with you.” His tone is pleading, almost sympathetic.

“I don’t want to fight either,” I whisper in reply. “I just… I just want to know why you don’t want me.”

I can’t believe it, but Maddox drops to his knees right in front of me. “Avery. It’s not that,” he says. “I do want you, but I can’t. Not with this job. We can’t.” He touches the side of my face, gently pushing an errant strand of hair away from my eyes. “You have to understand, I’m too close already. I’ve really screwed up. I can’t keep working here if this...”

I can’t help myself. I lean down and press my lips to his tentatively. I slip my hands into his and pull him toward me. I feel Maddox stiffen and hesitate – initially – but even the dutiful, dependable Maddox Bryant cannot defy the magnetic charge that passes between us every time we get this close. He’s as powerless against it as I am. He rises up and meets my lips, gripping my hands in his.

He kisses me hard, moving in, releasing my hands, then slipping his into the small of my back, pulling my hips forward, my legs spread with my knees at his ribs as he kneels on the floor in front of me. My skin is electric under his touch, hot and soft, drawing his fingers in closer and deeper for more.

“Is this what you want?” he asks, briefly breaking the kiss, nuzzling my neck, breathing in my scent.

I melt into his embrace, slipping under the hypnotism of his kisses.

“More than anything,” I reply, my head swimming. “I just want you to want me…”

“I’ve wanted you as long as I’ve known you,” he whispers. He slips his hands under my ass and shoves me higher up onto the bed. Then, shedding his jacket and tossing it aside, he stands up and begins methodically undressing, beginning with his tie, then the hefty black gun slung in a leather shoulder holster under his arm. He unbuttons his dress shirt and hangs it on the back of a chair, along with his suit pants, then his shorts, revealing his impressive cock that I want to touch – kiss – suck – and bury inside me.

Without breaking eye contact for even a second, he climbs onto the bed over me, kissing me. He starts at my ankles, then moves up to my knees, using his lips and his tongue. He crawls higher, nipping at the taught flesh of my thighs with his teeth, making my hips rock up to meet his attentions. My legs spread involuntarily for him. I feel the wet heat of my pussy, begging him forward.

The weight of his body presses me down, the hair of his chest tickling against my skin, then his lips and scratchy beard tease the sensitive part of my inner thighs, his tongue licking around my hip bones and working its way nearer much more sensitive parts. I want him inside me so badly, I’m aching for him and already dripping. I reach up to his muscled, tattooed shoulders and grip them hard, pulling him higher toward me.

“You have me,” I whisper. “All of me. You always have.”

Maddox looks up from his crouch between my thighs, hooking his thumbs around the lace band of my panties, tugging them down and tossing them aside.

“I’m here,” he says, fixing his gaze on me. “I know what I’m doing this time.” His face is dark, resolved. “Come what may.”

He drops his gaze and slips his face between my thighs, his hands spreading my knees apart to admit him. His tongue finds my clit and with skilled precision, he starts working, lapping, rolling me in liquid pleasure, making my body quake reflexively.

Oh my god…

He slips one finger inside me, then another, edging the walls of my pussy, stretching me and filling me with fisted thrusts. He licks my clit, nipping and then sucking gently, until I feel the first tremors of orgasm begin to build.

Nobody’s ever made me feel like this...

Chapter 11

Maddox

She’s laughing. She’s actually laughing. She came so hard against my fingers inside her and my tongue teasing and working her clit, that when she was done she started laughing uncontrollably – giggling like a kid being tickled.

“You’re laughing at me?” I tease, grinning. “I’ll give you something to make you moan.”

I haul myself over her and slip my tongue, salty with her moisture, into her mouth and press my body against her, spreading her legs wide apart with my knees, dipping my cock in so it rests heavy and hard against her still-quivering, slick, sex.

“Not at you,” she whispers, her hips arching up to feel my length slip between her soaking wet lips. “Oh… god… please.” Her hands fall to my hips. “Inside me. Please.”

I lift up, kissing her again, then reach down and find the honey hot spot where I need to be. I slip my rock hard erection into position and press forward, finding her muscles almost too tight to penetrate.

“Let me in,” I breathe, then shove harder, breaking through, slipping into slick, hot bliss. For a few seconds, I’m immobilized by the tense heat of her body enveloping me in molten pleasure, then she moans loudly and rocks underneath me. I catch up with her, our bodies working together in perfect synchronous motion, her fingers digging into my shoulders, then my ass, pulling me in deeper and deeper until I’m buried in her perfect, tight snatch.

Between the last time we did this – that furious, mind-bending encounter that happened so spontaneously – and this time, a thousand ugly thoughts have crowded into my head.

She’s so far out of your league you’re deluding yourself.

She’s nuts, and needy, and her family is fucking dangerous.

She’s playing games with you just for kicks.

She’s so far out of your league…

With every thrust driving deep into her, I listen to Avery’s little moans and whines as they become more regular – even as she grips my ass – pushing me in, in her time, pleading with me to fuck her harder. She sets the pace and I match it, hauling into her hard, and then pulling back until she begs me back in.

What was she? Seventeen years old when I realized I loved Avery? Even then she had something special, and she was just a kid.

I was a kid too.

Her breathing picks up. Using both hands I lift her ass up tight against me but don’t change my rhythm. I kiss her neck, throttling deeper at the same speed. Her body responds with small tremors at first, radiating out from my cock, reverberating to her toes and her fingertips gripping my skin.

She scared the shit out of me back when we were kids and she scares the shit out of me now. The only difference is that now I realize there’s so little to lose and so much to gain.

“Oh god, Maddox, don’t stop,” she begs, her voice a sexy whine to my ears.

She’s coming. I feel it. The little tremors in her pussy turn to convulsions gripping my cock like a hot vice, rolling forward like tidal waves breaking against solid cliffs walls. She doesn’t scream as her toes curl and her legs wrap hard around my hips, but she cries out, whining, like I’m hurting her – but I see the pleasure on her face. When she’s done and she stops shaking, she starts to laugh – again.

I’ve wanted this since we were both kids. Now that I have it, I hope I know what to do with it.

I start laughing too. I can’t help it. I want to come, but I’m so pleased seeing her come underneath me, seeing her flushed cheeks and swollen lips, knowing I make her feel that good, it barely matters if I come at all; except it matters to Avery. She bites her lip and looks up at me, a ‘just-fucked’ grin coloring her beautiful face.

“Your turn,” she says.

Oh good lord.

I plow on, feeling it build, rising up, peaking, tightening in my balls with every thrust into her tight, hot essence. I want to make it last but it lifts so fast after she says, ‘Your turn’, I know trying to hang on any longer is pointless. I lock my eyes onto hers and I let myself go, thundering into her, heaving hard with everything inside me, over and over again until I explode inside her like a failing damn, my cum pouring in, draining away from me in waves.

When my orgasm subsides, I’m spent, weak, and quaking on top of her like a broken animal, heaving for air, blurry with pleasure.

And this time I don’t feel the desperate desire to escape. This time I pull Avery close and kiss her, my tongue probing, my teeth nicking her lips, playing with her.

“We’re going to do that again,” I promise her, nuzzling her hair, breathing her scent into me. “And again.”

In a few minutes I come to my senses. Avery is still nuzzled tight against my shoulder, her leg draped across my thighs. She’s twirling my belly hair absently in her fingers, which is sexy as hell. I could go again, but as soon as my breathing returns to something like normal and my head clears, reality sets in.

We’re supposed to be in the city – like now.

“I hate to say this,” I whisper into her hair, “But if we’re going, we need to go. We’re already so late, it may not even matter.”

In truth, at this point, I don’t even care.

Avery sits up slowly, the sheet falling away from her breasts. I want to kiss those again, and nip her nipples till she whines.

“We’ll go,” she says, resignation in her voice, a shadow of the old sadness returns, darkening her previously bliss-filled expression. “They’re expecting me. But… things need to change.”

Oh sweetheart. Things are going to change, whether we like it or not. And some people are really not gonna like it.

* * *

The Fairmont Hotel in downtown San Francisco is buzzing with VIPs from the banking world, real estate, military contractors, and just enough Hollywood celebrities to keep the paparazzi interested. The press is lined up outside the hotel entrance, kept behind red velvet ropes by an army of uniformed security guards and plain clothes bouncers. We are so late, and now we have to navigate through this barrage of flashbulbs and gossip rag reporters, shouting out Avery’s name, hoping to get a rise out of her – or me.

I’ve had my run-ins with the paps on more than a handful of occasions. I guess that’s the price you pay for working with high-profile clients, but it does get very old, very fast. I hope the captions under tomorrow’s photographs don’t happen to mention that I have that just-got-laid-by-the-bosses-daughter grin on my face. I hope the camera’s miss Avery’s slightly bruised lips.

Keeping Avery close, we make our way through the gauntlet of hanger’s on, all of them hoping for a selfie and a bit of face time. We get past them, past the throng of lingering guests in the hotel lobby, and then move into the ballroom. Evelyn Thomas is in the VIP area surrounded by a bevy of idolaters, all paying tribute to the Senior Senator from California. When she catches sight of Avery slipping in from the sidelines with me at her side, she politely excuses herself from her conversation with the Chief Executive Officer of General Dynamics, and heads in our direction.

“Where have you been?” she demands, her icicle stare vacillating between her willful daughter and the body guard/driver assigned to get said daughter to scheduled events on time.

“Sorry Mother. I was running late,” Avery says coolly as a thousand eyeballs pan in our direction, observing the cautious tension between mother and daughter, and the awkwardly hovering bodyguard.

“You were supposed to introduce me at nine sharp. We’re late. Get a move on. Do you have your notes?”

“Yes, Mother. I have my notes,” Avery replies between clenched teeth.

“Good. We need to talk after this is over,” Evelyn says. “I need to get you up to speed on some additions to the campaign schedule. You’re going to have to start doing some heavy lifting from here on out. And you’re going to learn to be punctual.”

I see Avery’s expression fall, but then she sucks it up, nods at her mother, and moves toward the podium to introduce her mother to the crowd of guests and donors.

* * *

I know how to make myself mostly invisible. It’s a skill they taught me as a Marine infantry soldier, and one I’ve honed further since taking this damn job in personal protection. Hanging on the edge of the hotel ballroom with a drink in my hand – soda water and ice – my eyes scan the room for potential threats while never losing sight of Avery.

I watch her work the room like a pro. When she’s “on,” like she is right now, she is the dutiful daughter; her beaming smile warming the ice-cold hearts of Wall Street bankers and soulless titans of industry. She moves through the crowd with a gentility and grace that very few can match. She has everything; brains, looks, charm, empathy, and even humility. It’s a rare combination and it has value to her mother, who uses it like a commodity to open doors and solicit support.

I watch the men in the room as they catch sight of her. They patiently, politely disengage from whatever conversation they’re involved in, and then gradually make their way in her direction. She handles the demands for her attention like a skilled dancer handles the trade of partners in a Virginia Reel. Everyone gets a chance to bask in her warmth for a moment or two; just long enough for her to convince them they are the only one in the room, and then she demurs to the next obligation, her eyes telling the last that she really wanted to linger, but obligation and duty call.

That’s when she’s “on.”

When she’s “off,” as I know all too well, she rides a roller coaster of self-doubt, sadness, and fury – with a hole in her soul so deep and dark that it’s doubtful anyone or anything will ever be able to fill it. She has no idea at all how the world sees her. When she looks in the mirror all she sees is her mother’s disapproval and her father’s disinterest. She’s spent her entire life trying to be good and do right. Trying to measure up. Trying to win approval. Or on the flip side, trying to deaden the pain and just run away from the doubt and self-judgment. She treats herself like there’s no way she’s ever going to find someone who could love the unlovable Avery Thomas. From her perspective, down deep in that hole, she’s an absolute failure.

She has no idea how lovely she is, inside and out.

It makes my heart hurt to think of how she sees herself, and how empty and useless she feels too much of the time.

“I want to speak with you about Avery.”

I turn. Evelyn Thomas has approached from behind, having slithered up stealthily like the cold-blooded reptile she too-closely resembles.

“She’s distracted, and I’m fed up with her behavior. And I’m annoyed that you can’t even manage to get her to her scheduled events anymore, no matter how many times I try to emphasize to you how important punctuality is for these things – especially when there’s press present. What is going on with her?”

Senator Thomases tone is sharp with demanding authority. She speaks to me – to everyone – as if they exist to do her bidding without question. Her arrogance works well to cow her inferiors and inspire her peers with confidence. But I’m neither cowed nor impressed. I’ve already made my choice, and it isn’t my job, my professional reputation, or loyalty to the Thomas family. It’s Avery. It was always going to be Avery.

I didn’t know that until tonight, but now I know exactly why I came back here after eight years away. It was always going to be Avery, come what may.

“Avery’s a big girl,” I respond coolly. “I can’t boss her around. I don’t want to.”

“It’s your job to make sure she’s where...”

“It’s my job to protect her and keep her safe,” I interrupt sharply, setting my empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray. “I’m not her secretary.”

Evelyn Thomas narrows her eyes at me in that intimidating way she has. She’s unaccustomed to brooking opposition from any corner, much less from the help.

Toward the center of the room a loud burst of laughter – sharp and cackling – erupts. I return my attention to Avery without blinking.

Avery is standing with a couple from Palm Springs who own a third of the golf courses in that community. The three of them are looking – awkwardly – in the direction of a fourth person whose boisterous laughter has parted the crowd around him.

It’s Aaron Schilling causing the scene. Judging by the alcohol glow coloring his cheeks and the glassy look in his eyes, he seems determined to ramp the scene up another notch or two. Then he does something that’s just flat stupid. He starts moving toward Avery with a hungry look in his eye.

“Excuse me,” I say to Evelyn Thomas, stepping away from her, heading at pace toward the widening circle at the center of the ballroom.

Aaron Schilling is the thirty-something year-old, ne'er-do-well son of a billionaire real estate mogul who owns half of Lower Manhattan and more than half of the tacky, over-done resort developments in North America. He’s a trust-fund drunk who gets entré into events like this one because of his last name and the checks his father freely writes to make sure he maintains access to the people in a position to help him make billions. On his best days, Aaron Schilling is a pretentious little prick. On his worst, he has all the indications of being a genuine predator. The look in his glazed eyes right now tells me he’s in predator mode. That’s the first strike against him. The second strike is that he has a thing for Avery; a thing she has politely, gracefully ignored, walked away from, or actively rebuffed, for many years.

Before I can get forward, Schilling makes contact. That little shit grabs Avery’s hand and pulls her away from her Palm Springs friends, mumbling something like “Dance with me, babe.”

The band stopped playing ten minutes ago. No one is dancing.

Avery pushes Aaron away with her free hand and tries – as inconspicuously as possible – to extract her other one from his grasp.

“Aaron. You’re a little tipsy. Let me go.” She says it sweetly but as I get near I can tell by her tone that she is both embarrassed and distressed. Everyone is looking at the two of them – then at me. The crowd quiets, waiting to see what the wobbly, intoxicated Aaron Schilling is going to do next, and what I’m going to do in response.

He yanks Avery’s arm hard and repeats his demand with a minor threat in his tone. “I said, ‘Dance with me.’”

I’m there and between them before Schilling can finish his slurred sentence. I put a thumb into the sensitive nerve at his wrist, causing him to release Avery’s hand and wince in pain.

“Do not touch Miss Thomas,” I hiss, using my left hand to nudge Avery safely behind me. “Now take a walk.”

Schilling recovers from the searing pain momentarily inflicted upon his wrist and meets my eyes with confusion first, then with stupid, explosive rage. He draws back a fist, intending to strike, but lacking any skill or experience in the art of hand-to-hand combat, is far too slow to pose anything remotely threatening.

The next thing Schilling knows, he’s on the floor, on his knees, begging for release from the painful grip I hold on his awkwardly twisted, hyper-extended wrist.

I lean down and speak softly in Schillings ear. “If you ever touch the lady again, or even look at her side ways, I’ll break your arm off and shove it straight up your ass – no lube. Do we understand one another?”

Schilling nods. All the glow has drained from his cheeks. He’s blanched as pale as death. His eyes are wild, starting to tear.

I give Schilling’s wrist a sharp twist. Not enough to break it; just enough to wrench a few tendons, leaving him with a painful, long-term reminder of his bad behavior and the warning I’ve given him. Then I shove him backwards, causing him to land on his ass on the floor as everyone looks on. Someone in the crowd starts laughing.

Having dispensed with that moron, I turn toward Avery. “It’s time to go home,” I say. I meet her eyes with an expression that communicates this is not a suggestion.

She turns and leads the way across the wide ballroom toward the hotel lobby as I follow close on her heel. We are almost at the exit when Evelyn Thomas steps ahead of Avery, halting our path forward.

“What in the hell was that!?” She spits at me. “You just assaulted the son of one of my biggest campaign contributors! Are you out of you mind?”

John Thomas steps up behind his wife, his head nodding in agreement with her words, but his expression is wary. General Thomas may be a large man — but his heart is small. I long ago realized he doesn’t live up to his rank. Everything he’s done has been for money and power.

I clench my jaw and hold my breath to steel my resolve. That woman is formidable, and even with Marine Corps training and long years of being shot at by bad guys in the sand box, I still find her more intimidating than my old lieutenant. But I have a job to do, and that’s take care of my girl.

“I just want to get Avery home,” I say evenly. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow when everyone has calmed down.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Evelyn Thomas hisses at me. “I’ve had it with your attitude and your inability to do a simple job. Take a long walk. I want to deal with my daughter on my own.”

I’ve had enough of her bullying. Avery starts to say something, but I step forward between her and her mother.

“Senator Thomas. You can fire me. I don’t care,” I say, my tone cool but firm. “I’m here to take care of Avery. Nobody else seems interested in how she’s dealing with this circus you’ve tossed her into. So I’ll do that. And right now, I’m taking her home.”

I slip my hand around Avery’s waist and move her past her parents, toward the exit. When we’re clear of the fray Avery looks over at my stony face, her eyes wide with surprise. Once inside the car, I take a deep breath, slip my hand into hers, lift it up and kiss her fingers.

“I’m in, Avery,” I say to her. “Whatever that means. I’ve got your back and not because I’m paid to. You’ve got my heart and soul, so… let’s just take care of each other. Okay?”

Avery bites her lip. She nods. “Yeah,” she says, her voice small but certain. “Yeah. That’s what I want more than anything.”

I watch a small, dim light behind her eyes brighten as some of the darkness lifts from the depths of that black pit in her soul.

I want to light up her world. I want to fill up her heart. I want to make her feel safe and appreciated. I want her to see herself the way I see her. I just want to make her happy.

Chapter 12

Avery

I agreed with Maddox. And he actually went out of his way to be nice. Oh, and we fucked. Jesus.

What the ever-loving hell?

Maddox is driving. He’s checking his mirrors to make sure no one is following. He’s still on the job, despite the fact that we bolted the party way too early, and he basically told my mother to go get screwed. Jesus Christ. What’s happening?

I have no idea what to do with this. We had sex. Fantastic, earth moving, walls tumbling down around my head sex. But beyond that? I don’t know how to do that. I’ve never done that. I know how to play my part and try to cooperate. I know how to completely flake out and disappoint everyone. Beyond those two extremes I am so far out of my element I may as well be a tree frog in the desert.

Just like I’m out of my element on the campaign trail. That shit is so suffocating, so antithetical to everything I am as a person, it makes me ill.

None of this is going to go well. My mother is going to fire Maddox and make me go on the campaign trail with her, making speeches, doing luncheons and interviews, glad-handing gross old men with fat check books. I should have left the country and become an expat exile in Cancun when I had my chance.

Maddox turns into the parking deck, barely slowing his speed. He winds through the concrete stacks toward my assigned spot, then pulls in, turns the key, and kills the engine.

He sits there a second, just staring ahead at the blank wall. Then he takes a breath and turns to me.

“I want to come up with you. I want to stay tonight,” he says.

In a flash, I think of about sixteen different ways this whole thing could go very wrong for both of us.

“My mother is probably going to fire you,” I say. “You won’t get your paycheck. You won’t be able to put a down payment on a house or whatever shit you’re trying to do.”

He nods. “I hope that’s not true. But if that does happen, I’ll deal with it. I’ll deal with all that tomorrow. Tonight I want to take you upstairs, fuck you until you scream, do it again, and then lay down next to you and sleep. Then maybe wake up in the morning and fuck again.”

Just listening to him talk dirty like that makes me wet. I’m still sore from earlier in the evening. But arousal, thick and sweet, is starting to pool between my legs again.

I can’t be around Maddox Bryant without feeling that way. Like if I’m not wrapped up in his arms, everything in the world is wrong.

Maybe I’ve had that feeling for the past seven years. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me.

I thought about the way Maddox leveled Aaron Schilling at the party, bringing him to his knees, begging and almost crying. He did that because Aaron put his hands on me. Maddox is possessive, and there’s something dangerous about that possessiveness.

Something seductive and damned alluring too.

He wants to fuck me until I scream. I wonder if he can make me scream. No one else ever has. I wonder if I can make him scream?

Once upstairs, tucked safely in my apartment, Maddox doesn’t pause. I start to ask him if he wants a drink, but before I can get the words out, he shoves me up against the wall, pinning my body flat against his, his tongue finding mine, spreading my lips, then roughly biting them as a low moan escapes both of us in unison.

“You’re mine,” he growls, whispering in my ear. “Seeing you preening and smiling for all those men tonight – I wanted to kill every one of them – slowly. I want you to myself. I don’t share.”

The heat and blood rush in my ears all at once. My sex pulses with need, and whatever was in my mind about taking things slow — or not giving in — or whatever bullshit I had in my head, I don’t care.

He doesn’t bother with heading to the bedroom, and I don’t care. He yanks at the zipper at the back of my dress, running it all the way down, then pushes it off my shoulders, tugging it past my hips and down to the floor. That done, there’s nothing between us but his suit, his gun, and my very sheer bra and panties. My nipples stiffen under the stroke of his hand while I slip the knot of his tie and release him from that small bit of bondage.

Maddox takes a step back, dropping his jacket on the floor and shrugging off his shoulder holster, hanging it on a kitchen chair.

“God damn, you’re fucking beautiful,” he says, his eyes drinking me in while peeling off his shirt. I drop to my knees and help him with the rest.

I’ve already mastered the belt, unbuckling it and pulling it free with a bit of dramatic flair. Then I turn my attention to his neatly tailored suit pants. They cling low on his narrow hips, revealing an enviable erection barely concealed behind dark blue silk. As I open the button at his waist with one hand I stroke his hard length with the other, then I slide the zipper down. I open his pants and slip them off his hips, letting them fall to his ankles

One more layer to go. He’s wrapped up inside a pair of clinging Calvin Klein boxers.

Maddox slips his right hand onto my head, threading my hair.

I hook my thumbs into the waistband and roll them down past his thighs, releasing him. Maddox’s cock is hard and standing up for me, waiting for my attention.

I take his girth in my hand and firmly stroke his shaft, pulling my palm around its head.

“You want my mouth, don’t you? You want me to suck your cock.” I blush when I say it. I’ve slept with men before, but words like this don’t come out of my mouth. Ever.

“Fuck, baby, yes I do. You’re mine,” he says, grinning. “Like I said.”

I kneel on the floor in front of him, and I gently wrap my lips around his head and let my tongue trace its contour, tasting pre-cum and sucking it in, using the tip of my tongue to tease him.

“Oh… fucking… god...” Maddox moans.

His finger-grip on my head tightens.

I take in more of his length, letting the shaft slide into my mouth, even as I suck gently, tilting my head back, using the tip of my tongue to tease him up and down his length and around his head, and using my lips to squeeze him at the base of his cock, milking him. I taste the salt of his pleasure on my tongue, even as my pussy drips, slathering wet from the intense turn-on it is to have him at my mercy.

Maddox’ hand grips my head harder and he starts to cautiously thrust forward into my mouth.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he manages, as his eyes close and his head rolls back, a dreamy expression relaxing his face.

With my right hand I reach up and very gently caress his balls, rolling them between my finger tips. He moans with approval and I feel his cock stiffen just a little more.

He pumps me gently but firmly as I suck and lap at the head of his cock, handling his balls, pressing them between my fingers, running my nails over their surface, feeling them draw up tight in my care.

I run my tongue down the length of his shaft, taking in his scent, swirling back and up over the head again. And then I take him all the way to the back of my throat, letting him rest there, swallowing his cock with my throat. I pull back, panting, and bring my mouth back to the head.

“Oh.. Oh.. fucking hell.” His breath catches in his chest and his cock expands again.

“Oh god, Avery, what the fuck?”

He shoves his cock into my mouth without thinking.

“Mother fucker...” Maddox pulls out of my mouth, his hand wrapping hard around his girth, stroking.

He’s breathing hard and his abs tighten up. He strokes himself, watching me, tipping my chin towards him.

“C’mon.” I tease, holding my tongue out. “Come in my mouth.”

“Fuck.”

In another second Maddox cries out, and his cock spurts its rich essence onto my tongue, across my chest and face, and halfway across the room.

He falls to the floor beside me.

“Fucking hell. What the fuck was that?” Maddox is breathless, staring up at the ceiling glassy-eyed without focus.

“That was me, fucking you, proper.” I say, laughing.

“God damn.”

Twenty minutes later, just when I think he’s about to fall off to sleep, Maddox rolls over and cradling near, looks at me and says, “Where did you learn to give head like that?”

I smile. My pussy is still aching. “I learned a thing or two along the way. ”

“Fucking hell.” Maddox raises up on his elbow. He’s still a little glassy-eyed. “I don’t like the idea of you with other men. But—”

Heat rises over my chest and fills my cheeks. I move in closer to Maddox and run my fingers through his hair. “None of them ever made me come. I’d even sworn off dating the night before you came back into my life.”

He smiles, his face distant. He brings his mouth down on me and kisses me hard. “Tell me how I can do more of that. The whole making you come thing. Because I like it. A lot.”

I give him a wicked look. “Your cock, hard, buried deep inside me. However you want. Whenever you want.”

Fuck. Where did these words even come from?

Maddox grins. “I can do that.”

“Show. Don’t tell.” I tease him. “You sure you can handle it? I think you might be all fucked out.”

He shakes his head at me and rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. “God, you have such a smart mouth,” he says, sitting up. “I think I need to teach you a lesson.”

Before I quite know what is happening, Maddox has his hands on my hips and is pulling me toward him. Then with one, swift, powerful move, he flips me over so that I am face down on the carpeted floor.

“Hey!” I cry out, more from surprise that in protest.

He lifts my hips up as my elbows scrape on the carpet and in just a second I feel his stiff cock plunge hard into my aching, soaking wet pussy. He wraps one fist around my hair and grips my hip with the other, then starts pounding into me hard – so rough that it almost hurts – but it hurts in the best way possible.

With each thrust I cry out a little. It feels like he’s fucking me straight up into my lungs. I can hardly breathe and have to suck air in gasps between his thrusts, because every muscle in my body is screaming, either in pain or in pleasure.

“You like to fuck?” Maddox growls, toying with me. “You like to tease men, and tease me? You like to play rough and fight?”

He shoves in hard and pulls out slow, his hand wrapped in my hair, yanking my head back, then he moves his free hand up to my shoulder and jams me down into his upward thrust. His ball sack bounces into my snatch with every stroke, calling my clit to ready attention.

“You like it hard like this?” He asks, fucking me so roughly I almost want to cry out.

I can’t speak. If I try, I’ll scream. And that’s what he wants.

“Tell me you like it like this.”

Maddox releases my shoulder and finds my breast. He circles my nipple with his thumb, causing my sex to quiver against him.

“You like that. I can feel it,” he says. I hear the grin in his expression, even though I’m face down on the floor.

He squeezes my nipple between his fingers and it hurts. I let out an ‘owe’ in protest, so he does it again and fucks me harder, so hard and so deep I feel the earth start to shudder beneath me. My pussy is trembling with the most intense reverberations of pleasure I’ve ever felt. Maddox feels it too and responds by releasing my hair and using both hands to tweak my nipples, pulling at them hard until my ass is bucking in time with his thrusts – the shudders of my bursting orgasm rock me from his cock out to my extremities and across the room.

I can’t even help it. I hear myself crying out – screaming – begging – pleading.

“Oh fuck Maddox, fuck me… fuck me… fuck me… oooh… god… damn...”

My orgasm ripples away slowly, leaving me with reflexive shudders of pleasure that bounce like echoes throughout my body.

“I made you scream.” Maddox gloats, still shoving into me. “Something I’ve dreamed about doing – just like this – for a very long time.”

He twists his hand into my hair again and gives it a firm tug.

“That’s for every time you rolled your eyes at me,” he says, jamming his cock in hard.

“And this is for every time you insulted me.” He rams himself into me so deep I swear I can feel it at my tonsils.

“And this is for every time you failed to notice that I absolutely adore you.” He stops moving, then draws back slowly, letting the nerves surrounding my walls, my soppy wet lips, and my swollen clit feel every inch of him, feel every vein wrapping his girth. He moves slowly back in, cruelly so. “I’ve adored you as long as I’ve known you… and you’ve been looking right through me the whole time.”

“No, Maddox…” I cry, “It’s not like that, I...”

“It’s just like that.” He cuts me off, then picks up speed.

I feel his cock twitch and can no longer feel his balls slapping against me; they’ve drawn up against him. He pounds into me like before, his hands grip my hips and roughly pull me tight. I feel his body stiffen and arch, and then I feel the explosion of molten heat fill me up, flowing in and out of me. He shoves in five, six… eight… eleven more times before he finally stops and pulls out, releasing me, falling back on his haunches, breathless.

“I don’t know where that came from,” Maddox says, rolling toward me, using his powerful, muscled arms to scoop me into his chest, cradling me like a kitten.

I don’t know whether I’m in shock from an assault, or reeling from the most intense, most mind-numbingly pleasurable sexual encounter I’ve ever had. My brain is spinning, but I have no words.

“You’ve got my head all messed up,” he says, sitting up, then lifting me into his arms like I’m weightless. He carries me to the bed and lays me down gently, then slips in beside me, pulling me close. “You frustrate me, and confound me, astonish me, and then you tease me.” He kisses the nape of my neck tenderly.

Yeah. That. Having him back in my life hasn’t been easy. But nothing in his life has been easy, either.

Maddox is lying on his side, his arms wrapped around me. I feel his breathing even out and deepen, then a little reflexive twitch at his leg. He’s falling asleep. He’s just fucked my brains out, made me scream and beg, then confessed that I’ve messed with his head, and now he’s sleeping beside me.

There’s a deep, aching sadness inside of me, the same one that I felt when Maddox left all those years ago.

But maybe, this time, he’ll stay.

* * *

What is that sound? Somewhere deep in the back of my dream I hear my phone ringing.

Ringing.

“Fucking hell.” I moan, sitting up. Where is it? Goddammit. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

I’m not sure where I am or if I’m dreaming.

The phone is still ringing.

It’s on the nightstand. I pick it up. My mother. “Fucking hell.”

I swipe to answer, knowing that my sleeping voice is going to betray the fact that I am not out of bed yet.

“It’s nine o’clock in the morning, young lady,” Evelyn says, not even pausing to say hello. “You have the work ethic of a sloth. I need you – and Maddox – in my office in an hour.”

“Good morning, Mother. How are you today?” I reply, yawning. “Oh. I’m well. Slept like a baby.”

“Don’t be smart with me.” She shoots back. “We need to talk about last night and the future. Some things have got to change, and it’s time you stepped up. One hour.”

“Two,” I reply. I end the call and let my head drop, trying to wake up.

I’m afraid to look up. Afraid of what I might – or might not – see in bed with me.

Just then, I hear footsteps padding on the hardwoods outside my bedroom door.

I look up just in time to see Maddox walk in, bearing two cups of coffee, wearing his Calvin’s and nothing else. His hair is tousled and he could use a shave, but he’s halfway smiling at me. He has the most amazing body I’ve ever seen. He’s cut like a fitness model.

“Good morning,” he says, sidling up next to me, handing me a cup. “Was that your phone I heard ringing?”

I nod. “We’ve been summoned to the Dragon Lady’s lair. I think we’re in trouble.”

Chapter 13

Avery

Maddox drives us across town, because that’s his job – at least as long as he still has one. I already know what she wants with me. She wants me to quit school – at least during the campaign – and head out on the road with her for county fairs, stump speeches, and those crucially important $2000 per plate fundraisers.

I would rather eat glass.

For the last five years I’ve pretty much had it made. I like school. I like my life, my friends, my books. I like fucking around when I want and partying when I want. I like my own company when I want. But now I’ve got stalkers who want to hurt me, a bodyguard who – while he’s amazing in bed – may wants me to be his, and a power-crazed mother who wants to control every move I make, and use me to achieve her unchecked ambition to become ruler of the Western Hemisphere.

How can I be everything I need to be to all these different people and circumstances, all pulling me in different directions?

I can’t.

I will fuck up and disappoint someone, somewhere, soon. It’s inevitable. I always do.

Maddox is mostly silent as we drive, his face grim. He’s pretty sure Evelyn is going to fire him, and I’m in no position to contradict him. He’s just out of the Marines and it’s not like there are six-figure salaried jobs growing on trees, ripe for the picking, for guys his age with few skills beside blowing things up and killing people. He needs the money.

He’s said that. I know it’s true. And just as surely as I know my own self, I know there’s something he’s not telling me, too.

I’m not sure exactly what his financial obligations are – we haven’t discussed that – but I get the sense that they are real and they weigh on him.

The campaign office is ice-cold, like a dragon’s lair ought to be. Mother’s secretary tells us to wait while “the Senator wraps up a previous appointment.”

We wait almost twenty minutes before the phone on the secretary’s desk rings. She answers, nods, speaks, “Yes Ma’am. I’ll show them in.”

She looks up at us. “The Senator will see you now.”

I cock my head to the side. I can’t help myself. “You do know that ‘the Senator’ is my mother, right? I mean at home around the table, I don’t say, ‘Excuse me, Madam Senator, would you please pass the salt?’”

“Yes, Miss Thomas. I am well aware.” She replies, pursing her lips and looking between me and Maddox. “I’m well aware of a great many things.”

“Screw you, you judgmental little toad.” I mutter under my breath as we pass her, heading into the deepest, darkest, chamber of horrors that is my mother’s campaign headquarters office.

“Behave yourself, Aves,” Maddox whispers in my ear. “For me. Please.”

For him? What about for me?

Mother is seated behind her gigantic, mahogany desk when we walk in. She doesn’t look up, much less stand. She waves her hand toward a couple of chairs nearby, and keeps reading the documents on her desk, signing pen in hand. I’m pretty sure it’s a gold Montblanc.

A minute passes. Maybe two. Maddox starts to fidget.

“You’ve made your point, Mother. Now you’re just being unspeakably rude,” I say, conjuring up a respectful tone to counter my words.

“Not calling me, ‘Mom,’ anymore?” She glances at me, her eyes cold.

“No. It doesn’t suit you,” I say, crossing my arms. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of my apricot sundress. It looks — and feels — frivolous in this room. I can feel Evelyn’s eyes burning into me.

She puts her pen down and and folds her spider leg-like fingers together in front of her, elbows on her desk.

“You two were unspeakably rude last night,” she says, her tone even. “However, after speaking to your father and several other guests, I understand there may have been extenuating circumstances that lead to the kerfuffle with Aaron Schilling.”

That is as close to admitting she was wrong as I have ever heard my mother approach, in twenty-five years of life on this Earth. Holy shit.

She turns her attention to Maddox. “Maddox, I’ve known you – and your family – a very long time. Your mother did her best by me. So...”

There is a long pause as she lets the idea of a reprieve set in.

“With that in mind, along with the information I received from the Mason’s about Mr. Schilling’s inappropriate behavior, I’m inclined to overlook the fact that you over-reacted to the incident. I realize that I hired you to protect Avery – keep her safe – and that you obviously take that obligation seriously. I’m glad you do. Because your job is about to require more public events where it may be necessary to intervene – I hope – in a somewhat more civil and inconspicuous manner, to protect Avery from advances like the one last night. And to keep her on the straight and narrow so she doesn’t bring scandal to this campaign.”

Jesus. I’m right here. You’re talking about me, but I’m sitting right in front of you.

“Yes Ma’am. Thank you for understanding,” Maddox says.

And that’s all he says. All his chivalrous bluster from last night is gone.

She turns to me. I feel a chill rattle down my spine. “Up until the thing with Schilling – which I’m still not entirely certain you didn’t provoke somehow...”

Is she fucking kidding me?

“… You did very well last night. I hear nothing but good things about you from people in passing. It’s like you’re another person with the rest of the world. Bright. Erudite. So well informed. And so gentile. Sometimes I have no idea who they’re even talking about. Be that as it may, you play well in the field and the press loves you. I need that.”

Evelyn informed me that I would be leaving school, effective immediately, to begin handling some of the early fund raisers and public appearances, as well as working with the PR team to begin preparing for print and cable news interviews. She had a schedule printed up for the next sixty days, which she handed to me for review. It was a ten-hour a day, six day a week itinerary – a full time job – starting this weekend.

Eating glass began to feel like a good alternative to the one in front of me.

“Mother. My school term is over in just a few weeks. At least let me finish the semester.”

She scowls. “You’re a political science major, dear. You can phone in your exams if need be. I wanted you to go to law school. That’s what was supposed to happen. But you went your own way and took the easy route. Sorry. Not an option. You have a duty to this family to play your part, starting now. You’ve had every advantage in the world given to you, and with that, comes responsibility. Get used to it.”

Or I could just slash my wrists and bleed out in a warm bath. That would make the papers. There is no such thing as bad publicity, right?

“Senator,” Maddox interjects. “You know, Avery deserves to have a say in this. She’s a grown woman, with a life and plans of her own. Maybe you could see your way clear to...”

“This doesn’t involve you, Maddox.” Evelyn snaps. “Except that you’ll be part of the security detail. Everyone in this family has a job to do, and I expect my daughter to do hers.”

I turn beet red, probably clashing with my hair and the damn dress all at once. The way she speaks to him feels like a slap in the face, but Maddox remains quiet, taking it in.

“You’ll do exactly as I say for the remainder of the election cycle, Avery Thomas.” I keep my eyes down. It’s hard to focus and keep my cool, but it will be worse if I look at her.

I don’t know if I want Maddox just to hold my hand or to stand up to my mother, but he doesn’t do either. That sick sadness sinks into me again, and I feel alone in the ice cold room until my mother dismisses us both and tells us to leave.

We walk in silence back to the parking deck. Maddox opens the car door for me but doesn’t say another word.

On the drive back to my place, I let this new reality sink in. I have to give up everything for at least a year, maybe more, to please my mother and help her get elected to an office that – in my heart – I don’t want her to win. She’s not qualified for it. She’s corrupt. She doesn’t care about the most pressing issues facing the state, much less her constituents. She cares about consolidating her personal power and taking tribute from the corporations who want their agendas advanced.

Working to get her re-elected goes against every single thing I believe in. What kind of person would I be if…

“That went pretty well,” Maddox says, breaking the silence. He glances sideways at me.

I could not conceal the stunned expression darkening my face.

“Are you serious?” I ask.

“I’m not fired, at least.” He replies, as if that’s the only thing that matters.

I haul in a deep breath, trying to keep my cool. “You’re not fired.” I agree. “But I’m her ho, pimped like some piece of meat out on the stump, telling lies, reeling in the big fish.”

Maddox shrugs. “Just look at it like another weird life experience. You put your head down and get through it, then it’s done. Sort of like Afghanistan.”

Afghanistan? Really?

“You realize, if my mother gets re-elected, more of your buddies are going to have to go there, and to Syria, and back to Iraq – and a hundred other places? That she and her friends make money on every new deployment? On every bullet fired and million-dollar missile lobbed into the rubble of the Middle East? Put my head down and get through it? Good lord Maddox, don’t you realize I’d rather cut out my tongue than shill for that woman?”

He gives me a look of serious concern, showing a rising awareness that I haven’t seen in him before. Maybe he’s beginning to see how things really are. Maybe I can help him see.

“You know why I wanted to get my passport?” I ask him.

“I want to know,” he says.

“I was going to run. Just get out of the country. Flee from her and all her demands and criminal ambitions. That’s looking like a pretty good plan right about now.”

Maddox grips the steering wheel and looks dead ahead.

“You can’t do that,” he says to me, his jaw clenched, his voice tight with angst. “I can’t let you do that.”

“You can’t stop me,” I say.

He looks straight at me. “I can. And I have to. Part of the terms of my employment contract, I can’t let you leave the country – not even the state. I have to keep you safe – and local.”

What the ever-loving-fuck? That’s even crazier than the morality clause in the contract they made me sign last time Mother was running.

“Maddox. I’m twenty-five years old. When it comes right down to it, I can do what I want.”

“Can you live without her money?” He asks me. It’s a fair question. And because I can’t think about what it would actually mean to have to live without her money, I turn the question around on him.

“Can you?” I ask.

“No,” he says without hesitating. “No. I’m pretty much fucked without this job.”

And there you have it. Everyone has their priorities.

“Great,” I say. “Well, at least I know where I stand. You’re my body guard, and apparently a dedicated fuck buddy. But probably – when push comes to shove, not much more than that.”

“Avery—”

“No. It’s all cool. Better than I expected. It’s good to know where we are. It’s fantastic, in fact. Because I was worried you were taking this little thing we have way too seriously. Now, I don’t need to worry. I know you have a job to do and I have a job to do, and we’ll figure it all out. At least I don’t need to fret myself with thinking there’s anything complicated going on.”

I stare out the window. I don’t know why, but tears try to form up behind my eyes. Fuck that. I don’t cry. Not over a guy. Not ever.

This guy has muddled my head for weeks, but no more. Now I know.

Chapter 14

Maddox

I understand why Avery is pissed. I really do. But the girl doesn’t get the fact that the world does not entirely revolve around her.

Yesterday I went with her to the registrar’s office at Berkeley and watched her fill out all the paperwork necessary to withdraw from her classes. She was methodical about it. Calculating. Resigned. She never let one bit of emotion slip into the whole undertaking. The Dean made her go meet with her Faculty Adviser. Her adviser was emotional. He couldn’t believe it.

“I don’t understand.” He said. “You’re on track to win a Graduate Fellowship next term. Your paper on the synthesis between the Military Industrial Complex’s new developments in domestic propaganda dissemination and the Pentagon’s focus on internal enemies lists is going to be published in the next Berkeley Partisan Review. Why would you…?”

Avery shut him down. “My personal politics take a back seat to my mother’s political ambition. Let’s face it. I’m a Thomas. I’m a brand name. She gets to call the shots. I do as I’m told.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.” He said. “Look at Christopher Buckley. He strayed from the fold.”

“Yeah. Chris Buckley had his own trust fund and a minority share position in the National Review. And his father is dead. No matter what shit they publish, he gets paid. I only get rent made if I tow the company line. My mother is very much alive and kicking.”

Listening to her talk, I start to get a better picture of what she’s going through.

I can live under a bridge if I have to. I lived in a storage container in Afghanistan. A storage container with three other guys and a bucket all three of us shit in. It was nasty. A bridge by myself would be an upgrade by comparison.

Iraq was a lot better. We lived in a house that had a kitchen and a functioning latrine. The courtyard had citrus trees growing in it, at least until we bombed it and scorched the living shit out of everything in that neighborhood.

But my mother – she can’t live under a bridge.

She always fought like she was going to live forever. She still is. When we first saw the brain tumor on the scan, everything we’d been through flashed in my mind. My father, her near-brush with death, the time she spent working for the Thomas family. The worry and pain and fear, my tours in Afghanistan and Iraq. The injury that sent me home and all the time in the hospital after that.

And after everything, Richard Thomas appeared on our doorstep. All in repayment for something my mother did years ago.

We couldn’t refuse. And I couldn’t refuse the job.

In my head, I’m trying to work out what happens next.

If I lose my job, my mother loses her place in independent living. The trial should be over next week — but she may need chemo. Radiation. More treatments.

Avery has no clue about problems like this. It’s all theoretical to her. Her heart is in the right place, but her head is up in the clouds.

As much as I want to believe we might, on some slim chance, have a future together, I have to keep in mind that Avery and I come from very different places. At best I am diversion to her. A fucking good roll in the sack. In reality I am not much more than that. She’s out of my league in so many ways, starting with the money and ending with the IQ — I can’t hold a candle to her.

When she was in high school, I admired her. She was so smart – without even trying. But after I graduated I realized that kids like her had so many advantages the rest of us never got. Girls like Avery were never meant to mix with guys like me. There was that kiss we shared, and the friendship from our childhood, but none of that was real. That was fantasy.

This shit – this is real.

I need to keep her safe, and local, so I can continue to get paid. The obligations I have are bigger than Avery’s entitled sense of personal space and free will.

I wish I had a solution.

* * *

“Are you staying?” she asks.

She’s been distant, reticent, all day long. I made us dinner and she ate without much to say.

“I have to.” I tell her. “Or across the street. Which just seems weird now.”

The terms of the contract I signed are clear. She’s got to be under 24x7 observation. I need to have my eyes on her constantly.

“Yeah,” she says. She’s not giving up much.

“Let’s just go to bed.” I suggest. “I know you’re pissed at me, but we can sleep… together… I won’t do a thing. I promise.”

Avery meets my gaze, locking her blue eyes on mine. “Are you capable of that?” She asks.

Like I’m some kind of Neanderthal, incapable of controlling my impulses. I glance down to her breasts, the sweet, soft curve of her waist. Fuck. I just might be a neanderthal.

“I’m capable of a lot more than you give me credit for,” I say, shifting uncomfortably. “Way more practice at that than you’ve had.”

We slip in to bed together and turn the lights off. I’m fine feeling her against my skin without needing to do anything to close the gap. If I get hard during the night, I’ll think about baseball. Then she rolls over, her back to me, not speaking, but rocking her ass into me.

“You sure you don’t want to?” I ask, hopefully.

“I’m sore,” she says. “And I’m pissed. And I just want to sleep. I’m exhausted.”

It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

I wake up with a hard-on rocking against Avery’s backside. She’s already grasping at my hips, pulling me into her, despite the early hour.

The light streaming through the window is filtered and thin. It can’t be much before six in the morning.

Goddamn she feels good.

We’re laying side by side on the bed. I rock in deep, lifting her left thigh up over mine, positioning myself to enter her from behind. She’s slick and wet, her body already moving against mine. The warm, spicy scent of her hair fills my senses. I move my cock against the delicate folds of her sex, and she moans, ever so softly. In the dim light, her eyelids flicker open for just a moment.

“I need you,” I say. “I need to fuck you, Avery.” The words are guttural, coming from some dark, instinctual place inside me.

“Oh…God,” She cries a little, still half asleep as I slip in between her hot, wet lips. I start rolling into her, languidly, like a dream. Her pussy is so tight and so hot, gripping me in her early morning dreams.

“Oh… fuck...” I say. She’s still so tight, just like I imagined her all those years ago. Fresh, innocent, unspoiled. Like she was waiting for me, all these years. “I’m going to come deep inside that little pussy,” I say. “You want me to, don’t you? You want me to fill you up.”

She moans, reflexively bringing her hands to her nipples, rolling them between her fingertips as she looks back over her shoulder at me.

“Yeah,” she breathes sleepily. “I want to feel you come inside me.”

She’s coming awake now. I pull her hips back and ride her just a bit harder.

“Come for me,” I instruct her.

She has so much experience doing what she’s told, her pussy starts to shudder as I roll in. Her fingers grip at the sheets as she begins to whine like a cat. Her mouth opens – and I think of how she worked me before, her tongue climbing the length of my shaft. I wish for a moment that I was two men so I could take her all at once. Every part of her.

Instead, I fuck her gently, drawing back and then pouring in deep. She trembles, and her body quakes while I fuck her ever-so-softly. She cries out my name, babbling, her body moving with mine of its own accord. I could listen to that a thousand times and not be satisfied.

I keep pumping until my balls seize up and my cock grows even harder. I hold myself inside of her, deep and pure My orgasm explodes and all I want is to hold her against me forever.

Avery is right. I can’t control myself. I can’t change the fact that I want her, and want to take care of her. I want to wake up next to her like this every single day. I need to figure out how to make this work – for both of us.

* * *

“Get out of my bed and make me a cup of coffee,” Avery says, her post-coital bliss gone, replaced by a brittle edge. “Earn your keep.”

I’m also very well-schooled in doing just as I’m told; something else the Marines taught me.

When I return to the bedroom with two cups of steaming hot French-pressed coffee, hers with three sugars and heavy cream, just like she likes it, I find Avery sitting up in bed, holding her phone, an expression of horror smeared across her face. She looks like she’s about to burst into tears.

“What’s wrong, Avery? What is it?”

She looks up at me, wide eyed. She hands me her phone.

I look at the first image displayed on the screen. It’s a photograph of her, lying – eyes closed – sprawled on the street. The next image is a close-up crotch shot, in the same location. The next is a shot of Avery in a bar with her friend Elle, her face flushed, head tipped back, laughing. There are more recent ones. Several taken at the charity dinner two nights ago, of Avery working the crowd. A couple of the altercation with Schilling, with me in them, looming over that little prick, Avery tucked behind me. And two more; one on the campus at Berkeley taken yesterday, and one right outside this apartment as we were headed inside last evening.

The last one was accompanied by the following text;

“I see you. I own you. I’m your shadow. I’m the shadow of death. I’m coming for you Avery.”

Oh fuck.

How did I miss this? Someone’s been following us this whole time, and I missed it? Good lord I really do suck at this job. I’m paying attention to all the wrong things.

Okay. I know what to do.

I scroll to Avery’s contact list and find her father’s number, hit call, and wait while it rings.

“Who are you calling?” Avery asks. Her face swimming with fear and confusion.

I shake her off as the line picks up.

“Hi Avery. You never call. It’s good...”

“It’s not Avery,” I say, interrupting her father. “It’s Maddox Bryant. We have a situation that I need to deal with fast, and I need your help and cooperation.”

“What’s wrong?” General Thomas asks, all the good humor gone from his tone.

“The guy who assaulted Avery, he’s back – and threatening her. He just sent a series of photographs, demonstrating just how close he has gotten, and a text. I need to get Avery to a safe place while you get this material to the police. This guy isn’t going to stop until he’s either caught or he seriously hurts her – or worse.”

“What do I need to do?” General Thomas asks, his tone grave.

“I’m going to forward the photos and text to you from Avery’s phone, and then leave her phone in her apartment. The police may be able to use the phone to trace the texts back to the source. I’m taking her out of here and to a safe house. I have friends who can help. I’ll call you from my line when we’re tucked in.”

“Just bring her to our house, son,” he booms. “Whatever is going on, we can work it out here.”

“No.” I interrupt him. “This guy, whoever he is, he’s close enough to you to have been at the fundraiser the other night. He’s someone you know. I’ve gotta get Avery away from your circle of friends until we get him. I’m sending you the material now. I’ll call you later.”

On the other end of the line, the crusty old general sighs. He isn’t my favorite person, but he values Avery’s safety far more than Evelyn does. “Fine, Maddox. But you know the contract. You helped me come up with it. And that means that when we call on you, you get Avery where she needs to be.”

I end the call and quickly forward everything to his number, then I lay Avery’s phone down on the bed.

“You need to pack,” I say. “Pack light. Just what you need for a few days. Anything we need we can get there.”

“Where’s there?” She asks me.

“Los Angeles.” I reply. “The Marine base at 29 palms.”

I may not be the sharpest blade in the drawer, but I do have a couple things going for me. One is that I’m a former Marine with base privileges. The other is that I know some really useful people.

I can’t count on the idea that we won’t be followed from here all the way to Southern California, but I know with certainty that no one without military credentials or prior approval is getting onto that base, and once on base I can help Avery disappear and shake this ‘shadow’ once and for all.

I make one more call. This one to my old officer, Lieutenant Salvatore, one of the smartest and probably the toughest SOB I’ve ever met.

“Bryant. To what do I owe the pleasure? Ready to quit the soft life and join back up?” He quips, answering on the first ring.

“Boss, I’m in a jam and I need your help,” I say, skipping the pleasantries.

I explain everything to him – leaving out the one crucial detail that I’m sleeping with my principal – and ask him for the three things I know he can provide. First, for permission for Avery to come on base, next, a vehicle, and finally, access to his place on Sea Coast Drive.

“I’ll get her on the list at the gate house,” he says. “Make sure she’s got two forms of picture ID, and if you’re carrying, make sure you’ve got your permits in hand before you come on base property. Understood?”

“Understood, sir.”

“I’ll see you when you get here. Are you driving or flying?”

“Driving, sir.”

“Shit, that’s a long drive. Be safe. I’ll see you tonight.”

Avery hasn’t moved. She’s still sitting there in bed, the sheet pulled up tight around her, looking concerned. Helpless. Tears fringing her blond eyelashes. And utterly irresistible.

I try to stifle the urge I feel — it’s not exactly gentlemanly to go after damsels in distress. But fuck, she’s beautiful.

“We need to get moving,” I say. “Drink your coffee, get a shower, pack a bag, and we’re bolting.”

“To Los Angeles?” She asks, her voice cracking. “Why, exactly?”

“Because I say so.” I reply. “You’re not safe here. My job is to keep you safe, so I’m gonna do my job.”

This extraction also has the added benefit of getting Avery away from her mother and all the negative energy between them. Maybe this is a blessing in disguise.

“Look at it like a weekend getaway,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “An impromptu road trip. And, we’re putting 500 miles between you and your mother. Find the upside.”

Avery heaves in a deep breath, lifts her hand and smooths back her wild mane of red hair. She shakes her head and sighs. “Alright. It’s not like I have anything else to do.”

* * *

Once on the road I have no clue whether we’re being followed. If someone’s tailing us, they’re good at keeping their distance. Once on the I-5, I press the speedometer past eighty, keeping my eyes peeled for the highway patrol and bad drivers.

“Los Angeles is an armpit,” Avery says, her gaze still fixed out the window. “Ugliest town this side of El Paso.”

She’s not far off.

I agree with her, then add, “Yeah, but El Paso doesn’t have a beach house all to ourselves, with a couple of miles of pristine, private beach laid out beside it. It could be worse.”

She turns to me. “Why are you doing this Maddox? It’s a lot of trouble to go to just to get me out of reach of this creep.”

I smile. “I wanna see you in a bikini again. The creep just gave me a perfect excuse.”

She rolls her eyes at me and laughs. “You make it so hard to stay mad at you.”

Good.

Chapter 15

Avery

I know my mother is completely freaking out. Maddox knew what he was doing, calling my father instead of her and leaving my phone at my apartment. He turned his off before we left, so if Mother has tried to get up with us, she’s hitting stone walls. She doesn’t do powerless well. There will be hell to pay. I know it.

I watch the world go by from my window, wondering what I’ve done. We’ve been on the road for hours already, and now the only scenery is orange groves and almonds, growing from the edge of the highway off into the flat landscape, as far as the eye can see. At least it’s green. I know the desert is coming soon. We’ll be in LA in no time.

Should I have stayed at home and just blown off the whole stalker thing? The guy did crack my head and take those pictures of me, but he could have killed me then. Maybe he’s actually a really impotent stalker.

Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to leave – with Maddox.

When he disappeared so many years ago, I was shattered. I was shattered that he hid so many things from me too; that he didn’t trust me. He had such a rough start in life, yet he was such a good person, I couldn’t make sense out of why he just left without even a goodbye.

We have at least four more hours on the road ahead of us before we’re anywhere near Los Angeles. Maybe it’s time to start asking the hard questions.

The highway rolls by, trees blending into sky, darkness falling. I look out of the window, leaning away from him.

“Why did you leave the way you did?” I ask him. “The night of my graduation. You just disappeared.”

Maddox turns his attention away from the road for a second to meet my eyes. I can see his wheels turning. He’s trying to formulate a reply that won’t cause me to either claw his eyes out, or jump out of the moving vehicle; neither one of which I have the energy for right now. The man has worn me out, physically and emotionally.

“Just tell me the truth.” I look away, back toward the orange groves.

He draws in a deep breath and then sighs sadly. “I was made to understand the errors in my judgment.” Maddox replied. “And I was given the choice of signing up for the Marines, or basically having my already crappy life completely destroyed.”

My parents.

He took his turn to ask the hard questions. “How come you didn’t go to law school? Or marry some power suit your mother approves of?”

I have to laugh at his second question. “I’m not marriage material,” I say. “And I didn’t go to law school because… mother really wanted me to go to law school. Choosing a Ph.D. in political science – the low-profile life of an academic rather than a power broker – that was just another thumb in her eye. It’s the little things I do that give me the most joy.”

“Why do you say you’re not marriage material?”

Good lord. Where is he going with this? This is fun, but — it’s not meant to last.

“Any guy who wants to be in a relationship like that with me, only wants it because of who I am, or more to the point, who my mother is. I want no part of any guy like that. So… I don’t really do relationships. My last real boyfriend was lovely, and he didn’t give a rats ass about my mother – which added to his already considerable charms – but he was lacking in ways that are kind of essential to making a relationship work.” I roll my eyes. “We’re friends now. His boyfriend is adorable. They’re happy together.”

“How long ago was this boyfriend?”

“A couple years.” I answer. “I’ve just kinda dated around the edges since then.”

“I’ve seen the dossier.” Maddox replies, his eyes narrowing.

“The dossier?” I ask. “What the fuck?”

“You know, you swear like a sailor?” He observes, then answers the question. “Your parents keep closer tabs on you than I think you’re aware of. When I got this assignment, your mother gave me a file. It included a list of every hook-up you’ve had since… I guess since before the gay boyfriend. He’s in there too.”

What the ever-loving hell?

“The list took up several pages.”

“I hope there were pictures.” I quip. “I hope you got an eyeful.”

“There were. A few. You certainly have a taste for… I dunno… skinny, nerdy guys. All getting their Ph.Ds. Not that I’m saying there’s anything wrong with that.”

“Apparently you are.”

“I’m not judging,” Maddox says. “I’m not perfect either. I have a penchant for petite redheads with bad attitudes. Some fixation from my past, I suppose.”

“Fixation?” I observe. Then I repeat it. “Fixation?”

“Isn’t that what they call it when you can’t shake some unfinished business from your formative years, you just keep going around the same circle, like a dog chasing its tail?”

“So that’s what I am?” I say. “A fixation.”

“You’re something,” he says. “Something I need to work out.”

“Yeah. You do that,” I reply coolly. “Work me out of your system before you have to deliver me to the wolves. You’ve got five days. You saw the itinerary. You don’t want to be tardy. You need this job. And this little trip, it’s not gonna go over well with the boss.”

I might just muster up the energy to scratch his eyes out after all.

* * *

We hit the mountains north of L.A. just after lunchtime, and traffic is lighter than I expected.

“We need to stop for gas and get something to eat before we head out to Twenty Nine Palms,” Maddox says. “What do you want?”

“I don’t care,” I say. I’m not especially hungry.

“Oh-kay,” he says. “But if you leave it to me it’s gonna be the In-N-Out Burger on Laurel Canyon.”

“Whatever.” If he wants to eat gross crap, who am I to try to dissuade him?

He drives another few miles and takes an exit, descending us into the ugliest gut of the San Fernando Valley my vivid imagination could never conjure. Miles and miles of concrete, nondescript strip malls (half of them empty, boarded up, dilapidated), and shitty little box-like houses, housing shitty little people with box-like lives. It’s hard to believe this place represents anything except suicidal tendencies.

We get gas at a Mobil Station just across from the cloverleaf, then head up a block to the In-N-Out. In a rare moment of indecision, I tell Maddox to ‘just order me something’. Thirty seconds later I fear I may live (or die) to regret that decision.

Maddox pulls up to the drive-through and after enduring the incomprehensible garble emanating from the loudspeaker at the menu board, he says, “Yeah. I want a 4x4 with extra cheese, fries and a Coke, and a 3x3 with fries and a Coke, and two chocolate shakes.”

No! No! No! “Make mine strawberry!” I say.

“Correction. Make that a chocolate and a strawberry shake.”

The speaker garbles something else, which – using some sixth sense I have not yet developed – Maddox miraculously understands. He replies. “Extra mustard, salt and ketchup. That’s it.”

The menu board responds to him, and he pulls forward. He’s happy with anticipation like a kid at the fair.

“I love In-N-Out,” he says. “I don’t get to do this often enough.”

We’re back on the highway before I can unwrap the burgers and salt the fries. I have no idea what a 4x4 or a 3x3 is until I peel back the paper. Seeing the monstrous thing oozing grease all over the place, I am glad there is no such thing as a 5x5.

“I think this is yours,” I say, handing Maddox a burger stacked with four meat patties, pasted with melted cheese; a sandwich so big I can scarcely comprehend what it’s going to do to his stomach.

“Oh yeah,” he says, grinning. “Gimme that.”

He shoves fries into his face with reckless abandon. I laugh at him and feel a little lighter as we head out on the road again.

I unwrap my burger and am astonished. It’s one patty shy of double bypass surgery.

I hold it up at him. “Really?” I ask. “This is like a pound of meat. How am I supposed to —”

He grins. “You seemed fine with a pound of meat earlier.”

“Oh, clever. Just so clever. I see what you did there.” I hold up the burger.

He smiles, mouth full, chewing. “Eat it,” he says. “It’s good.”

I take a bite.

Oh. My. God. Yes. Oh, fucking hell, yeah. That shit is delicious.

We get through L.A. without too many delays, downing our burgers then dipping into diabetic coma territory with the shakes as chaser. Slipping into the valley, I decide to re-open our earlier conversation.

“So petite redheads aren’t exactly a dime a dozen,” I say. “But you – a Marine with a body to die for – you haven’t been a monk, have you?”

Maddox slurps his shake. “Not exactly,” he says. “But, I’ve been deployed overseas more than I’ve been stateside. Life on an aircraft carrier with four thousand sailors isn’t exactly hook-up central.”

“I bet there were a few.” I pry.

“A few.” He agrees. “Girls in the service. Or girls who gravitate to guys in service. No one to write home about.”

“No big-time love affairs you wanted to tell your mom about?”

He glances at me, then turns his gaze back to the busy highway ahead. “None,” he says.

“How is your mom, anyway?” I ask. “You never say anything about her. She’s in L.A. Right? We could go see her.”

I see Maddox’ expression darken. He says nothing.

“How is your mom, Maddox?” I ask again, realizing he’s holding back.

His jaw clenches. His eyes narrow.

“She’s not good,” he says. “She’s doing chemo right now. She did radiation a few months back. She had surgery last year. She’s in a trial now. It’s experimental. It’s working — but — it’s just a matter of time.”

I had no idea.

“I’m sorry,” I say, but my words feel empty. Nadine Bryant was a beautiful women when I knew her. She was full of piss and vinegar, and she kept her generally inebriated husband jumping through hoops, but she was alive like few of us are. And she did a good job raising Maddox up to be a decent human being.

“It’s alright,” Maddox says. “It is what it is.”

“Can we go see her?” I ask.

Maddox shakes his head. “That wouldn’t be a good idea,” he says. “She’s vain like a Hollywood star. She’s bald right now, and there’s a big scar across the back of her scalp. It would make her uncomfortable to be seen like she is. I wish it was different, but… it is what it is.”

I wonder what my mother would be like, all her power gone, her body betraying her. The ability to control her world, obliterated. She’d be in hell. She’d make everyone’s life hell.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay, but...”

“I really don’t want to talk about it.” Maddox interrupts me. “I can’t do anything about it, so I just deal. I do what I can to make sure she’s okay and the bills get paid. Beyond that, it’s out of my hands.”

I watch the desert spin by, just outside of my window. It’s plain, but beautiful.

It hits me all at once, and there’s a crushing weight in the pit of my stomach.

“Maddox, did my parents get her into that trial?”

“I said I’m not especially interested in discussing it, Avery.”

“Maddox. Please.”

He’s quiet for a span of thirty seconds, maybe more. “You know we don’t have that kind of sway on our own,” he says, his voice very, very quiet.

I sit still with the weight of it. This explains so much. My mind is fragmented with all the pieces of it, but I can see it all fitting together. It’s just like my parents to orchestrate all of this. To control me. To get back at me.

To use Maddox just because they can.

This boy I knew, who never really got a chance to be a kid like I did, is now dealing with issues bigger than senate elections. He never went to summer camp, or played varsity football, or smoked weed under the bleachers. He got his first job when he was fifteen years old, and used the money to buy his own clothes, shoes, and school books.

Now he’s taking care of a desperately ill mother?

He’s a stand-up guy, and I’m a rogue princess bemoaning my own privileges. I don’t even know how he can tolerate being in the same airspace with me.

“Mom always loved you.” Maddox adds out of the blue. “She knew your parents hated me, but she said you were worth waiting for.”

She said that?

“She’s the one who convinced me to come back and take this job.”

Well there you go. Nadine, the sage. The prognosticator of all things meant to be.

“She’s probably on some really debilitating medication.” I respond flippantly. “That’s probably why she said that.”

Maddox scoffs.

I am such a bitch. It’s a coping mechanism.

* * *

I am so sick of driving, and I need to pee, but we’re almost there. We make a hard turn west, and suddenly we’re there.

“Open the glove box,” Maddox says. “There’s some paperwork in an envelope in there I need.”

I find it and hand it to him. He tucks it under his leg as he continues driving west through a fairly upscale residential area in the heart of Twenty Nine Palms. The landscaping is all palm trees and low, courtyard walls. The air smells of brittle, dry desert. Maddox navigates these streets with the intimacy of an old hand. I can tell he’s been here before.

Before I know it we arrive at an intersection offering a left, a right, or a process through the main gate . Maddox goes straight and lands at the gate labeled “Visitor.”

As he pulls up a uniformed guard steps forward. Maddox hands him an ID.

“Lieutenant Salvatore should have added a civilian visitor permission,” Maddox says. “Her ID is right here.” He hands the guy my passport and drivers license.

“Let me check this.” The guy disappears into his little, glassed-in box.

In a moment he reappears, returning the paperwork.

“I’m carrying concealed and have some gear in the back,” Maddox says. “Here are my permits.” He hands the guard a fist full of documents.

Once again the man goes away and then comes back. “Pull over to the side,” he says. “We need to have a look.”

I sit in the car while three guys with guns inspect the contents of Maddox backpack and the trunk. They pull out what looks like a battle rifle, check it, and replace where they found it. Words are spoken and the guys are all smiling. One of them pats Maddox on the shoulder. A few minutes later and we’re moving again.

“I need a favor,” Maddox says, as he navigates us across the base to a nondescript gaggle of buildings near the water. “My old lieutenant, you’re about to meet him. I don’t want him to know we’re sleeping together. So… let’s just be really… professional. Okay?”

I nod. This place is freaking me out enough. I don’t need to cause problems that might spark an international incident.

Maddox parks near a building with no sign, and no indication of its purpose. He gets out of the SUV and urges me forward. Inside, the place is a warren of offices and cubbies. Maddox knows where he’s going and he leads me along. Every room we pass is staffed by a person with a razor sharp haircut, wearing a uniform. We pass a break room filled with ten guys who could all be Maddox’ clones.

They’re all built. They’re all squared away. They’re all physically perfect. And they all have that same look in their eye, like they’ve been there, done that, blown it up, killed it, eaten it, and come home for the 4x4 at In-N-Out Burger – with a chocolate shake.

I feel their eyes on me. They look hungry.

“Look straight ahead.” Maddox coaches me. “Keep your eyes down and stay with me.”

His hand is on my elbow, pushing me forward into the labyrinth of offices. After a few turns and twists that I could never map my way out of, we pause at a glass door bearing a neat plastic sign that reads “Lieutenant Salvatore.”

Maddox puts his hand on the door handle and opens it. A young man at a desk, occupied behind a laptop computer, looks up.

“Is Lieutenant Salvatore around?” Maddox asks.

“Who’s asking?” The young man inquires.

“Maddox Bryant. He’s expecting me.”

“Get the fuck out!” I hear a booming voice call from the next room. In a second a man who isn’t a whole lot older than Maddox appears from the threshold beyond. “God damn Bryant. You made it. I thought you were full of shit.”

Maddox and this man share a fleeting bear hug, then the man’s eyes settle on me.

“You were not kidding,” he says, sizing me up. “Alright. I’ll do my part to protect and defend the lovely off-spring of shit-head politicians, at least when they look as good as this one.”

He hands Maddox two keys, then he looks straight at me. “I’m not a big fan of your mother’s politics,” he says. “But they don’t pay me to be partisan. Like Bryant here, I just do what I’m told.” He gives me a small wink. It would be creepy, but I can tell by his demeanor that he’s just screwing with Maddox. He’s not really flirting at all.

He turns back to Maddox. “You know the drill. Leave it as you found it – or better. And don’t do anything that makes the neighbors complain. I had Rosa stock the fridge with the basics so you shouldn’t have to go back out for anything tonight. Oh – and don’t wreck my truck.”

“Got it.” Maddox said. “I appreciate it, boss. I can’t tell you…”

“Fuck that.” Salvatore said. “Sign back on for another tour. That’s how you show your appreciation.”

Salvatore turns to me again, this time he’s serious. “You have no idea what an outstanding catch you have here, do you? I’d give my eye teeth to have this guy back with my team. He’s a damn fine soldier. You better treat him well. He deserves it. He’s one of the best damn Marines this team ever turned out.”

He was living in a truck when the Marines got its hooks in him. He was homeless. Almost. He never planned on joining up. How could he be the best?

I nod. “Yeah.” I reply weakly. What do you say to that?

“With all due respect, Lieutenant,” Maddox says, almost glaring, “Shut the fuck up. She doesn’t care about any of that. And I need to get her tucked in and report back to her parents. It’s been a long day.”

Salvatore grins. “Yeah. Yeah. Whatever. You’re on the clock. I know. When all this blows over and you get a couple days off, come visit. We’ll blow off some steam with the old crew.”

Maddox leaves the keys to my SUV with Salvatore and we transfer our bags and gear to a shiny, black, late model pick-up truck with over-sized tires and raised pipes. It’s got dark tinted glass and a couple of bumper stickers plastered on the tailgate advertising the fact that its owner has opinions on constitutional issues above his pay-grade. I cringe at the idea of being seen riding in this thing.

Maddox turns the key and the big diesel engine roars to life, rumbling like a freight train.

We leave the base the same way we came in, then cut across town heading south.

“Where are we going?” I ask, knowing there’s not much left of the United States beyond this. We’re damn near at the Mexican border.

“You’ll see,” he says, barely concealing a self-satisfied grin.

We drive, following the concrete coastline, paved on both sides of the boulevard with government installations and monthly rental storage units. Typical fare for a military base community. The town slips away behind us and the water closes in until we’re speeding along a causeway with the ocean on the west side and a glassy blue sound on the east. It would be beautiful except the dunes to the right are laced by row after row of tire slashing barricades and marked with huge, scarlet colored signs that read “Danger. U.S. Government Facility. Hazardous Area. No Trespassing.”

“Maddox. Where are we going?” I ask again.

“You’ll see,” he says.

He keeps driving. Before I realize it we’re back in the city again, surrounded by paved Southern California strip mall degeneration. Maddox hangs a right at a Sushi restaurant without signaling, dropping us into a residential area. He turns west and keeps going until the end of the continent forces a hard left turn along a narrow beach road crowded with expensive looking ocean-front houses, hotels, and condos. The palm tree landscaping screams resort community, while the courtyard walls around most of the nicer homes suggest something a little more than just snobby exclusivity.

We keep heading south. The land on the east side falls away, surrendered to marshy wetland. The unmistakable scent of muddy tidal flats fills the air. If he’s not taking me to the edge of the universe, I’m pretty sure we’ll be able to see it from there – wherever ‘there’ winds up being.

In just another moment I can actually see the end of the street we’re traveling on. It terminates with a low sand dune that promises more water, dead ahead. The houses in this last block are smaller, older, and far less intimidating than the ones just a mile or so north. I’m not sure why, but I’m a little relieved by that fact.

Maddox drives to the very last structure at the end of the street and pulls into the carport under a nondescript, tan colored house built on stilts.

“Here we are,” he says, smiling. He hands me the key. “Go check it out. I’ll get our things.”

It feels weird letting myself into a strangers house, but when the door falls open onto a wide stairwell leading up into a sunshine flooded room above, I realize I can probably deal with the momentary discomfort. I follow the stairs up into a huge, open air space wrapped in lofting windows and sliding glass doors framing the most remarkable view of the Pacific Ocean I’ve seen in a long, long time. The beach in front of the house is wide and pristine, and the water is so blue it doesn’t seem real. The house itself is much larger than it appears from the street, and its interior – all bleached woodwork, exposed beams, and high, angled ceilings – is far from the grubby old cottage I anticipated.

“Pretty cool. Huh?” Maddox asks, hauling our bags in behind me.

He drops them on the floor and walks all the way to the front of the main room toward a wide bank of sliding doors. He opens one, then another, filling the space at once with fresh salt air billowing in from the ocean beyond. The sound of waves crashing outside draws me forward. I step up beside him and try to process the scene.

There’s another house, very much like this one, next door on the north side. To the south there’s nothing but wide open, wild beach. The sand and dunes just go on and on, disappearing in a haze over the horizon. There’s not a soul out there. It’s difficult to imagine a place like this, perched right on the edge of the world, even exists, much less that I’m in it.

“Yeah. It’s pretty cool.” I agree. I could stay here forever, but I don’t give that away.

“You explore the place,” he says, “I’m going to make a phone call. Then we’ll chill out. I’m bushed from driving. I need to take a load off.”

A few moments later I hear Maddox on the phone with my father. It’s not a conversation I want to be part of or even think about, so I walk out onto the wide deck wrapping the front of the house. The view is miraculous and the air is alive with warm ocean breezes. Beyond the crashing breakers, the sea is as flat and as peaceful as a dream, with little ripples on its surface catching red and orange hues of the sun creeping toward its depths.

Thinking about Maddox and my stalker, my mother and her plans for me, I want to run toward those smashing waves and pour myself into them, maybe swim west until I can’t see the shore. But that would be a waste of a few perfectly blissful days alone with Maddox, pretending my real life doesn’t exist.

Maybe for just a few days I can pretend.

I hear the sliding door open behind me. Maddox steps up and without speaking, slips his arms around me, pulling me back into his broad chest. I let myself relax in his embrace. I’m so tired, so sick of fighting with myself and the world. It’s easy to just give in to this moment and let him hold me. It feels right, even though there are so many reasons I know it can’t really be.

“I tried to take you to Mexico once upon a time.” He half-whispers in my ear, nuzzling my neck. “Mexico is just a mile down that beach. We can probably walk there before dark. I promised you I’d get you there. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to keep that promise.”

I rest my hand on his forearm, stroking it, feeling the tight sinew of muscle under his warm skin.

“It’s okay,” I say. “This is close enough. This is perfect.”

It feels perfect, but I know there’s no such thing.

Chapter 16

Maddox

I think I’ve always been a morning person, but the Marines stamped that character trait firmly into my DNA. Avery is not a morning person. Not by a long shot. Which is fine, because while she sleeps in, I get in a run and a work out, and am still done in plenty of time to put on coffee and start breakfast. It’s nice waking her up, all grumbling and pissy, her hair all messed up; then I hand her a cup of steaming hot coffee before she can tell me to ‘fuck off’.

The last several days feel nothing like bodyguard duty and everything like boyfriend duty, and I like it. I probably like it way too much. I don’t know what Avery thinks about it. I’m afraid to ask. But so far she hasn’t complained about much, which is an improvement over how things were between us in San Francisco. The distance between her and her mother has – I think – been good for her. I know it’s been good for me. It’s allowed me to see things a little more clearly.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

I’m finishing my last cup of coffee and checking my email and text messages when Avery walks down the stairs toward me. She wearing her little bikini and one of my shirts over it. The damn thing swallows her whole. She’s got on the big floppy hat I bought for her to protect that milky white skin, with a couple towels tucked under her arm. She’s gotten a pretty good tan over the last couple of days, but it’s taken copious amounts of sunscreen to keep her from frying. That’s okay too. I like smearing it all over her, rubbing it in. Any excuse to lay hands on her.

“Got your sunscreen?” I ask, putting my phone down.

She lifts the t-shirt, revealing the bottle tucked in the waistband of her tiny little thread of a bikini. Now she’s just teasing me.

“Alright,” I say. “Let’s take a walk.”

As much as she wants to act like it sometimes, Avery isn’t really beach-bunny material. She’ll go in to the breakers knee-deep, but beyond that she freaks out. She’s a Northern Californian—cold water and cold mornings, even in the summertime. Rocks. No sand. Nothing like here. I was a kid up there, but I grew up – really grew up – right here. Guys from the Midwest and east coast said the water was cold, but it was warm to me. I loved freezing my ass off hauling telephone poles around in the surf while the drill instructors barked orders at us. It was a game and I played it like I was having a blast.

I try to pull Avery out into the surf but she’s screaming and having none of it, splashing me and trying to run against the sucking tide of outgoing waves. She’d drown in about thirty seconds out here on her own. It’s a good thing she has me around.

I let her go to the shore while I back-stroke out past the low breakers, into the rising and falling roll of incoming waves. Out here in the deep water, everything is quiet. You feel insignificant and absolutely weightless. The feel of the water lifting you up and then dropping you low so you can’t see the shore anymore – only the blue sky above – reminds you just how precarious everything is; that your sense of security is all about perspective. At the crest of the roll you can hear the surf roar and the shoreline is close, but at the bottom of the trough, you’re inside a wall of water with no way out, and no sense of direction.

I’ve been at the bottom of the trough since I left the Marines, but I think the water is starting to pick me up so I can see my way forward again.

I swim back to shore and catch up with Avery, who’s given up on me and walked ahead. I throw a wet arm around her, drenching her with water, making her laugh like a kid.

“You’re a show-off,” she says, but she’s smiling. “And I’m just glad there’s no one else here to see you.”

We walk a long way down the beach, far from the houses and the very few people sunning themselves up shore. The island curves a bit toward the end where the Tijuana river spills into the Pacific, creating a shallow, brackish inlet. Once around the little bend we lose sight of the houses to the north. It’s here, against the low dunes, that Avery decides to lay down her beach towel, shed her bikini top, and expose the incredibly pale, fair skin of her lovely breasts to the mid-morning sun.

“That is not a good idea.” I warn her.

“Lotion me.” She instructs, handing me the bottle, stretching out, face up on the over-sized beach towel.

“Yes ma’am.”

Two can play this game. I peel off my swim trunks, then straddle her, grease up my palms with lotion, and begin rubbing the coconut smelling stuff into her supple skin with my palms. I tweak her nipples just to get a rise out of her – which works. I finish slathering her with sunscreen, then I lather myself up, smearing it onto my bare ass cheeks first, then my cock – stroking it on until I’m rock hard. Avery watches me do this; her nipples stiffen and perk up right before my eyes.

“You like that?” I ask.

She nods. She’s got that amused, distracted expression again. I’ve gotten used to it, and I know exactly what it means.

I climb over her, blocking the sun. I take off her sunglasses and shove back the floppy hat, and then I kiss her, parting her lips with my tongue, sucking her into me, nibbling her lip – while dragging my cock along her belly – letting her feel the potential of me inside her, taking her right here, out in the wide open, in broad daylight.

“You’re brave.” She giggles between kisses. “And very bad.”

I grin at her and pull back just a little so she can see my eyes clearly. “You want to?” I ask her. “Or do you just want to sun bathe?”

She bites her lip and reaches down, taking me into her hand, stroking me enough to make my eyes close and my jaw clench from the intense pleasure of her attention.

“I think I’d like to be very bad,” she whispers.

“Yes ma’am,” I say, and sit up just long enough to get a grip on the hip of her bikini bottom, stripping it off with one quick yank.

I glide a finger into her slit and find her already wet. I think she must have planned this. She’s anticipating me.

I use my knees to spread her legs and let my cock contact her clit, riding it along the surface of her slick folds while I kiss and bite her sunscreen lubricated breasts. My body slides on hers without friction, but with plenty of heat. Avery finds my mouth and kisses me hard, then says, “Inside me… please…”

I push up off her and she reaches down, guiding me in with precision. I plunge into her smoldering, liquid heat, with her hips arching up aggressively to meet me. It’s like being lost in the trough all over again, my head swimming, no clue which end is up, just rolling with the motion. It’s perfection, and I’ll never get used to it.

Avery wraps her legs around my hips, hooking her ankles so she can rock in, meeting my thrusts. The way our bodies meet, the way we mold together and fit, the way we seem to anticipate one another – it’s exquisite. She feels made for me.

And as I feel the muscles between her legs that grip me so firmly start to tighten and twitch, I have to believe that she must feel something close to the same way I do.

“Oh, fuck me, Maddox.” She whines, her fingers clutching hard into my shoulders, her hips rocking into my punching rhythm. She’s tight, so incredibly tight. I have to hold back, focus my mind elsewhere to keep from coming. I try to maintain that balance, bringing her closer and closer to the edge.

I do what she asks, holding a steady rhythm, going deep, then pulling back slowly, until she comes shuddering around my cock like a landslide, crying out with each wave that trembles her body. As her tremors subside and she starts to laugh with pleasure, I drive in harder, picking up speed. I don’t want to make this last. I want to feel the intensity of a quick, un-postponed orgasm, achieved on a beach in the bright light of day, given to me by the women I’ve worshiped since I was a kid.

It comes fast and hard, and it renders me defenseless. I buck into Avery with everything I have, growling into her ear, gripping her shoulders tight as I go, letting it just own me. When I’m done, I just slump, slack over Avery, my semi-hard dick still inside her, her muscles still quaking a little.

“That was intense.” She whispers in my ear, her fingers dancing in my hair gently. She sounds breathless, and I can’t breath hard enough to get air to my brain.

I push myself up and pull out of her slowly, then roll to her side on the towel. We’re both covered in sand that’s stuck to the sunscreen and the moist bits and sweaty spots we’ve worked up.

Avery turns over, tits down, and folds her arms under her head.

“Lotion me,” she instructs me again.

I smear the stuff from her elbows, across her beautiful, square shoulders, down her back, rubbing it into her sweet bare ass, all the way down her firm thighs and calves to the bottoms of her feet and toes – enjoying every second of the labor.

By the time I’m done she’s snoozing in the sun as sweetly as a newborn. I settle down beside her, propped on my elbow, and just watch her breath. When she’s sleeping like this, her face loses all the tension that sometimes darkens the natural beauty of her features. She looks so young, just like she did when we were kids planning our great adventure. In a few more moments her eyelids flutter and I think she must be dreaming. I hope it’s about me.

I hope she’s dreaming about me.

I really am in love with her and there’s no denying it. I can dance around it, leave it unspoken, but it’s real. If I don’t try to make it work this time, I’ll never get another chance. When all is said and done, I have nothing at all to lose. The job is only about money, and I can earn money. I can’t find another Avery Thomas.

* * *

I hold the phone out, my finger on the mute button. “Your mother wants to speak to you. Do not tell her where we are.”

Avery looks at me like I’ve just sold her to pirates.

“I don’t want to talk to her.” She insists.

“You have to. Get it over with.” I push the phone toward her and lift the mute.

She rolls her eyes at me but takes the phone.

“Hello, Mother,” she says.

I can’t hear Evelyn Thomas on the other end, but I can see Avery’s expression, her body language shift, and her jaw start to flex. Evelyn speaks a long time before Avery can even get a word in.

“Mother...” She tries.

Another long wait.

“Moth...”

And again. “Evelyn. Dammit, stop talking. Please! No. I am not coming home until the police find this guy and lock him up. He tried to...”

Avery sighs and looks at me, shaking her head.

“We’re down south. I’m not about to tell you where...”

“...because you’d probably have someone come kidnap me and...”

“No. I never asked to be part of your entourage. You conscripted me into that shit and now I have stalkers because you put me out there...”

“Evelyn…”

“Mom…” Her voice cracks on that one, and it almost breaks my heart. Deep down, there’s something inside of Avery that wants Evelyn’s approval, and more than that, her love.

“Dammit,” she shouts into the phone. “Maddox is trying to keep me safe. That’s what you hired him to do. You can accuse me of—”

Avery takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, listening to the ranting insults being hurled at her. When she opens her eyes again, she begins to speak calmly – almost menacingly. She says, “You know what Mother, I’m done with your bullshit too. You can cut me off. You don’t own me and you can’t make me do this. Go fuck yourself. And I hope you lose. I’m voting for your opponent – whoever it is. Hell, I may consult for his campaign.”

She ends the call and almost slams my phone down on the stone counter top.

Avery Thomas stands up to her mother. That was epic.

She’s trembling like a leaf and looks angry enough to kill something. Before the call even ended I was already at the bar, pouring her a drink. I hand it to her. She takes it and downs half the thing in one gulp.

“What the fuck was all that about?” I ask her. “All she said to me was ‘bring Avery home’.”

Avery huffs and meets my eyes. “She wants me to do a last-minute fundraiser day after tomorrow. She said she’d send the plane.” She rolls her eyes up to the ceiling. “And she said she ‘just knew’ we were sleeping together because I can’t keep my legs together and you’re just the kind of trash that would take advantage of a slut like me.”

Now that pisses me off. I’ve never ‘taken advantage’ of any girl. I never would.

I do not understand how a parent – at least a sober one – can be so cruel. I don’t understand how Evelyn can think she owns her daughter’s body, mind, and soul. None of it makes sense to me. I wrap my arms around Avery and pull her close, holding her tight, palming her head in my hand. She just melts into my chest, then I feel the tears falling cool on my shoulder. Her chest heaves. She cries silently in my arms as I hold her.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “I promise. It’s gonna be okay.”

This promise is one I have to figure out how to keep. I have some ideas. I had a Plan A before Mom suggested I give the Thomas’ offer a try. Maybe its time to reconsider everything.

* * *

An hour later, sitting on the deck, watching the most radiant sun set we’ve been blessed with so far, I thread my fingers into Avery’s and pull her hand to my lips. I kiss her fingers one-by-one, gently.

“I want to come clean to your parents,” I say to her. “I want us out in the open, so they know we’re for real and not just some temporary whim. And then I want to start working on a way to get you free from all this bullshit you want no part of. I had some stuff brewing before I took this job. I’m going to look into what I can do...”

“Maddox, you can’t...” She protests

“Oh yeah. I can,” I say. “I can. And I will. As long as you’re in it with me.”

Chapter 17

Avery

Usually Maddox wakes up first. I think he goes downstairs to the gym and works out. I hear the barbells clinking and the sound of him singing along with the tunes on his headphones. Sometimes he goes for a run on the beach. He comes back and gets a quick shower before he heads into the kitchen to start coffee. He thinks I sleep through all of this, but I’m aware of him. I’ve become increasingly aware of everything he does.

He’s ready to make a bold move that could rock his world and impact the fortunes of more than just us. His mom needs him to be steady right now. He’s not seeing that. And he’s not seeing the fact that I really don’t have the means to stand up to my mother. I talk a good game when I’m pissed off – when I’m dreaming – but I have no clue how to support myself. I’m twenty-five years old and I’ve never had a real job. I live in a swanky apartment in a nice neighborhood near school, and I have no idea what the rent is. I drive a Range Rover SUV.

Someone at school told me the thing cost $90,000. I asked if that was a lot.

Maddox thinks he loves me, but he loves the fantasy of a girl he knew a decade ago. He’s better off taking care of his future.

He’s sleeping now. Sleeping. Dreaming. The gray morning light is just starting to stream into our bedroom. I could watch him sleep forever. We have today. That’s it. I’m going home to do Mother’s fund raiser, and I’m going to get with the program in order to save Maddox’s job.

I make the coffee this morning, and I bring a cup to Maddox, waking him gently.

“Hey sleepyhead,” I say. “Got a cup for you.”

He rolls awake, surprised by the turn about. He’s got that early morning, sleepy voice going on. “What’s this?” He asks, bleary. It’s early, even for him.

“Coffee.” I say. “My turn.”

He takes a sip and props himself up in bed.

“You should be snoozing,” he says. “You’re never up this early.”

I nod. “I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been thinking—”

He scowls. “It’s too damn early in the morning for thinking.”

“Just the same, I think I need to go home and deal with Mother. Do what she wants.”

He shakes his head. “No babe… You hate that shit...”

“I do. But I also hate the idea of you blowing your whole world wide open for me. That can’t happen. I’m not that… reliable.”

I see his expression fall.

“You need to keep your job. We’ve known one another a long time, and you know me. I always do what my mother wants. She installed the buttons and she knows how to push them. I need to be at that fundraiser tomorrow. We have today, let’s chill out. I’ll call mother and have her send the plane for me tonight.”

“You don’t have to...”

“I do,” I say.

Maddox expression descends into a bleakness I’ve not seen before. I want him to know I’m doing this for him. He should be happy, but he looks defeated. Nothing I do is right.

“This way you get to keep your job, and we stay friends, and mother gets what she wants.”

“Friends?” Maddox says, his tone wracked. “Friends?”

“Friends,” I say, trying to keep my tone firm. “We’ve been friends a long time. Since we were kids. It’s time I started acing like an adult and worrying about more than just me. I can’t drag you into this fucked-up life I was born into. There’s too much baggage with it. You have your own stuff to handle. I know that now. I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do.”

“Baby, I don’t want you to—”

“It’s what I need to do,” I say. “Don’t fight me on this. I know what I need to do.”

“Avery. Will you just listen to me for one second?” He’s only halfway awake and only partially focused. “I know this has all happened fast, but honestly, I wouldn’t change anything. Yeah – I hauled you down here – but look at what we have… You’re everything that matters to me. You’re…”

“Maddox. Stop.” I interrupt. “We’re friends. We have been a long time, and I’m not going to put your future on the line because of some infatuation – a ‘fixation’ – you’ve been harboring since high school. Even I can see that’s a selfish thing to do.”

“Friends,” he says again. “Okay. We’re ‘friends’. Call your mother. Do it that way. But don’t you think for a second this is what I want. I’m not afraid of Evelyn Thomas. You make me see the possibilities – not the limitations...”

“Maddox, please stop. Think of your job. The house you want, the life you want. Think about your mother. She loves you, and she deserves a decent place to live. And a chance to live longer. Don’t think for a second my parents won’t target her when push comes to shove,” I say, fighting the threat of tears. I want to fall into his arms and tell him everything I feel for him, but I know the outcome of that would be that my mother would ruin any prospect he had going forward. She would destroy him just for spite. “We’re good friends. That’s all. And that’s all it’s ever going to be.”

* * *

I didn’t get to make breakfast for Maddox. He went out for a run and was gone a long time. When he came home he went straight to the shower and then his computer. In the interim, I call my mother from his phone and arrange for my trip home.

“I’ll get your Rover and drive it back,” Maddox says, not looking at me.

My parents show up at the house in the mid-afternoon. Mother is triumphant.

“I’m pleased you’ve seen reason,” she says to me while glaring at Maddox. “At least one of you has intelligence enough to see the real world.

“By the looks of this little bungalow, you two have had quite the getaway. If I didn’t know better, Maddox, I’d think you staged the whole stalker incident to get my daughter alone down here with you so you could...” My mother raises both eyebrows when she says this.

At this implication I see Maddox instantly bow up and move toward her with intent. I step in front of him.

“Calm down,” I say, laying my palm on his chest. “She’s just trying to get a rise out of you. She’s good at that.”

“I want an end to this.” Evelyn Thomas says. “I like the fact that you want to keep Avery safe. But I don’t like that fact that the two of you are… together.” Her expression as she says that last word is fat with revulsion. “I’d like to propose a solution,” she says. “Maddox, I know your mother is doing better since we got her into that trial.”

“And my brother and I are grateful for that,” Maddox says through gritted teeth.

“Yes. Given that he’s out on an oil rig, you’re the one who cares for your mother. That’s correct, isn’t it?”

I watch Maddox’s face. A lesser man might give away exactly how pissed he is, but I see it, just barely, in Maddox’s eyes. “Yes. I am. But you and General Thomas already knew that. What’s your point, Evelyn?”

Maddox is barely keeping his cool.

“‘My point is that we’d love to pay for Nadine’s housing and medical care for the rest of her years. It’s a drop in the bucket for us, but it will make a big difference for her.”

He pauses.

“Maddox —” I take his arm. I hate that my mother is doing this, but the very prospect of it lightens my heart somehow. What if everything could be taken care of for her? Lifted away from Maddox? “Listen to her.”

He ignores me. “With all due respect Ma’am, my mother’s health is none of your goddamn business. And whatever Avery and I have – that’s not your business either. She’s twenty-five years old. You don’t own her and you can’t buy me.”

Once more I put my hand on his chest and press him back.

“Take the money.” I urge him quietly. “Agree to it. Come on.” He meets my eyes, his expression surprised — and then resigned. The reality of his mother having a permanent place to live sinks in as he looks at me.

He looks back at my mother, who just continues to talk like she owns the world. Like she always does.

“And while you remain on the job, I expect you’ll keep her from falling into bed with anyone else. She’s got no self-respect. You need to be her guardian in these things. I can’t have her indiscretions creeping up during the campaign.”

“Of course not,” Maddox says, his eyes locked on mine. “I’ll keep an eye on her and kill anyone who crosses the line.”

“Killing is going too far.” My mother says tersely. “Scaring the daylights out of them is fine.”

My mother surveys the room and looks to me. “Pack a bag, Avery. It’s time to go home. The jet is waiting.”

She looks to Maddox. “We’ll see you when you get back. You’ll need to escort Avery to the event tomorrow evening so make sure you’re both on time. I’m glad we were able to come to an agreement.” She pauses. “Money always works, doesn’t it?”

My heart sinks, and my mother walks out of the room, head held high.

“Is this really what you want?” He asks me.

“It’s what has to happen,” I reply.

But the feeling in the pit of my stomach when I walk away from Maddox gives me pause. I look back at him. He’s watching me, and I see something there I haven’t seen — or felt — in years.

He feels like home.

But still, I turn away.

Things like this can’t last — and Maddox needs money more than he needs someone like me.

Chapter 18

Maddox

I drive through the night to get back to San Francisco in time to see Avery before this surprise fundraiser, but even that plan gets thwarted by Evelyn Thomas. When I knock on Avery’s apartment door at ten in the morning, no one answers. I figure she’s still asleep, so I go downstairs to ask the doorman to let me in. He tells me Avery left with her mother an hour ago.

“I think they were going shopping,” he says.

I call Avery’s phone on the outside chance she’s gotten it back from the cops, and am astonished when her father answers.

“Maddox,” he says, his tone icy.

“You got Avery’s phone back,” I say. “Were the police able to trace the source of the photos and text the guy sent?”

“Don’t concern yourself with it, son,” he quips. “What can I do for you?”

He didn’t give the phone to the police. They probably didn’t even report it at all. What the hell?

“I’m looking for Avery, sir,” I say. “I’m trying to catch up with her before the event tonight.”

“She’s going to be out all day,” her father says. “She’s with her mother and they have plenty of security. Take the rest of the day and relax. Have Avery at the fundraiser by eight sharp and you’ll be doing your job. Just do your job, son.”

“Sir...” I start to say, but the line goes dead. That cowardly son of a bitch hung up on me.

I need to get Avery’s phone.

* * *

I arrive at her apartment at seven, and I’m not at all surprised that she’s not alone. Dan Diamond, a knuckle-head tough on the Senator’s personal detail, is there. He lets me in, looks at his watch, and smirks.

“That little twat is taking her time. She just got in the shower two minutes ago. She’s gonna be late again and—”

“Watch your mouth.” I warn. “She’s Miss Thomas to you.”

He frowns. “She’s a piece of work with a foul mouth and a bad attitude.”

Not much gets past Diamond’s keen powers of observation.

“You’re relieved. I got it from here,” I tell him.

He shakes his head. “I’m supposed to drive with you.” He grins, almost leering. “We’re double teaming her tonight.”

I seriously consider breaking Diamond’s face in response to that remark, but that would interfere with my goal of getting Avery to this fundraiser on time, then back to this apartment – safely and alone – so we can talk.

“You’re a real clever dude, Diamond,” I say. “You keep that shit up, and you’ll be grinning through a jaw wired shut.”

“Touchy, touchy,” he replies, still grinning. “A couple of the guys said they thought you tapped that shit. I couldn’t believe it, but now I do.” He tilts his head to the side knowingly. “Better make an appointment at the clinic soon, son. She might not be like that now, but she dates a few of these other sons of bitches back in the day. She might just be contagious—”

My thumb and fingers clutching his windpipe shut him up. One more pound of pressure and Dan Diamond is history. I slowly walk him backwards while I hang on, explaining to him how it’s going to be.

“You’re not going to say another word,” I tell him as he gasps for air, clutching impotently at my hand. “You’re going to keep your eyes down, off Miss Thomas, and off me. You’re going to speak only when you’re spoken to and limit your responses to yes sir and no sir. And once we get to the hotel, you’re going to vanish.” I tighten my thumb just a little for emphasis. “Am I understood?”

He struggles to nod ‘yes’ without cracking his windpipe against my grip.

“Good boy.” I release him with a shove and a threatening glare. I’ m pleased to see that he’s got at least enough sense of self preservation to tuck tail, drop his eyes, and go sit down in the living room – instead of making me really hurt him.

Twenty minutes later, Avery’s bedroom door opens and she appears, dressed and ready to go. I take one look at her, and my heart drops to the floor. Her hair – that gorgeous mane of curling, unruly, scarlet red locks – has been cut and tamed. It’s straightened and styled in a neat bob that just touches the top of her shoulder line. There’s nothing wrong with the style – on someone else – but it’s not Avery.

And that’s not all. She wearing a pant suit. It’s dark patterned gaberdine, conservative, shoulder pads on the jacket, revealing nothing except shining pearl buttons on a stiff blouse, buttoned up to her throat.

For God’s sake, she looks just like a younger, ginger clone of Evelyn Thomas, right down to the low-heeled, closed-toe, patent leather pumps on her feet.

She see’s my expression – I can’t hide it – and she looks away. I’m not sure, but I think I see a fleeting expression of shame color her face before she turns back smiling.

“I’m ready,” she says.

Her words are devoid of emotion. My heart plummets.

* * *

The drive to the Scarlet Huntington Hotel on Nob Hill is accomplished in absolute silence thanks to the unfortunate fact of Dan Diamond’s company with us. I glance in the rear-view a couple of times, but catch Avery’s eye only once. She gives me a weak, resigned smile, then looks away, her eyes focusing on nothing in particular outside the rear passenger window of the Range Rover.

The event is small – it was scheduled on short notice – but the venue is also intimate, which makes it feel more crowded than the last one. Diamond makes himself scarce as soon as we’re boots on the ground, leaving me to escort Avery through a small contingent of press hanging out in the lobby, looking for low-hanging fruit to pick-on. The fundraiser is a private affair – no press allowed – but that never stops them from hovering, looking for opportunities.

“Nice new hairdo, Avery.” A reporter barks, stepping up, camera in hand. “So you’re really joining the campaign? Is that what the new look signifies?”

Avery smiles politely but says nothing. I motion for him to step back and he does. He’s one of the professionals with cable news network television credentials. Later on, the “money shot” guys will start showing up. With them the questions and demands for photos become a lot less appropriate.

Once inside, Avery flips her “on” switch. She begins to move through the room from guest to guest, making small-talk as well as discussing big policy issues with poise and intelligence. She knows exactly who to win over with her attention, her beaming expressions of fascination, hanging on their every word. She knows who to shake hands with, who to hug cheek-to-cheek, and who to take in hand and introduce to her mother.

I slip to the sidelines, watching the room and everyone near Avery. I’m consciously surveying for a familiar face; someone who is paying too much attention to Avery. I don’t see anyone who fits the profile I’ve got in my head. All I see are over-dressed, over-stuffed opportunists, sucking up to Evelyn Thomas while sucking the life out of Avery.

I manage to avoid having to speak with either Evelyn or her husband all night long, but from my position, guarding the wall-paper, I get a pretty good opportunity to observe them both. Evelyn is like Avery in many respects. She works the room and its well-heeled occupants like a professional pickpocket. She winds it out of them in conversation, smiling and laughing at their bad jokes, then finding just the right opportunity, she dips in and secures their support. The people in this room already paid $5000 a head just for the privilege of breathing the same air as Evelyn Thomas, but she uses everything she has in her bag of con-game tricks to convince them it’s their idea to commit to more.

The even more interesting party to watch, however, is General Thomas. He doesn’t concern himself with the country-club donors and small-issue locals. He hangs back by the bar, a drink in his hand, and he lets the big fish swim up to him. By the end of the night he’s got a pocket full of business cards from lawyers and lobbyists, all willing to pay millions for easy access to the senator and her staff.

If Evelyn Thomas is re-elected, those same lobbyists will be the ones writing legislation that she presents before the Senate as her own. Call me cynical, but I just know in my gut that those guys in three thousand dollar suits hanging out with General Thomas don’t work for The Nature Conservancy.

By eleven, at least half the guests have cleared out, and Avery looks flat-out exhausted. She’s a dutiful soldier, however, and she doubles back for a clean-up round with the stragglers. General Thomas has effectively clocked out. He sheds his jacket, rolls his sleeves up, and occupies himself in a low-voiced conversation with a guy who looks like he’s dressed for a night out at the pub rather than this black-tie fête. Neither of them look entirely happy.

I’ve seen the guy before, but I can’t place where.

General Thomas shakes his head at the guy, and I can read his lips when he says, “Absolutely not. It’s over. Done.”

The guy rolls his eyes and nods. “Okay. But I still get...”

Someone walks past him and I miss the last bit. Something about the guy and the way Thomas is talking with him feels hinky to me. Instinctively, I lift my camera from my hip pocket, snap a couple generic photos of the room and the crowd, then focus a tight shot on the guy’s face before snapping a few more randomly. All very nonchalant — I’m a trained professional, after all. Luckily, no one notices my sudden, out-of-character interest in the evening’s proceedings.

I could say I trust General Thomas because he’s a Marine. But that would be a damn lie. He’s become Evelyn’s right-hand man since retiring, and there’s no lengths he wouldn’t go to get his way.

I know that all too well.

A few moment’s later I see Avery turn slightly away from a walrus-toothed, tuxedo-clad man who’s gripping her hand like he might propose. She scans the room. I step away from the wallpaper and catch her eye in seconds. She nods to me, her quick glance requests my assistance in extracting her from her current companion. I’m happy to accommodate.

I step up behind Avery and touch her elbow, saying. “Miss Thomas, whenever you’re ready I can have the car brought up. You said we needed to leave by 11:45.”

She gives me a polite, slightly dismissive smile for the benefit of the man who won’t let go of her hand, and says, “Yes. Do that Maddox.” Then she returns to her admirer, all warm and glowing deference. “I’m so sorry, I have a midnight call – Tokyo – the time difference is brutal.”

I leave Avery to make her excuses while I drop the parking ticket at the valet desk. As I’m heading back into the ballroom, the casually dressed guy who was talking with General Thomas passes me, glancing up, then he quickly drops his eyes. He is familiar, and ducking his eyes like that confirms that he knows me too. I wish I’d had the presence of mind to take a crowd shot at the last fundraiser, just to see if I can place him near Avery that night.

Maybe there’s security footage? I make a mental note to call the Fairmont tomorrow.

Once inside I spot Avery with her mother. I keep a respectful distance, but I make sure Avery sees that I’ve returned. A few moments later, after brushing past a determined gauntlet of paparazzi camped outside the hotel’s main entrance, we’re tucked inside the Rover, windows down, taking in the unseasonably warm evening air, speeding away from the hotel on mostly deserted streets.

“Thank you for that rescue,” Avery says, her voice slightly horse, thin with fatigue.

“My pleasure.” I reply. “You okay?”

She nods, then sighs, gazing out the window. She seems sad.

“Can we talk?” I ask her.

She sighs again, her padded shoulders slumping. “Maddox, I’m so tired. Can we just let it be for right now?”

I have waited all day for this ten minute window to be alone with her. I haven’t slept. I’m walking on eggshells whenever I’m around her, and she wants to ‘just let it be.’ No fucking way. I pull the SUV over, coasting into a street side parking space in front of a clothing shop.

“Okay,” I say, focusing intently on my hands in my lap so I can’t see her expression. “I’ll talk. You listen.”

“Maddox, please...”

“Just shut up and listen and then I’ll take you home,” I say firmly. “I don’t want to take your parents’ money, but I also don’t want to quit this job while you’re stuck in this Stepford Daughter role. You’ve decided to play along with your folks and do your ‘duty’. I can do the same thing. I can stay, and maybe even help to keep some space between you and your mother. Help them have more reasonable expectations. I’ll never believe for a second that you want to put yourself out there like a piece of meat to lure those people onto your mother’s hook, any more than you’ll convince me your new ‘look’ was your idea. It isn’t who you are. I don’t think it’ll last.

“And I’ll never be the obedient little errand boy they seem to think they can convince me to become, if they just throw enough money at me. Your parents can’t tell me who to sleep with, or who to…”

“Maddox...”

“No, I’m not done...”

“Maddox!”

I look up. There’s a car in front of us and three guys with camera’s fanning out around the Rover, snapping photographs as they move.

Fucking hell. Stalkerazzi scum. I hit the buttons on the door to raise the windows, then I step out of the vehicle, feeling a crushing burst of adrenaline pumping through my system, sharpening my focus, making my fists clench.

“Maddox, please keep your cool! Don’t get yourself arrested! They’re not worth it!”

I slam the Rover’s door closed and run down the nearest guy, wrenching the camera out of his hand. I want to smash it over his skull, but I hear Avery’s words in my head. Instead I find the slot for the memory card. I pop it out and snap it into pieces between my thumb and forefinger, then shove the camera back at its owner with a warning.

“You should fuck the hell off. The lady’s off the clock.”

The guy looks at the destroyed card lying shredded at my feet, then at me. “I had some thousand dollar shots on that. God damn...”

“Yeah, well, you can’t spend it six feet under. Next time I won’t worry about fucking up the memory card. It’ll be your fucking face.”

He turns and starts to walk away, then he turns back. “Fuck you Bryant. You and your uptown, snotty girlfriend. Everybody knows you’re doing her. We’re just trying to get pictures to prove it. It’s only a matter of time.”

“It’s only a matter of time before I break your fucking neck.” I growl. I step toward him, which sends him and his buddies scurrying back to their car like startled rabbits. They speed off, taking photos of me as they depart.

I go back to the Range Rover and climb in. Avery is sitting up, wide-eyed. She’s looking at me like I just slayed a dragon.

“That was really brave,” she says.

I shake my head. “No. That wasn’t brave. That was just me making empty threats at a piss-ant little shit who needs to find a better way to earn a living.”

I put the Rover into gear and pull off. “We’ll finish our conversation at your place.”

Once in her apartment, I take off my tie – which is strangling me – and shed my coat. I shrug off my shoulder rig and hang it on the back of a kitchen chair while Avery disappears into her bedroom to get out of that ridiculous outfit.

When she emerges, she’s a lot closer to her old self, wearing worn jeans with holes at the knees and a City Lights t-shirt that looks older than she is. She fetches two beers from the fridge, opens them, hands me one, and then plops herself down on the couch, tucking her feet under her hips.

“You want to talk,” she says. “So talk.”

I take a seat across from her. I try to find the words. It’s more difficult than it should be, and I still don’t understand her decision.

“Can you explain why you decided to fall in line with your mother’s demands now? After all this time of trying so hard to be a thorn in her side? Why you’ve just folded?”

She gives me a sad smile. “Because you mean a lot to me. We’ve been friends forever. And I know you had to leave the service to help with your mother. You need to start over – again. I don’t want to screw that up for you.”

“Avery, you’re not screwing anything up. I can get by...”

“Yeah. I know.” She teases, interrupting. “You can ‘get by’. Your idea of living life is pretty meager. You always have been a bit low on the expectations side, but my parents can pretty much destroy any prospects you might have. I’m the reason you were forced into the service in the first place. I know you didn’t want to go. I’m not going to be the reason your entire life gets ruined.”

Her logic is so flawed that it’s difficult sometimes to rationalize it against all the expensive education she’s had.

“The Marines was the best thing that ever happened to me.” I tell her. “Except coming back here – to you.”

“Maddox, please...”

“No. I’m not giving you up.”

“We have to stop. You need the job.”

“I’ll agree to stop when you tell me you want me to stop – for you. Not for me, or your parents, or anyone else. That’s the one thing I haven’t heard from you.”

I stand up and move toward her, swiftly slipping over her on the couch, pushing her down. I kiss her lips – gently at first – waiting for her response. She tries not to kiss me back and I feel her hand pressing against my chest, but in just a second her fingers thread behind my neck and her lips rise into mine. Her body heaves up to meet me.

I want her so badly. I want her to be mine and mine alone. I want all those guys who talk trash about her to see her on my arm and know that I’m the one, the only one, that she comes for. I want her parents to see her blissfully happy, and to realize they can no longer control her. I want to see her laugh at insipid ideas about money, or status, or people’s opinions. I want my opinion to be the only one that concerns her.

I lift her t-shirt and bury my face in her slightly sun-burned breasts, kissing them, stretching her nipples between my fingers.

“I’ll take your parent’s money,” I say, lapping and sucking the swollen, tender flesh. “And I’ll play the part. But here – you and I – we do what we want. It’s nobody’s business but ours.”

* * *

Two hours later, laying in the dark with Avery cradled in my arms, she looks up into my eyes.

“I don’t understand how we’re gonna pull this off. I suck at keeping secrets.”

I nod. “Me too, but we will, as long as we have to. Eventually the election will be over, and then – if you want – we’ll come clean. ‘Til then, we’ll stay on the down-low, just to keep everyone happy.”

Everyone but us.

Chapter 19

Avery

“Darling, did you know that the digital memory cards on those expensive cameras professional photographers use cost thirty-thousand dollars?”

Evelyn and I are in a limo, headed back to her office after having spent the most tedious three hours of my life in the company of seventy-odd members of the Sausalito Women’s Club. Mother gave a speech on the topic of local government, promoting the idea of allowing the locals to determine the shape and character of their community, rather than having to cater to big-government mandates like providing public schools, public transportation, or equal access to housing. They ate her up like crème brulée, and came back for seconds. They couldn’t write checks fast enough.

“I thought memory cards were pretty cheap,” I say, knowing exactly where she’s going with this.

“In fact, they’re not,” she says. “I know this because my attorney informed me this morning we paid that amount of money to some online publication called TMZ in compensation for the destruction of a memory card – the destruction allegedly done by one Maddox Bryant.”

I say nothing.

“He’s a very expensive lap dog.” Evelyn observes. “And I suspect he’s prone to nip on occasion. See if you can keep him on a leash. And, as I’m thinking of it, let me remind you again that we are living under a microscope. It’s wonderful that outlets like these TMZ people are so willing to settle and keep their mouths shut. CNN would not be nearly as easy to manage. The scrutiny is only going to become more intense. You – and your lap dog – need to mind yourselves. The press is trying to find anything – anything at all – to pin to us. We need to be beyond reproach.”

I’m silent as she prattles on.

“You know, maybe we just need to let him go. I believe the two of you have been far too involved with each other. That is a breach of his contract, but your father says he trusts Maddox since we’re able to do so much for Nadine. Now, I love Nadine, but — she doesn’t have so long to live anyway.”

“We’re not involved,” I say. “Not at all.”

“That’s good to hear, Avery. He’s just not good enough for you.”

I listen to her keep on, because I have to. Because there’s nowhere else to go.

* * *

Maddox meets me at home after I get back from Sausalito. He’s been a little distracted over the last several days – something is weighing on him – but I haven’t had much time to pry hard into what’s going on, and right now is not the time. It’s the first evening I’ve had free in weeks. My best friend Ella and I are getting together for dinner and drinks. Its the first non-Stepford Daughter thing I’ve done socially in what feels like forever.

Maddox is driving us to the restaurant, but he’s being the ‘good bodyguard’ since the night of that last-minute fundraiser. In public he plays the part of the disinterested employee just doing his job. When we get home it’s another story. So far no one is the wiser, but tonight I need to confess to somebody, and Ella is (aside from Maddox) my oldest and dearest friend. Plus she’s female, and I need a woman’s perspective on all of this.

“I absolutely detest your hair,” Ella says as soon as we sit down. “I saw you on TV the other day and I screamed. You probably heard me.”

I touch the chemically straightened, blow dried style, and I cringe. “I know.” I reply, screwing up my face. “Not my idea.”

Ella shakes her head at me. “Girlfriend, what the hell are you doing? I know your politics. I know you! And you’re on the road, selling that snake oil? Please.”

“I have no choice,” I say, lamely attempting to defend myself. “But I don’t want to talk about my mother. I have other… issues.”

Ella’s eyes narrow. “Dish.”

A second later a deliciously handsome waiter with piercing green eyes arrives at our table and tells us about the specials. I can’t help but grin as he turns, wagging a very nice ass, departing after he’s taken our order.

“Gay.” Ella states. “He’s wearing colored contacts. I know about these things. Now dish.”

I take a deep breath and then I tell her almost everything, beginning with the threatening text and photos, and the ‘safe house’ get away to San Diego, the private beach, and ending with Maddox and I having a secret, incredibly hot, relationship right under my mother’s nose, while she’s paying him to keep me from fucking around.

Ella listens to all of it, taking in every detail. When I finally stop talking she gives me that enigmatic smile she reserves for dumb frat boys who try to catcall her. Then she glances over to the bar where Maddox is sitting by himself with a steaming plate of high-protein something and a glass of iced tea.

“How long have you known this dude?” She asks me.

I shrug. “Since high school. Before that, I guess. We hung out as little kids, and then I really got to know him that last year of high school after he had to drop out of community college.”

“Yeah.” Ella replies. She glances at Maddox again, then back. “Girl, I may only be an art major, but I was not born yesterday. I’ve known you since you started hanging out with him, and I’ve never seen you with a guy like that one. And I’ve never seen that look in your eye.”

“We’re just fucking around,” I say, lying. I feel the color coming to my cheeks. “It was a high school crush. We’re just…. feeling it out.”

“My ass,” Ella says, rolling her eyes. “Why don’t ya’ll just tell Evelyn to go get fucked? It’s obvious you care about him. Take a damn risk Avery.”

Oh no. Not Ella too?

“I can’t,” I mumble. I try to think. “Maddox’s mom is sick. He needs this job. If Evelyn finds out we’ve kept on with this, they’ll fire him. He won’t get his money. I can’t let that….”

“Oh good Lord, Avery Thomas. Your family doesn’t rule the whole world – not yet anyway. Tall Dark and Dangerous over there looks like he can take care of himself just fine. If he’s sticking around through all this BS your mother’s thrown his way, then he’s every bit as into you as you are into him. You’re just like your damn mother. You want to control everything and everyone. But sweetheart, you can’t control who you fall in love with. That shit just happens – or not.”

“She won’t let us be together. Not for real. She hates him,” I say. “Evelyn will never stop. Now it’s the Senate. But she may run for President. No matter what, I’ll always be the daughter who has to step up...”

“No,” Ella says. “One day you’ll be the daughter who say’s ‘Screw that. I deserve a life too.’ You need to do that sooner rather than later.”

“And if I do that, they destroy him, and any future opportunities he might have. They can have people blacklisted. You know how that works.”

“I know how it works,” Ella says. “And I know that good people always find a way ahead. If your boy Maddox is good people, he’ll find his way. He’ll do it a whole lot easier if you’re with him.”

I hear what she’s saying, and on some level I believe what she’s telling me is the truth. Ella loves me and she always tells me the truth. I owe her the same.

“Look. I’ve been putting my thumb in Evelyn’s eye since I was thirteen years old, but this is different. I never cared what she might do to me, or to any guy I showed up with. But Maddox is different. I’d rather cut out my own heart than hurt him anymore. My family has screwed with him since he was nineteen years old. I can’t let them screw up his life anymore.”

Our meals arrive, and they look delicious, but suddenly I feel a little nauseous. All this honesty must be a serious shock to my system.

“They can try to screw up his life,” Ella says, digging into her pork primavera, “Or you can just fuck it up completely by breaking his heart – and yours – at the same time.”

* * *

“I like Ella.” Maddox offers as we drive toward home. “I never knew her much back then, but I like her.”

“She likes you too,” I say. “And she’s never had much use for any guy I’ve liked, so that’s saying something.”

“Did you… Did you tell her about us?” He asks, halfway turning to me while keeping one eye on the road.

I nod. “I told her everything. And then some.”

Maddox gets that look, like I’ve done something wrong. He says, “Avery. We’re walking a tightrope here. No one can know.”

“I trust her with my life.”

He just shakes his head. “Okay,” he says. “It’s your ball game. Your parents. Your mother. I’m willing to take on whatever comes. We’re playing it this way because you want to. So... okay.”

I wonder if he really would be willing to ditch his six figure job and just leave with me.

“Ah, look at this. The stalkerazzi are back,” Maddox says, driving slowly past the main entrance of my apartment building. There are three guys with cameras on the sidewalk, obviously awaiting some grand entrance. “I’ll park in the public lot in the next block. We’re gonna have to go through them. I’m sorry.”

Once the Rover is parked, we head toward the building along the sidewalk. Fifty feet from the front door, the photographers clue in to the fact that I’m heading right toward them. Maddox is beside me, his arm around me, but as they crowd in, I feel exposed.

“Is your mother setting herself up for a presidential run in four years?” one asks.

“Is your mother really supporting the abolition of community-funded schools, Miss Thomas?” Another one calls out.

“Do you think North Korea will actually follow through on its threat to target Southern California with a nuclear weapon in the next four years?” A third shouts at me as Maddox hustles me up the steps.

He shoves them all back. “Guys. Give miss Thomas some space. She doesn’t speak for her mother. Let her through.”

“Hey Maddox. Is it true you and Miss Thomas are a couple? You’ve been seen leaving her place pretty late recently.” The first reporter asks. “How does her mother feel about that? I heard you two don’t get on so well.”

I am almost too terrified to look up, but when I do, I see Maddox rolling his eyes at the man.

“You guys really need to find some real news.” He said. “That’s pathetic.”

He rushes me up the stairs and inside the lobby of my apartment building without any more drama.

“Sorry about that,” he says, punching the button for the elevator. “Guess I need to be more discreet.”

When the elevator arrives, we step inside. As soon as the doors close, I step up on my tip toes and kiss Maddox on the cheek. He looks surprised, and then even more so when I say, “Thank you for taking such good care of me.”

Technically, we’re still in public, so he doesn’t reciprocate. He just meets my eyes and says, “Always, Miss Thomas. Always.”

* * *

The way Maddox touches me when we’re alone, makes my body feel like it was designed to respond to him – and him alone. Earlier this evening with Ella, I was feeling a bit ill, but as soon as Maddox pulls me into his chest and wraps his arms around me, I feel electricity surge through me, waking me up, pushing all the negativity away. His mouth on mine, kissing me, tastes likes like iced tea and cherries, and little bit of salty sweat. I drink him in, wrapping my arms around his neck.

He pulls away, a boyish smile on his face, looking down into my eyes. He looks like he wants to say something, but he remains quiet.

“What?” I ask, threading my fingers through his short chestnut hair.

He shakes his head. “Nothing.” Then he dips down and lifts me up into his arms like I’m weightless, and hauls me into the bedroom.

He takes his time teasing me, as he undresses me, layer by layer. His kisses and bites are strategically placed and timed to elicit just enough pain and pleasure to build my anticipation. His tongue has a way of finding my most sensitive spots – like behind my knees and that odd dimple at the base of my spine. He licks and nips the tender flesh of my inner thighs, making my clit swell and my pussy ache for him.

“You’re dripping wet.” He observes. “Let me take care of that.” And then he moves in between my legs, slurping gently, caressing my clit between his tongue and lips, circling and sucking just so. I feel his fingers enter me, but that’s not enough. I want more.

“Oh, Maddox. Please… inside me… I want you.” I beg him, almost whining.

“Come for me this way first.” He demands, thrusting his fingers into me.

His whiskers scrape my inner thighs deliciously, and his teeth scrape my clit while he continues to suck and lap. I take his head between my hands and pull him in closer, pressing his face into my snatch while I rock with the rhythm of his finger thrusts.

It doesn’t take much of this before I feel the heat start to build, drawing down deep in my belly like a coiling electric current looking for an outlet. He shoves his fingers inside me and then slowly, almost cruelly draws them out, repeating the motion over and over again while his tongue plays my clit. The first rippling shudder of my rising orgasm grips his fingers tight. My hands grip his head tighter. I buck into his face, rocking with every wave of pleasure that rolls out of my pussy, rocketing through my body, making me cry out, completely dumbstruck by the sensation.

When it subsides I start giggling, just like I always do. I can’t help it. It just happens, like the hiccups. My head rolls back and my glazed eyes can’t focus. I laugh.

“Good girl,” Maddox says, rising, wiping the glistening moisture away from his face, licking his lips and fingers. He wraps his hands around my ankles and pulls me down the bed. His fingers trace the contours of my nakedness, while I reach down to his waist and undo his slacks, pushing them down, off his hips.

“Inside me.” I insist, running my fingers over the tight bulge trapped behind the cloth of his jeans.

Maddox takes a breath and sits up on his heels just long enough to strip, kicking his slacks and underwear to the side. He grips himself in his right hand, stroking firmly. I’m tempted to help him with that, but before I can suggest it, he shoves my knees far apart and plunges himself into me without hesitating.

I cry out. He fills me up swiftly, his cock so hard and so big inside me, it almost hurts.

“You okay?” Maddox asks breathless, his eyes on mine, rocking into me. His expression is a cross of absolutely bliss and pausing concern.

I love the way he hangs over me so we can see one another, the way his shoulders and arms flex and expand with the effort of it. I love the way he punches into me hard, then pulls out slow, forcing me to feel every inch of him as he withdraws.

I nod, ‘yes’. I can’t speak. His dick inside me and our belly’s locked together down to the hip has me distracted to blissful oblivion. All I ever wanted in my whole life was to feel this with someone who felt the same. All I ever wanted was to love and be loved, completely.

“You’re fucking perfect.” Maddox half-groans, punching in deeper, slowing a little. “You feel so good.”

I feel his breath catch and his cock twitch. His jaw clenches hard. I know he’s close. I can see it in his eye, and that just fucking turns me on. I grab his ass and push him into me, wrapping my legs around his ass. That’s all it takes to draw my next wave of shudders forth. I’m grinding into him, my pussy gripping his cock and releasing in spasms.

Maddox stiffens above me, every muscle in his body hardens and then he cries out. He hammers hard as we climax simultaneously, our bodies clashing together in perfect time, then slowly, almost regretfully, coasting to a rest.

When we finally separate, Maddox rolls on his back and pulls me up to his chest, cradling me in the safest embrace I’ve ever known. He kisses the top of my head and smooths my hair lovingly, then he says the one thing I can’t bear to hear,

“If you’d let me, I’d take care of you forever.”

This declaration sends my brain swimming. We could have a future together. We could be happy. Except my parents would do everything in their power to destroy it. And could I ever make him happy? Everything I know about relationships has shown me that heat and passion like Maddox and I have never lasts. It burns up, and if there’s nothing more substantial underpinning it, then it just drifts away like so much smoke after the flame has extinguished.

I try to push these thoughts out of my head. It’s too much. The confusion makes me feel queasy. Part of me just wants to run away from all of this; escape the suffocating demands of my parents, escape from my crushing sense of responsibility toward Maddox. Just run and never look back.

That’s the last thought that crosses my mind before I close my eyes. When I open them again, Maddox is gone, the morning sun is streaming into my room; I’m all alone and the silence of my apartment is deafening.

I need to get used to it. I need to get used to the idea of being on my own, being an adult, responsible for myself and to myself, alone.

Ella’s cousin is in Vancouver. She’s like an older, wiser version of Ella; a real sage. We stayed with her for two weeks last year when I had to escape Evelyn for a break, and she was just wonderful. She said if I ever wanted to get away from it all, I was welcome back anytime. I can go there and crash long enough to get my head straight and put a plan together.

It’s an idea. Not a great one, but it’s something to think on.

Chapter 20

Maddox

I wake up the morning after the Scarlet Huntington fundraiser with a mission; to see if the Fairmont still has security footage of the Thomas’ event from last week, and to figure out how to get hold of Avery’s cell phone.

I call the Fairmont and explain to the head of security what I’m looking for and why. I’m completely straight with him. I tell him that my principal has a stalker. She’s received death-threats with photos taken in their ballroom, but that the Thomas’ want the matter handled privately to keep it from leaking to the press. He is remarkably cooperative.

“I’ve got everything from every camera in the entire property going back two months,” he says proudly. “Let me have one of my techs pull the digital files from the ballroom for that night. It’ll be a pain to go through all of it, but if you know what you’re looking for, you’re welcome to it. I can upload it to a cloud drive. I’ll send you the link.”

That was easy.

The situation with Avery’s phone poses more of a challenge. I learn after asking Avery it, that while she and her mother were out shopping for power-pantsuits and screwing up Avery’s hair, Evelyn suggested they get a new phone to replace the old one the police were holding for evidence.

I don’t tell Avery I know any different, but the revelation that Evelyn Thomas has lied to her daughter has my alarm bells peeling like a cathedral on Easter morning.

They even changed her phone number. Allegedly – Evelyn tells Avery – so that the stalker can’t harass her anymore, as if that ever worked against any determined stalker.

It occurs to me as I’m puzzling on this problem, that I don’t actually need the physical phone to do a trace. All I need is the number and someone with access to the network, who’s willing to go a little outside the lines of the law for a good cause.

I call one of the only people I’d trust with my life — my lieutenant, Lucas Salvatore.

After exchanging a few pleasantries, I get right to business. “You remember the guy we worked with on the thing in Dubai two years ago? The NSA contractor who helped us with cell phone surveillance and intel?”

“I do.” Salvatore says, a little hedge in his voice. “What’s going on?”

I explain my situation, indicating that I think the stalker might be working inside the Thomas campaign. “There’s a reason they didn’t give the phone to the police,” I say. “They’re trying to cover something up. But the fact that she got hurt, and the guy is still out there, maybe very close by, it’s keeping me up at night.”

“It’s illegal.” Salvatore warns. “I’ll put you in touch with him, but Bryant, guys like him don’t work for free – especially not dark ops.”

“I know,” I say. “I can pay.”

What the hell else am I supposed to use this ridiculous salary for?

“His name is Jones — David Jones. I don’t even know if that’s his real name. I’ll send you his number, but let me call him first to make the introduction. Give it a few days. He’s not the easiest guy to get up with.”

Fair enough. While I wait to hear from Salvatore, I fill my time with the usual work routine — escorting Avery to functions, trying to keep the press at bay, and trying to keep Evelyn Thomas from escalating her demands on Avery’s every waking moment. The last part is difficult, as the woman is the walking, talking, fire-breathing definition of ‘give her an inch, she takes a mile’.

Between all these responsibilities, I steal a few hours here and there to review the security footage from the Fairmont. It takes me several days of studying the video to zero in on the exact angle and time that the photos sent to Avery’s phone were taken. I’m working from memory, so it isn’t easy, but when I finally isolate the scene, I see the answer plain as day.

In the frozen image on my laptop, I see a guy standing just three feet from Avery holding his phone, his finger tapping the screen. The phone is at waist level and close to his body. He’s trying to be discreet. I pull up the scene recorded from the opposite angle and I zoom in.

The face I see is that of the casually dressed guy who was in conversation with General Thomas at the Scarlet Huntington fundraiser. There’s no mistaking him.

Who is he? What’s his connection to the Mr. and Mrs. Thomas? Is he a campaign employee or just a casual acquaintance? Or something else?

Could they actually be involved some way in the assault on Avery? Would they?

* * *

“So here’s how this works.” David Jones – or whatever his actual name is – says to me. “You’re going to give me your laptop’s private IP address, and I’m gonna set up a VPN. That’s the only way you and I will communicate. Once you’re logged on, then we’ll discuss the project and payment. Okay?”

I agree as he talks me through the steps necessary to locate the private IP address he needs. Once he’s got it, he says, “Alright. Don’t freak out. I’m gonna drive for awhile. Just don’t touch anything while I work.”

In the blink of an eye, without really understanding what I’ve done, I’ve just given a perfect stranger – and an acknowledged criminal hacker – complete access to my computer and everything on it. He downloads an application and installs it, then goes to my network settings and makes changes I don’t quite follow. Once he’s done there, he downloads another application and opens a chat window.

David Jones: We’re on. Hang up the phone and tell me what you need.

“Okay,” I say.

“Type it. Don’t say it. Hang up.” He orders tersely.

I swipe to end the call, put the phone down, and begin typing. I try to explain what I’m hoping to find. Mr. “Jones” replies.

David Jones: You understand that anything I find is discovered under an illegal search and can never be used by Law Enforcement?

Client 2934: I understand.

David Jones: What do you intend to do with the info, assuming I find anything?

Client 2934: I dunno yet. Depends on what you find and who it is.

David Jones: Just don’t implicate me if you do any violence. 0006459927 / 32564898. That’s the account and routing number. $5000 and I get to work. When the work is complete, I’ll send you a detailed report with all the cited documents attached. I have access to all the comms networks in the western hemisphere, most of Europe, as well as all the U.S. Federal LE databases, social security, credit reporting agencies, etc. I should be able to send you something useful. Prompt payment is appreciated. I’ll upload everything two weeks after payment is received.

And just that quick, he logs off.

“Damn,” I say right out loud to no one.

I hope this guys isn’t working for the Russians. I expected to pay three times that amount.

* * *

Avery has the stomach flu. It’s been coming on for days and she looks absolutely green — a lovely shade of green, but green nonetheless. I think she’s lost weight too. She throws-up every time she even gets a whiff of food. She can’t keep anything down except saltines and club soda. And yet – here we are at the San Francisco Civic Center in the Graham Auditorium, in a room behind the main stage. She’s waiting for her turn on the podium where she’s scheduled to give a speech on ‘The Essential Contribution of Young Women’s Voices in Emerging Policy Development’. The event is hosted by the League of Women Voters of Northern California – who won’t endorse Evelyn Thomas – but invited her to attend their annual convention just for the ‘fair and balanced’ bonus points.

Thomas’ polling numbers have dropped over the last few weeks as media coverage on the campaign has shifted to focus more on issues and less on personalities and rumors. Because her numbers are down, Evelyn is leaning that much harder on Avery to deliver younger voters — especially young women who might relate to someone like her. Evelyn has the same constituents who voted her into office, but she needs to cast her net wider. She’s using Avery as the bait and the hook.

Right now Avery is looking at Gerard Heath, Evelyn’s campaign manager, with a deer in the headlights expression. On top of being sick, she’s also got stage fright. The event is being televised live via C-Span, live streamed over the net, covered by the major cable news networks, and carried on a dozen major-market NPR stations statewide.

“You look awful.” Heath says. “Good lord Avery, sit down.”

Instead she crouches over a nearby trashcan and dry heaves.

“Avery. This is ridiculous. Let me take you home.” I urge her, slipping one hand around her waist, holding her hair back with the other. “You need to rest, or you’re gonna get really sick.”

“Oh Good Lord, Maddox, stop babying her.” Evelyn Thomas snaps, stepping up behind me. “She’s being overly dramatic – as usual. Avery stand up.”

Avery does as she’s told – with my help. She’s wobbly and I’m angry that she’s expected to perform like a trained money, even when she’s puking her guts up.

“Mrs. Thomas. She barely slept last night. She’s sick. Can’t you see...”

“How do you know how much sleep she got?” She fires back before I can finish my sentence. She looks daggers at me, and I return the favor.

“It’s okay,” Avery says, squeezing my hand. “It’s passed. I’ll be fine.”

“See.” Evelyn Thomas quips. “She’s fine.” She glares at Avery. “Straighten your jacket, comb your hair, and fix your lipstick. You’re on in three minutes.”

I have serious doubts whether she will make it up the rickety metal steps to the podium, much less endure a twenty minute speech under searing hot lights with an audience of several thousand women – most of whom hate her mother – gaping at her. She never ceases to amaze me, how she’s able to step up to any situation. Tonight is no different.

I can’t see her from the green room where I wait with the campaign staff, but I can sure hear her over the auditorium PA. I watch on the flat screen monitor while she speaks, and I can see that she has the attendees in the palm of her hand. To speak with such clarity, authenticity, and eloquence – given how wretched I know she feels – I’m certain she’s calling up something deep inside herself that few of us have in reserve. I’ve seen men call that same thing up on the battlefield — they may be wounded and bleeding, and yet they perform superhuman acts in order to carry out their duty.

Her speech, the substance of which causes Evelyn’s eyes to roll multiple times throughout, resonates profoundly with the audience. I know she’s absolutely crushed it when the room rises to its feet to give her a standing ovation – the first one of the day. I can’t help but grin proudly.

That’s my girl. Brains, beauty, and a big heart to match. And they love her.

“Wipe that grin off your face.” Evelyn hisses at me. “She’s not doing this for your entertainment.”

I smirk at the old witch. “Apparently, she’s not doing it for yours either.” I turn back to the monitor, watching Avery give a final bow, offering a warm wave before she surrenders the stage. “It’s gotta just kill you to know they like her better than they’ll ever like you.”

For once, Evelyn Thomas is speechless.

Bursting with pride, I bound toward the stage to meet Avery so I can tell her myself just how radiant she was up there, and just how much I love her. I’m going to say it. I’ve been holding back because I felt like she wanted me to, but I can’t hold back any more. I’m too damn proud to keep it a secret. I want to shout it from the microphone up on that stage so everyone in the world knows.

When I get to the steps I see Heath walking Avery down, hanging onto her arm. I meet her at the bottom and take her hand. It’s too hot.

“How’d I do?” She asks, all the fire gone from her voice. She’s pale as death.

“You’re remarkable. You did beautifully – as always.” I slip my arms around her and scoop her up to me, pressing my lips to hers and kiss her – hard – in front of everyone. She kisses me back, then starts laughing. Hearing her laugh does me good. “I love you,” I whisper in her ear. “I love you so much Avery Thomas.”

“Avery!” Gerard Heath shouts. “What in the name of God are you...”

I look in Avery’s eyes and trail my finger along her jawline. “Let’s get you home. Put you to bed.”

She nods.

Then Heath does something only very stupid men do. He put his hands on me – and on Avery. I look down at the guy’s bony fingers wrapped around my girl’s arm, then at his claw wrapped around mine, as if he’s trying to separate a couple of errant sixth graders at the Sadie Hawkins dance. I do what I’ve wanted to do to someone for quite a long time. I give him a solid shove, sending him tumbling into a row of folding chairs against the curtain walls.

“You keep your fucking hands off Miss Thomas,” I say without veiling the threat. “Or I’ll rip them out of their sockets.”

Three campaign staffers and an intern are standing just feet away gawking, while Heath scrambles to his feet. He doesn’t have sense enough to cease talking.

“You and Avery cannot be seen like that!” He preaches. “You’ll destroy this campaign. We’re fifteen feet from the main stage and you have no idea who’s peeking through these curtains. The press corps is just on the other side of those temporary walls.”

“Gerard, no one saw...” Avery protests, her voice cracking.

“I saw!” He barks at her. He points to the loitering staffers. “They fucking saw!”

I am about to step forward and give Gerard Heath something more interesting that other people’s opinions to think about, when I feel Avery’s grip on my hand slacken. Before I can turn, she slumps into me, her eyes rolling backwards, her lids fluttering. I catch her – the full lifeless weight of her – and together we drop to the floor.

“Avery,” I whisper, touching her face, reaching a shaking finger under her jaw to find her pulse. It’s weak but steady. Dried sweat salts her brow. Her skin is hot.

Before I even know what I’m doing I shove my jacket under her head for a pillow against the bare concrete floor, lift her knees up and cross her arms over her chest to increase blood flow to her core. She’s breathing normally, but she’s out cold.

“Avery. Speak to me. Wake up.” I beg her, stroking her cheek anxiously.

In just a few seconds the room crowds with people, all crushing in around us. Heath is on the phone calling 911.

I pinch the skin of Avery’s forearm between my fingers. It lingers, peaking, before slowly sliding flat again.

“She’s dehydrated,” I say to no one but myself.

“What’s happening?” I hear Evelyn Thomas’ voice above and behind me. “Oh God, Avery. What’s wrong? What’s wrong with her, Maddox?”

“She’s sick as shit and dehydrated. She passed out.” I spit at her. “Her blood pressure probably crashed from dehydration. She’ll wake up in a minute, but she needs to go to the ER for fluids and electrolytes.”

“I already called 911.” Gerard Heath says to Evelyn. “EMTs are on their way.”

Evelyn crouches down beside us on the floor, balancing on her pointy heels. Her expression is inscrutable. I can see neither concern or empathy, but neither can I see disdain – which is her most common visage. She reaches out and with the back of her hand, cautiously touches Avery’s forehead.

“Take her to the ER.” She instructs calmly. “Find out what’s wrong with her and get her treated.”

Then without blinking, she stands up and with great flare begins shooing people out of the room.

That woman is an icicle. The idea of her thumb on the button of the nuclear arsenal is terrifying.

Avery’s lids flutter and her fingers move inside my palm.

“Wake up, baby. You’re okay,” I whisper to her over the sound of the audience just beyond us, rising in applause to greet the next speaker.

Her eyes open and she looks up at me, dazed.

“You passed out,” I say. “You’re really dehydrated.”

She tries to sit up but I hold her in place. “Very slowly.” I instruct her. “If you feel dizzy again, put your head down.”

In another moment the EMTs are with us, checking her vitals. Her blood pressure is low, as is her blood sugar, and she is – as I observed – dangerously dehydrated.

“This will help a lot.” One of the EMTs says, shoving a bottle of ice-cold Gatorade into her hand. “Chug that, then another one. You should still go to the ER and get checked out.”

In ten minutes Avery is almost back to her old self. She’s on her feet and making light of the whole incident, but she still looks pale to me.

“I’m taking you to the ER,” I say.

“I just want to go home,” she insists.

“Do what he says, Avery.” Evelyn states, backing me up – for once. “You need to make sure its not more serious than just the flu.”

Once in the car, Avery continues to argue the point. I’m not entirely convinced that she wouldn’t be a lot better off at home in her pajamas, slurping chicken soup and drinking Gatorade, than she would be waiting for hours at the ER, just to be told to go home, get some rest, and eat chicken soup.

“Okay,” I say. “But I’m staying with you.”

She cuts her eyes at me, confused. “Okay?” She asks, astonished that I relent so easily.

I nod. “But I’m staying with you. I warm up a mean bowl of canned chicken noodle soup. I said I’d take care of you. I meant it.”

Back at her place, I make good on my promise. I tuck her in to bed and then bring her a warm bowl of soup and a stack of buttered saltines. She looks a lot less green than she looked an hour ago. The color is returning to her face, and her mood is improved.

“Your mother was a real shrew tonight.” I observe. “You never should have been there. They’re wearing you down, and I’m sick of seeing you take it, day after day.”

She slurps her soup without responding.

“Do you remember me kissing you tonight, at the bottom of the steps?”

She nods. “Yes. That was very brave, and very reckless.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But it was a declaration. I love you Avery, and I’m sick of fighting it, sick of hiding it, and sick of your parents trying to force you—”

“Maddox, we’ve been over this ground a thousand times,” she says, defeat filling her eyes.

“Come away with me,” I say. “I’ve got some cash put back. I’ve got good friends who will help me get started with something else, somewhere else. Let’s just go.”

Avery pushes the tray away and sits back on her pillow regarding me with a dark concern. When she opens her mouth to speak, her words surprise me, and give me hope.

“The only reason I tried to end it with you – to make you take the money – was because I realized I was in love with you and have been forever. I was trying to protect you – from them. I don’t think you know what they’re capable of. And when you said you wouldn’t give us up, I didn’t have the strength to push you away – to be cruel to you the way I needed to be. I care about you too much.”

“Then let’s just both admit that we want to be together, and give each other credit for being able to face the risks. Come away with me Avery. I can’t give you mansions on Nob Hill or C-Span, but I can give you something better, if you just give us a chance.”

“I...” She starts to say, and then I see her face tighten. Her color drains, and all at once she’s up and bolting to the bathroom. I follow and manage to pull her hair away from her face before she looses the entire bowl of soup I made for her into the toilet.

“Oh, baby. You’re so sick.” I croon, rubbing her back while she heaves and spits, hugging the bowl.

The retching continues another twenty minutes before she feels safe enough to get back in bed. I make her chug another Gatorade, then I kiss her goodnight, turn out the light, and go to the living room to check my messages.

It’s thirteen days since I wired the money to the hacker, and I’ve been waiting and watching for his promised report. I fire up my laptop, launching the VPN, and for the first time since we initiated the project, I have a message from him:

David Jones: Pleasure doing business with you. See attached file.

I download the documents and begin reading the Executive Summary. It states,

Source Number: 510-555-1468; Registered to Avery Elizabeth Thomas

Investigation Number: 650-555-1312; Registered to Duane Robin Abbot

Summary Conclusions:

The photos and text sent to the source number on March 16, originated from a private cell phone number registered to Duane Robin Abbot, of 1620 Hummingbird Lane, Apt. 203, San Francisco, California. Mr. Abbot is a 29 year-old graduate of George Washington University, with a BS in Political Science. He graduated from Torrance High School, Torrance, CA, with a GPA of 4.2 (High Honors), and was appointed as a United States Senate Page by California (then junior) Senator, Evelyn Thomas. He served in that capacity throughout his undergraduate tenure at GWU. After graduation from college, Abbot applied to several graduate programs but was denied admission. Two years after graduation from college, Abbot was arrested on a simple assault charge. He plead to a lesser charge and was released on one-year probation. Six months later he was arrested on a charge of assault and battery on a female. He was tried and served seven months in the L.A. County Jail. After his release, he worked for a period as bar tender at various establishments around Los Angeles. Six months ago, Mr. Abbot moved to the Bay Area, where he appears to be working in some capacity with the campaign of Evelyn Thomas For Senate.

His cell GPS signal has been mapped to locations and dates related to campaign events, as well as appearing (on multiple occasions) at the coordinates of the campaign headquarters. In addition, his cell GPS signal has been mapped to locations and dates proximal to the source phone number, indicating that the owner of the phone number 650-555-1312 was present, observing the source, and tracing her movements.

Mr. Abbot has a combined credit score of 212, and has defaulted on two medical bills, an auto loan, and multiple credit cards. He drives a late model BMW coupe, black, California license plate number GCF-1875, registered and titled in his name (no loan).

Since arriving in the Bay Area, Mr. Abbot has received deposits into his personal checking account in the amount of $215,000.00. These funds map precisely to debit transfers from three different Evelyn Thomas for Senate campaign accounts. (See attached documents at end of report, entitled “Item 13: Questionable Campaign Expenses”.)

They hired a convicted criminal to stalk and then assault their daughter. What kind of people do that?

I have to think. Should I tell Avery? Should I confront her parents? What do I do with this?

I have to get Avery away from these people.

Chapter 21

Avery

Mornings are the worst. I wake with a dry mouth, and the and an awful taste of metal I can’t get away from. The nausea is just as bad now as it was last night. I think I might really be sick with something more than the flu, as this has gone on too long to just be a bug. It comes and goes, but over the last week, it mostly just comes without going.

I expected Maddox to be here with me when I woke up. He said he was staying, but I guess he went back to his place some time during the night. He does that, just to keep up the public pretense that there’s nothing going on between us.

Oh, the things he said last night. He said he loves me. He wants me to go away with him. If only it was that simple. It’s not. My parents would kill me. At the very least, they’d never speak to me again. As difficult and misguided as they often are, I believe in their own way they only want what’s best for me.

Thinking of what’s best for me, I decide to do a little research to see what kind of dreadful illness I have that’s causing these waves of puking fits. I fire up my laptop and Google “causes of nausea”. About a thousand different pages load in the results. I click the first one that doesn’t look like spam.

Chemotherapy?

Nope. Not unless someone is slipping it into my coffee.

General anesthesia?

No.

Intestinal obstruction?

God. I hope not.

Migraine?

Not since I stopped smoking weed.

Morning sickness?

Morning sickness? Oh Good Lord. Oh no…

No. That can’t be it.

Nope.

I have to think. When was my last Depro-Provera shot? When is my next one scheduled? I have an appointment card in my billfold. I find my purse and scrum around inside, looking. Finding it, I thumb anxiously through a random collection of receipts, business cards, folded bills and notes. My gynecologist’s card is pink. I find it, and my heart sinks.

I missed my appointment. I completely forgot it. I should have gotten my shot almost six weeks ago.

I need to stay calm. I need to figure this out. I need to take a pregnancy test and either confirm it or rule it out, before I completely melt down.

A baby? I reach down and place my palm on my belly. There’s a tautness there, down deep inside. I thought it was just a pulled muscle or something from all the heaving. Could there be…? Do I have a baby growing inside me?

I don’t bother to shower. I just pull on jeans and a t-shirt and run a comb through my hair. I’m going to go to the drug store and buy a home pregnancy test. I’m not going to think about what any of this means until I know – for sure.

Keys and purse in hand, I head out into the kitchen, and that’s when I see the stack of papers on the kitchen table with a handwritten note from Maddox on top.

“Good Morning Ave,

I hope you’re feeling better. I made coffee. It should still be fresh. After you’re awake, please have a look at the report I left here for you. I wish I could have waited to give this to you face to face, but I need to talk to your parents about it – NOW. I plan to be back before you even wake up, but if not, please, please, please don’t leave the apartment. I’ll be back very soon. We’ll talk about what to do.

I love you more than anything.

– Maddox 7:30 a.m.”

I check my watch. It’s almost noon. I can smell the stale coffee. It’s long since gone cold. The scent turns my stomach, but some other feeling raises a chill at the base of my neck.

I slide Maddox’ note aside and lift the first few pages of the hefty document he’s left. I start reading.

The photos and text sent to the source number on March 16, originated from a private cell phone number registered to Duane Robin Abbot,...

My knees go weak. I have to sit. My head spins.

This can’t be right.

I remember Robin. He worked for my mother in D.C. when I was just a kid. He would have been cute if he hadn’t been such a sycophant.

Yeah, that was Robin in the bar that night. Amazing I didn’t recognize him. But then I never paid him any attention before, either. A moment before he knocked me out he said something like, “It is you. Isn’t it?” like he knew me.

He used to work for my mother. No. He still works for my mother. And they paid him to follow me? They paid him… And he… He took those pictures of me… He was at the Fairmont… They knew what he did, and he was still at the Fairmont, and they let him send me those photographs.

Oh my God. My parents did this.

Suddenly I feel very calm. The nausea is gone. Clarity; that’s what this is. It’s the stillness and focus I summon in the moments before I have to step out into a crowd and work it, or before I take the stage to deliver a speech. Inside this bubble of clarity, I know myself. I know what’s real, what’s imagined, and what’s completely false.

I flash on my mother’s dead eyes and cold smile. False.

My father’s iron-clad, take-no-prisoners determination. False.

Maddox. He’s authentic. True and loyal, and he’s very real.

God, I’ve been so blind, for so long.

I retrieve my phone from my purse and dial his number. It goes to straight to voicemail. I leave him a message, explaining that I’ve read enough of the report to understand. I say I love him, and yes – we’ll go away together.

I decide to wait for Maddox to return before going out, as he asked. I spend the time reading through the details in the report, and what I discover chills me ever more profoundly, convincing me that my parents aren’t just reckless and uncaring – they’re genuinely dangerous.

I expect Maddox to be back anytime, so after an hour, I’m worried. I call him again, and once more the call goes straight to voicemail.

He went to confront my parents with this information. What was he thinking? If they’re willing to have someone with a violent history follow me and attack me – just to try to scare me into submission – what will they do to him? What are they really capable of? What depths will the desperate go to in order to keep their secrets?

Maddox is in danger, and so am I.

I try to call him again. No answer. Something is terribly wrong. He should have been back hours ago. I realize I need to leave before my parents catch up and realize I know what they’ve done.

I quickly pack an overnight bag and head toward the door. Just as I’m about to open it, my phone rings.

Maddox!

I check the caller ID before answering and see – to my horror – that the call is from my mother.

Do I answer? Do I just let it go?

No. Answer it. She’ll be freaking out by now. Play dumb and calm her down.

I swipe to answer, and put on my best sickly voice. “Hello.”

“Where are you?” Evelyn asks me, her voice brittle as tin.

“In bed.” I lie. “I’m still sick. I’m so sick.”

I hear her sigh. Is it relief? “Stay in bed,” she says, contriving a sympathetic tone. “I’ll stop by in a little while and bring you some hot and sour soup. Just get some rest.”

“Okay,” I say dreamily. “I will. I’m not getting out of bed until I have to throw up again.”

“I’ll be there very soon,” she assures me.

“Okay.”

I grab the report from the kitchen table, shoving it in my bag with my laptop and clothes.

“I’ll see you then, Mother. No need to hurry. I’m so tired. I’m going back to sleep.”

As soon as she hangs up, I bolt out the door without a backward glance. Once in the parking garage, I realize that Maddox has taken the Range Rover. I have no transportation. Now what?

Ordinarily this would cause me to panic, but clarity is useful in times of great stress. I take a deep breath, gather my thoughts, and consider my options.

Ella works nine blocks away at a local gallery. My parents have no idea where she works, as they’ve never shown the least bit of interest in my ‘artsy friend.’ I don’t think they even know her last name.

I heft my bag on my shoulder and start walking. Ella will help me sort through all of this, at least until I can find out what the hell my parents have done with Maddox.

Chapter 22

Maddox

I don’t wait for Evelyn Thomas’ Rottweiler of a secretary to announce me. I blow past her like she’s a ghost, with her nipping at my heels, barking.

As I barge in, I find Evelyn sitting behind her desk like she’s the Queen of England. The expression on her face when she first see’s me is best described as bemused, but it shifts quickly to outraged indignation when I ask her – without any preamble – who the hell Duane Robin Abbot is, and why she’s paying him to stalk people – including their daughter.

The Rottweiler secretary says, “I’m getting General Thomas and calling security.” She disappears.

Evelyn Thomas glares at me.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

I drop a copy of the report on her desk.

“Your senate page, going back ten years,” I say. “You’ve paid him $200k and change in the last six months. Do you pay that kind of money to people you’ve never heard of? Do you let them into your offices? Into your events? I have photographs of your husband talking to him at the Scarlet Huntington event. They looked like they knew one another pretty well.”

She blanches.

“You’re beyond your depth, Maddox.”

I turn. Richard Thomas is standing behind me, flanked by Dan Diamond and another one of their thuggish security guys.

“Am I?” I ask. “Fine. Just tell me why? Why would you have a guy like Abbot follow Avery? Why did he assault her? And why did you let him in to the Fairmont and the other events after you knew he hurt her? Explain it to me like I’m a six-year old. ‘Cause I can’t wrap my head around it.”

General Thomas turns to Diamond and the other guy, waving them off. They retreat from the office, closing the door behind them, leaving just the three of us in what feels like a stand-off.

Evelyn looms behind her desk like a pillar, immobilized, un-blinking.

General Thomas takes two confident steps toward me, his face a mask of arrogant superiority. I’m reminded of the first night I gave into him.

“Avery doesn’t always grasp what her purpose is. Sometimes she needs to be reminded, and reminded just how tenuous her situation is. Some people are motivated by money. Some by ambition. And some are motivated by fear. Avery’s the latter. We only had Abbot remind her of everything she needs to be frightened of, and just how small she is on the spectrum of things that actually matter.”

He gave me a satisfied smile.

“And it worked. She’s gotten in line. She’s behaving herself. And she’s serving her purpose.”

“Her purpose is to serve you?” I ask, feeling my heartbeat pick-up, my vision narrowing. “To help you two achieve your political ambitions?”

“What else could it possibly be?” General Thomas asks me, shrugging. “Evelyn and I both knew, very early on what it was we wanted to accomplish in our lives. It was necessary to have a family – a child – to look the part; to be convincing. Avery’s always been part of the larger strategy. And one day, she’ll carry it...”

I don’t wait for him to finish. I’ve heard enough. The blow I deliver to his smug face is as explosive and unexpected as it is devastating. I feel his jaw pop as my fist punches in deep, displacing flesh and bone. I catch him from below with a follow-up left hook, rocking his head back violently. He drops like a sack onto the hard floor at my feet – out cold.

I swing around to Evelyn Thomas, considering doing similar violence (in opposition to every rule I ever manufactured in my mind about never hurting a woman), but before I can reach her, Dan Diamond and at least five other guys are on me, dragging me down to the floor, kicking me, pummeling me with fists.

I give as good as I get – generally speaking – but when all is said and done, I’m in cuffs, surrounded by San Francisco PD, being read my rights, as EMTs work on Richard Thomas, trying to get him to wake up.

The police haul me downstairs and duck me into a patrol car, then drive me to City Hall for booking.

At the county lock-up, they take my keys, my belt, my wallet, and my cell phone. They put me in a cage with seven other guys who all look like they’re tweaking on something nasty that’s going to kill more brain cells than they can afford to spare.

“You got one phone call, Bryant. Make it worthwhile,” the Bull says, when my paperwork is finally processed.

I know that Avery is at her apartment, probably reading the report and having a panic attack. I also know she can’t help me, and right now, I’m no good to her. I know of only one person I can turn to in a situation like this. I ask them to pull the number from my cell, and once I have it, I get on the phone and call First Lieutenant Lucas Salvatore. He picks up on the first ring.

“Salvatore,” he says.

“Boss, it’s Bryant. I’m jammed the fuck up and I need your help, post haste.”

He may have anticipated this call based on the fact that I emailed him at six this morning, sent him the report, and told him I was going to the Thomas’ to confront them with the intelligence.

“What did you do?”

* * *

Twenty-four hours later Lucas Salvatore is standing beside me, along with an attorney named Webster hired to represent me at my arraignment hearing. The judge looks at me and Salvatore, at the charges against me, and then she looks over her glasses at the three high-priced attorneys at the other table.

“By the looks of all this, everyone here wants this to go away quietly,” she says. Her face looks as pinched and superior as Evelyn Thomases.

She’s in their pocket. Of course.

“Mr. Bryant, General Thomases council has requested a mediation meeting before we proceed to formally filing charges. Are you amenable?”

“We are ma’am,” my attorney replies without consulting me.

The fuck I am. I glare at him. He shoots me a look that tells me to shut the up.

Twenty minutes later I’m in a room with the suits. Apparently only one of them speaks. The others are just there to add color. The Thomases have a deal.

“One hundred thousand dollars, plus six thousand per month for the next five years. All you have to do is go away. Leave the Bay Area. Do not contact Avery Thomas, and do not respond to any attempts she makes to contact you. Start a new life. Agree to keep what you know about Robin Abbot to yourself. No contact with the press or anyone else on the matter.”

The man slides a piece of paper in front of me. It’s a contract.

“Mr. Bryant, that’s almost half a million dollars. It’s very generous.”

“Fuck off,” I respond.

He draws in a deep breath. “If we move ahead with assault charges, you’ll face prison time. Richard Thomas’ jaw is broken and his skull was fractured. Attempted murder isn’t out of the question.”

“Fuck off,” I repeat.

He turns his attention to my attorney. “Will you discuss this with your client, Mr. Webster? Talk some sense into him? We’ll give you fifteen minutes.”

They leave the room, leaving me with Salvatore and my lawyer, who – as soon as the door closes – grins at me like a giddy kid.

“Fuck off?” he says, entertained with my choice of words. “You pick interesting enemies.”

“They can fuck off. I’m not about to leave Avery to them. I’m not about to let them...”

He raises his hand, shushing me.

“Of course not.” He replies. “They’re awful. And the offer they’ve made...” He pops his finger on the contract like he’s popping the flippers on a pinball table. “… it isn’t worth the recycled paper it’s printed on. You can sign it – but it’s unenforceable. It actually puts in print a confession of at least some of their misdeeds.”

He grins at me. “In fact, I think you should sign it, so we can get their signatures on it – Mr. & Mrs. Thomas’ – and then take that, along with your interesting little report, to the U.S. Attorney Generals office. It’s blackmail, pure and simple. It’s illegal, not to mention highly unethical.

“Signing it will get you out of here a lot faster, and it will put them off their guard. Just don’t cash their checks. You’ll have to find another way to pay me for my expert legal advice.”

I look to Salvatore for guidance. He nods and shrugs. “You have nothing to lose.”

That much is correct. I have nothing to lose – except Avery. Every hour that passes puts her farther and farther beyond my reach. For all I know, by now her parents have already turned her against me completely.

“I’ll handle the AG’s office.” Webster says. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Webster calls the other lawyers back in, then explains that I’m willing to accept all the terms offered, on the single condition that both Richard and Evelyn Thomas sign the documents themselves.

“I think we can arrange that.” The lead attorney agrees. “They’re both anxious to put this issue to bed.”

I bet they are.

* * *

When Lucas lets me use his phone, I call Avery. On her cell. And then on the landline her parents insisted she have in her apartment.

And then I check my own phone when the jailer hands it to me. The message she left on my voicemail sounds calm, like she understands everything and she has a plan. Like she’s resigned to it. My stomach drops. Every word she says indicates that she’s finally going through with the plan. She’s taking that goddamn passport, and she’s leaving.

Lucas surveys the look on my face and punches me in the shoulder. “That girl got the fuck out of dodge, didn’t she?”

“Yeah,” I say, sighing. I haven’t even been released from prison officially, and I’m already trying to figure out if she went north, south, or booked a flight to the fucking Caribbean.

“Women, man,” Salvatore says. “Guess you better get the hell out of here and figure out where she went. Easy as pie, right?”

I nod. “Yes sir. Easy as fucking pie.”

“You give me a call when you get wherever it is you’re going, Bryant. I need a man like you on board when I retire.”

“And I’m happy to have you, sir,” I say.

Salvatore claps me on the shoulder and walks outside while I sign all the papers that will set me free. He’s a good man — far better than General Thomas. Salvatore is a marine truly deserving of his rank.

The Thomases might think I’m out of their daughter’s life for good — but there’s no way I’m letting her get away this time.

Now all I have to do is figure out what her plan is and track her down.

When it comes to Avery, all roads lead to and from Ella. So that’s exactly where I’m planning to start.

Chapter 23

Avery

It’s hilarious that the instructions say “Wait five minutes”. It takes less than thirty seconds before the plus sign pops up in neon-bright magenta inside the little plastic window of the pregnancy test. Amazing that you can dribble pee on a plastic stick, and a few minutes later, the entire course of your life as you imagined it takes a hard left turn.

I walk out of the bathroom, plastic stick in hand. I wave it at Ella.

“Ella. I think there’s something you might want to see.” I sit down in one of the chairs across from her and put the pregnancy test on her table.

She’s buried in the report, her eyes as big around as saucers. She ignores the evidence in my hand as she looks up from the papers and says, “Girl, your mother and father are evil. Walking, talking, fire-breathing, evil mofo’s.”

I know.

I slide the stick towards her. “You’re exactly right, Elle. And there’s this.”

I didn’t think her eyes could get any wider, but she surprises me.

“Oh shit.”

That’s one way to put it.

“It won’t take my parents long to find me,” I say, ignoring the blaring plus sign for now. “My cell phone account is in their name. They’ll pull some strings, search my call log, track it to you, then track my GPS. It’s a matter of hours, not days. I need to move on, or become their Stepford spawn. And they’ll have try to control this, too.” I gesture to the test and look at Ella with wide, frightened eyes.

“Fuck that,” Ella says defiantly. “Fuck that altogether.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Does Maddox know?”

“No,” I say. “He doesn’t.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“Yes. But — I have no idea where he is. He just disappeared.”

“What are your parents going to do to you?”

“I don’t know,” I say flatly. “I’m not sure what they’re capable of.” I swallow bile, and I put my hand to my belly, as if protecting the fluttering life inside of me. “Especially when they figure out I know about the stalker shit.”

“They won’t hurt you, will they?”

“No.” I pause. “I’m not entirely sure. I don’t think so. But I really don’t know what they’re going to do with Maddox. I can’t reach him. He’s just … gone.” I swallow hard, choking back emotion. “With me — they — I don’t think they’ll let me keep this baby.” My words barely come when I say it, and tears stream down my cheeks. “And I want this baby, Ella.”

“I don’t think they can force you to — you know.”

“I’m not sure what they think they can do,” I respond. “They had me beat up to garner sympathy from their voters. They can freeze my trust. Stop payments on my apartment.”

“Well, I have a plan,” Ella says. “It’s not much of one. But it is something. I have a car, and it’s a piece of shit, but you can make it to Vancouver. I’ve got a friend at the border who can get you across. You just need a burner phone, and I’ll give you my passport. It’s an old ass picture. Looks enough like you to pass. And hang on —”

Ella sighs and scrolls through her phone. She pulls up a number on her cell and waits while it rings. When the call is answered she starts talking fast.

“Aunt Bebe. It’s Ella. I need a favor. It’s for Avery. You said if she ever… Yeah. She needs us… Yeah… Bebe… She needs to be away from here, way out of her parents reach… And there’s more...”

I listen as Ella details my sordid family situation. It all sounds so much worse off of the paper. I have no idea what my parents have done with Maddox. I’m not sure what they’re up to with my stalker — and I don’t want to wait around to find out.

Ella presses a piece of paper into my hand. “This is Aunt Bebe’s number. You can stay with her when you get to Vancouver.”

I look at her and nod. “It’ll be good to get out of dodge. I’ll withdraw whatever cash I can get from my account.” I smile weakly. “I like Vancouver.”

I try Maddox’s phone again, and send an email to a defunct account of his, hinting at where to find out more information. I note to myself that it might not even be wise to have a burner phone, and instead I opt just to take only my laptop and a bag of clothes.

No, I don’t know what my parents might do.

I only know they’ll do everything in their power to control my body, this pregnancy, and this kid.

And I’m fucking done with every part of their bullshit.

I tuck the evidence away in my backpack, and I start making a mental list of any media outlet and political blog that might be interested in what my mother and father have been up to.

An hour later I’m driving alone in Elle’s beat up, ancient Honda Civic hatchback, feeling only slightly nauseous. I’m headed north – to Vancouver. It’s a long drive ahead of me, but I have to do it. I have to put as much distance between me and my sociopath parents as I can. They were willing to risk hurting me, their only child, for their ambition. I let them control and intimidate me. But I will not let them put this baby inside me at risk. This child is not theirs to screw with and use. This kid – if I have anything to say about it – is going to know what unconditional, no-strings-attached, love really is. I’m not going to let my parents and their ruthlessness damage another soul.

I drive across the Golden Gate Bridge and head north, through the redwoods, past the black sand beaches and the breweries and the sketchy hippie towns. After that, there’s only mountains and highway and an endless expanse of coastline.

Maddox — if he’s alive — he’ll find me.

And for once, I’m hoping he does.

Chapter 24

Maddox

The jailer hands me a plastic bag containing my billfold, my belt, my keys, and my cell. I sign for the bag and I’m free to go. My cell phone is as dead as a stone. Salvatore is waiting outside, having a smoke. I join him, taking an offered cigarette, sucking the deadly stuff into my lungs, feeling the head-rush. I beg a ride back to my place so I can get my truck and start hunting for Avery.

“Is this girl worth all the trouble she’s put you to?” he asks as we drive toward Berkeley.

“That and more,” I say. “Once you get to know her, you’ll see.”

“She’s easy to look at, I’ll give you that,” he admits. “But she’s got real baggage.”

That’s an epic understatement.

“You trained me to hump a hundred pounds of gear on my back uphill, and like it,” I quip, grinning at him. “So I guess you’re to blame if I like things complicated.”

“Alright,” he says, shrugging. “Whatever floats your boat.”

Salvatore drives me across the bay to my apartment, making small talk about his upcoming retirement. My brain is otherwise occupied, running down all the possibilities for where Avery might be, mentally and physically. We’ll head for Avery’s apartment first to see if there might be any clues, and then I’ll go over to Ella’s. She’s the only person Avery might trust when it comes to getting away from her parents.

“So I was thinking,” Salvatore says, rounding the block toward my apartment building. “When all this shit you’re dealing with settles down, you and I should have a discussion about the future, like I said. My separation paperwork is already in process. I’ve got three more months, then I’m cut loose. I’ve been formulating a little business plan I’d like to discuss.”

I nod. “Yeah. Sure,” I say, motioning for him to pull over. “I’ll give you a call. I really appreciate everything you did over the last couple days. Getting the lawyer, standing up for me. I’ll make it up to you...”

“Make it up to me by calling me and letting me know what happens with your girl. And don’t get in any more altercations. That’s the last time I want to see you at the wrong table in a court room. You got me?”

“Yes sir,” I say.

“I’m headed back to Twenty Nine Palms. I expect to hear from you inside 24 hours.”

I promise him he will hear from me as I exit his truck, my eyes cast across the street to Avery’s apartment building. I offer distracted goodbyes and then dart through traffic, heading toward her place.

The doorman is reading a comic book as I bound in. He looks up, surprised, then a little bit frightened.

“Miss Thomas left early yesterday morning,” he says anxiously. “A few hours later her mother and what looked like half the linebackers from the Forty-Niners come looking for her. Her mother threw a fit when she wasn’t here – like it was my fault.”

“And Avery hasn’t come back?” I ask. “Not even to get anything?”

He shakes his head. “No. She had a packed bag when she left. She didn’t say where she was going.”

No. She wouldn’t have.

The only thing I need from my place is my sidearm. I make quick work of retrieving it, stash it in a bag with a couple bottles of water and a jacket.

I call Ella, and then I call her again. Each time, it goes straight to voicemail.

“You better be home,” I mutter.

Traffic is miserable but my brain settles into mission mode — no distractions, keep cool, observe carefully, and focus on the goal. My observation skills pay off quickly when I notice two, familiar looking black Range Rovers illegally parked in handicapped spaces just yards away from the front entrance of Ella’s building. Those are Thomas’ security detail vehicles – I’m certain of it.

This should be interesting.

I circle the block, find a place to park, shove my HK into my waistband under my jacket, and head to Ella’s apartment.

I hear the commotion inside before I even get near the door. It sounds like an epic battle of wills is going down. Ella is raising hell at someone, screaming at them to leave.

“I don’t know where she is!” I hear her shout, her voice bitter with outrage. “And you have no right to barge up in here, take my phone, and act like I’m your prisoner. Get the fuck out of my house!”

That’s all I need to hear to know exactly what’s going on. I draw my gun, release the safety, put my hand on the door latch, and turn. The door opens slightly – just enough so I can peek inside and see Dan Diamond looming over Ella with at least a couple other guys searching her apartment and going through her things.

I shove the door open, raising my weapon, and move fast toward Diamond and the girl, checking my flank.

“Let her go.” I instruct calmly, putting the barrel of the .45 to his head. “Ella. Take two steps backwards and then walk out of here. Go downstairs and call 911. Don’t come back till they’re here.”

Ella’s brown eyes glint in my direction, widening. She says nothing at all. She does exactly as I say, and in another second she is gone.

There are three more guys in the house, and they all turn toward me reaching for their weapons.

“Make one threatening move and Dan’s brains are wall art,” I say. “You know I’m just crazy enough to do it, and you know you’re here illegally and the girl will back me up. This smells like a home invasion with an added charge of kidnapping for holding her against her will. Blowing Dan’s head off is clear self-defense.”

I keep the gun on Diamond, while I grab his collar with my left hand, dragging him along with me toward the biggest of the three men.

“Dan. Take his gun, drop the mag, unload the one in the chamber, and toss it on the floor.”

Diamond cuts his eyes at me. They are wildly frightened. I press the barrel of my gun into his temple for a little more encouragement. This motivates him.

We repeat this exercise three times. By the third time his hands are shaking so badly he can barely rack the slide on the gun to unload it.

“Now,” I say. “Everybody on their knees, then face down, hands behind your head.”

“Fuck that.” One of the guys – a burly kid with an Army haircut – says. “I don’t fucking get on the ground for anybody.”

I push Dan to his knees and then I lean down and speak in his ear. “Dan. Tell your boy to get down, or the cleaning crew is gonna to be picking your skull fragments out of the carpet for weeks.”

After a little bit of encouragement, they all do as they are told.

I hold them there just like that until the police arrive. I put my HK down, raise my hands, and I lay down on the ground until the cops sort everything out. Ella is quite helpful in that respect.

“I was sure they were gonna kill me till my friend Maddox got here,” she says dramatically, glancing in my direction. “They’re looking for a friend of mine, but I swear I don’t know where she is!”

Everything is handled within an hour — an hour I would have preferred spending looking for Avery, but nevertheless, it goest quickly enough.

“You do that badass, sweep in and save the day thing pretty well,” Ella says as soon as the door closes on the last cop leaving the apartment. She regards me with some considerable suspicion. “Shame you’re a little late. We were expecting you yesterday.”

“You know where she is?” I ask, realizing Ella hasn’t been altogether forthcoming with either the Thomas’ security guys or the police.

“She’s on her way to Vancouver to stay with my Aunt Bebe. She left yesterday, running from her parents. Scared as shit of them – thanks to that damn report.”

“You got an address?” I ask.

“You going after her?” she asks me.

“Of course I’m going after her.”

“Why?”

Her question feels ridiculous, but I remind myself that she doesn’t know me. She only knows what she’s heard from Avery.

“Because I love her.” I reply with every ounce of unmasked sincerity I can muster. “With all my heart. And she’s out there all by herself, and I promised her I’d take care of her – and so far I’m fucking that up pretty badly.”

Ella is unmoved by my declarations. “Then where the hell have you been for the last twenty-four hours?”

It’s a reasonable question. It deserves an honest response.

“I landed a couple of pretty good punches on her father’s face. Put him down. Got arrested. Got hauled to County lock up and held. It took a little effort and cost some cash to get out – but here I am,” I say. “I stopped to get my gun between there and here. Sorry for the added delay.”

“You fucked up General Richard Thomas? You punched him in the face?” She doesn’t appear to believe me.

I nod. “I broke his jaw – or so I was told.”

Ella smiles, and then she grins. “No shit? Damn.”

She takes a seat on her couch and proceeds to tell me almost everything. Avery left yesterday, middle of the afternoon, driving Ella’s Honda Civic, headed north. Her plan was to drive until dark and then get a room for the night, get some rest, then get on the road again in the morning.

“She called me from somewhere called Grant’s Pass in Oregon last night about ten.” Ella said. “Not quite half way there.”

I ask about her car and its condition. What I learn doesn’t inspire me with confidence. The car is old, beat to shit, and while it may be a Honda, Ella uses it for around town trips – not thousand mile cross-country excursions.

“Why won’t she answer her phone?” I ask.

Ella smiles. “Her phone is here,” she says. “She was afraid to take it with her. Afraid her parents would ping the GPS signal and track her down. Which I’d say was good thinking on her part, based on the appearance of my house guests this morning.”

“So she’s out on the highway, alone, with no phone?” My heart sinks.

Ella nods.

Good lord could it be any harder – or any more dangerous for her?

“Alright,” I say. “I’m leaving now. Give me your aunt’s address in Vancouver. If you hear from Avery, tell her I’m on my way. Get her to call me. If either you or your Aunt hear anything at all – or don’t hear anything when you think you should – call me. Call me. Understand?”

Ella writes the address and her aunt’s phone number on a slip of paper. She hands it to me.

“You’re going?” She asks me again.

I take the paper and shove it in my pocket. I stand and turn to leave. “Going now,” I say. “Lock your doors and don’t let anyone else in here. I don’t think Evelyn Thomas is stupid enough to risk the rest of her security detail, but you never know.”

I move toward the door, anxious to get on my way.

“Maddox,” Ella says. “There’s one more thing.”

“What’s that?” I ask absently, checking my gun in its holster at my waist and fumbling with my car keys.

She takes a step toward me. Her face is calm and the expression in her eyes earnest.

“She really does care about you. You know that, right?”

I meet her eyes. “I do know that, Ella,” I say. “She’s not good at admitting it, but I know.”

“There’s one more thing you ought to know.”

I really want to go and this girl is getting tedious.

“What’s that?” I ask, impatience creeping in to my voice.

The world slows down as Ella walks over to her little kitchen table and picks something up. She must have shoved it under her laptop, because I didn’t see it when she walked in. It’s a little white stick with a pink tip, and in the middle of it is a blaring magenta plus sign.

“She’s pregnant. That’s why she’s been so sick.” Ella deposits the test into my outstretched hand. “She missed her Depo shot. So that throws a wrench in things.”

“She’s what?”

The world trembles underneath my feet.

“She’s pregnant. Are you hard of hearing?” Ella says again. “And right now she’s alone, knowing that her own parents paid someone to hurt her. She hasn’t heard from you. She’s on the run. So – Mr. Body Guard, Mr. Marine – if you leave her on the run, alone, scared. I will personally take your sorry ass apart and feed your bits to the sea-life down at Fisherman’s Wharf.”

“Okay,” I say, hearing my own voice falter. I hear my heart pumping in my ears, pounding like a tympani drum. I collect myself, thinking. I know I need to reassure Ella, who obviously cares a great deal about my girl. “If I don’t find her,” I say. “...and take care of her and protect her, then you’re welcome to feed my bits to the sea-life. I’ll deserve it.”

She nods. “Okay then. I’ll call you if I hear anything. You do the same.”

We shake on it. I realize that Avery’s friend is the genuine article.

“You gonna be okay?” I ask her. “What if they come back?”

She gives me a smirk and before I know what’s next, she snatches a razor sharp gaff blade from a decorative pendant around her neck, clutching it snug between her index and middle finger.

“Baby, I was raised in Oakland. I may put on a good show with the damsel in distress bit, but if shit really goes down, some dudes are gonna go down with me. That shit you walked in on, that was just me playing along.”

Ella, I realize, has more depth and strength than I ever imagined. I understand what Avery sees in her. Maybe it’s something similar to what Avery sees in me. We both know a little bit more than we’re willing to let on.

“Call me if you need me,” I say. “Call me if anything comes up.”

“I will,” she promises. “Find Avery. Make sure she’s safe.”

“I will,” I echo. It’s a promise I have to keep.

* * *

Pregnant. She hasn’t heard from me in more than twenty-four hours. She’s on the run, by herself, isolated, with no clue in the world what’s kept me from her. I haven’t heard from her, and I have no idea if she got a burner phone or not. What must she be thinking? She’s terrified of her parents and their very long reach, and probably equally terrified that I’ve taken some deal and abandoned her.

I never should have left her. I should have waited for her to wake up so we could talk. My impatience always ruins everything. I promised her I’d take care of her – always. And now I don’t even know where she is.

If I can find her, I’ll never let her out of my sight again. Good lord, she’s got our baby. I have to find her. I have to take care of both of them. I want to take care of them both.

Chapter 25

Avery

I wasted an hour and a half in the hotel room throwing up. Finally it passed and I was steady enough to get back on the road, but it’s not without its perils. Ella’s car is – shall we say – very basic transportation. It’s got no air conditioning (which is fine) or radio (which sucks). Two days on the road, listening only to the thoughts in my head — it’s enough to make me crazy.

I should not have left Maddox all on his own to face my criminally insane parents. They probably have him locked up in a dungeon somewhere by now. If not that, then they’ve offered him a king’s ransom to stay away from me, once and for all. And seriously, considering the epic train wreck I am, who could blame him if he took the deal and just surfed back to Los Angeles?

If he knew I was pregnant, he’d be a fool not to head for the hills. He is a fool though, falling for the likes of me. He told me he loved me and then he went off to slay the dragon. I hope the dragon didn’t slay him. I hope he’s okay. I miss him so much.

I want to believe he’ll come after me. But I have to prepare myself for anything. Ella promised she wouldn’t tell Maddox about the baby. She swore. I want us to be together, but not because he feels some sense of obligation. I just hope that my folks haven’t bought him off or bullied him into giving us up, like they did before.

Is the car acting funny?

The engine is bucking a bit. I glance down at the gauges to see if something is amiss. There’s plenty of fuel. I just filled up when I left Grant’s Pass. RPMs are fluctuating oddly. What does that mean? Battery is fine. Holy shit! The temperature is climbing! It’s well past half way up and rising.

Before the gauge hits the red line, I downshift, put on my flashers, and pull off into the service lane.

Now what?

I turn the key, killing the engine; all the gauges drop. Everything is quiet inside the car except for the click, click, click of the hazard lights and the pounding of my heart in my ears. All of a sudden a noisy blast rattles my senses. A semi truck blows past, just an arms length away on the highway to my left. A second later a half dozen cars fly by, then it’s quiet again for a moment.

It occurs to me that I have no clue what to do. I don’t know the first thing about cars. My AAA card is in the glove box of my Range Rover, and I have no phone so I couldn’t even call them if I had it in hand.

Okay. I know where the engine is. And I know there’s a radiator. I should look at them to see if I can see anything wrong. How will I know?

I fish around under the dash, searching for the latch that releases the hood. I pop it and then sit back, checking my mirrors to see if it’s safe to get out of the car, or if another semi is about to roar past. It takes me a few minutes to figure out how to get the hood up as traffic hauls past me down the highway at speed, kicking up wind. With the hood up, I peer into the engine compartment. I have no idea what I’m looking at – or what I’m looking for. It’s just an incomprehensible tangle of wires, hoses, belts, and metal boxes. It’s hot and filthy, and it smells like burned rubber and old oil.

What does a radiator look like? I should know this. Every adult should know this. Why don’t I know this? Because my parents took care of everything. They paid people to know things like this on my behalf, so I would never have to do for myself. They insulated me from the hot, dirty, and the unpleasant, and it’s made me incapable of solving even the most basic of problems by myself. As I study the puzzle of the Honda’s engine in front of me, I wonder which of my parent’s crimes is worse? That they paid someone to stalk and assault me? Or that they made me completely dependent, never letting me find my own way in the world?

A bit of red lettering on a nob near the front of the engine compartment catches my eye. It reads,

CAUTION. Engine Coolant. Never Open When Hot.

Ella said something about having anti-freeze in the back of the car. Is that what goes in there?

I fumble around in the area behind the seats, finding an odd assortment of tools, along with engine oil, a container of washer fluid, brake fluid, and a blue plastic jug – half full – labeled “Peak Antifreeze + Coolant, Full-Strength Concentrate.”

I think this is what I need.

I read the instructions on the reverse of the container. They warn me to let the engine cool before opening the radiator. I wait fifteen minutes but the engine still seems pretty hot, so I wait ten more before turning the cap of the radiator. I expect some kind of drama when I open it, but nothing happens. Crossing my fingers that I’m doing the right thing, I pour the bright yellow liquid into the radiator, spilling some around the edges. I continue until bubbles rise and the level sinks, then I add more until there’s no room left to pour another drop. I replace the radiator cap, pull the hood down, and say a quick prayer.

The car fires up just fine and the temperature gauge sits still. I give it a minute, watching all the dials on the dashboard before I take a deep breath, check traffic, and then pull back onto the highway when all is clear. Five minutes down the road, passing through hilly, nearly mountainous country, I pass by an exit for a town called Sunny Valley. From there the road tips up into the hills. A highway sign tells me that Portland is 292 miles away. That seems forever. I’m making lousy time, but things haven’t gone entirely smoothly between having to stop to pee every couple hours, feeling sick to my stomach, and now radiator issues.

I guess it could always be worse. I have a lot to be thankful for.

The day is warm and dry. It could be raining. It could be cold. Traffic is light and I’m driving through lovely, rural hill country. It could be so much worse.

I make it exactly ten miles down the road before things get so much worse.

It begins when I notice an odd, sweet scent in the air, and then see small puffs of steam pouring from the cracks around the hood. I look down at the gauges on the dash and I see the temperature indicator is climbing fast to red line territory.

Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

This time around there’s no fix. When I look under the hood I see that water is dripping from all over the place and pooling on the ground beneath the car. There’s a big leak somewhere, and it’s drained the radiator completely and permanently. I’m shit out of luck.

I look around. My whereabouts can best be described as the middle of freaking nowhere. The only thing I see is trees, hills, and highway stretching off to the crack of doom, north and south.

I have exactly two choices. I can sit here with the car and hope for the best, or I can take matters into my own hands and hike to the next exit to get help. It’s not a tough choice. I grab my bag and my water bottle, and I start walking. I have no clue how far ahead the next exit is. Maybe it’s miles and miles. I figure if I pass out on the highway, then maybe someone will stop to help – otherwise – I’m on my own.

It’s a not a good feeling. I’m scared to death, but it seems I have very few options.

Chapter 26

Maddox

I know that Avery made it as far as Grant’s Pass. That’s where she stayed last night. I’ve only been on the road about six hours – hauling ass – when I see the sign for that exit. I need to stop for gas or I’ll be burning fumes if I go much longer. I take the exit and fill up, hit the men’s room, then I’m on the road again. This country is nothing but rugged low mountains, rural with more trees than people. I’d like to live somewhere like this some day, but right now I’m too wired to think about much except keeping my eyes peeled on the road ahead, looking for even the most fleeting sign of Avery.

Ten miles or so north of Grant’s Pass, I get that long anticipated, long prayed-for sign – at least I think I do. I blow past a beat up old Honda Civic pulled over in the breakdown lane. I’m going too fast to even get a glimpse at who is inside it. All I can see as I check my rear view mirror is that the hood is up. I hit the breaks and as soon as I’m slowed sufficiently to pull to the side, I pull over and stop, slip the truck into reverse, and start backing up.

I hope there are no cops nearby. This move is the height of illegal.

Stepping out of my truck, approaching the Honda, I see plainly that the car has been abandoned. No one is there. I don’t even know if this is Ella’s car. I check the tag and see that it’s registered in California. I pull my cell from my pocket and call Ella.

She picks up in half a second.

“What’s your tag number?” I ask, skipping the formalities.

She calls the letters and numbers out as I read them from the plate. It’s her car, but there’s no Avery in it. I walk around the vehicle and see the sticky stain of antifreeze on the ground beneath the engine block.

“Looks like it may have blown a hose or maybe the water pump,” I say. “Anyway. If you hear from her, tell her to stay put and call me to let me know where she is.”

I end the call and look up and down the road. All I see is pavement and trees.

Somewhere down that highway there’s a pretty redhead walking by herself out there in the middle of godforsaken nowhere. She could get picked up by a serial killer, or a car load of stoned rednecks, or one of those people who kidnap vulnerable young women and sell them into the sex trade.

She could be sick, passed out in a ditch beside the highway, out of sight.

Jesus, Avery. What are you thinking? You should always stay with the car. Everyone knows that. The cops will always pull over to help stranded motorists. I wish I’d had the opportunity to tell her all these things, and now I’m just praying to whatever higher power there is, to give me a second chance.

Please keep her safe. Please.

I put my truck back on the road, praying, making deals with my maker the whole time as I drive.

If you let me find her safe and well, I’ll be the best partner, the best father, I’ll never take her or our life for granted. I’ll cherish her and the baby, and always do my best for them.

I drive for several miles along winding hilly highway with those deals running in a loop in my brain. I come around a bend in the road and the grade turns down toward a valley. A sign ahead says, “Canyonville – 1 mile.” I see a tiny figure far ahead, walking on the side of the highway exit ramp. I give my signal and move to the right, then I nudge over into the exit lane.

I pass by her going slow, and see that the walker is Avery. My heart leaps into my throat as I slam on brakes and pull off to the side, jamming the truck into park, bolting out the door toward her.

She looks up, shocked, and then realizes its me. Her face dissembles into tears as she throws herself into my embrace.

I don’t say a single thing. I just pull her close and hold her, rocking, while she bawls into my chest.

She’s shaking and crying. “I was so scared… so scared… I didn’t… I didn’t know what to do...”

“Shhh, baby. It’s okay. You’re okay. I found you. You’re safe. You’ll be safe from now on. I’m so sorry. I’ll never leave you like that again. I’ll never do it. I swear. I love you so much.”

We stand on the highway like that – just hanging on to one another – for a ridiculously long time. Finally she pulls away and looks up at me. “I’m so thirsty. I drank the last of my water a long time ago. Do you have any?”

She’s thirsty, hot, dirty, exhausted, and freaked the fuck out about everything. I put her into my truck, hand her a cold bottle of water, and tell her she’s gonna get a shower and a rest. I can’t stop looking at her, holding her hand as I drive the short stretch into the little town. I keep kissing her hand, tasting her skin, reassuring myself that she’s really okay and really with me.

There are exactly two hotels in Canyonville, Oregon. One is a truck stop Holiday Inn, and the other is attached to a casino. It’s not a difficult decision. I pull into the Seven Feathers Resort and Casino, and navigate to the hotel. I pay a premium for a king suite with no reservation, but the price is worth it, because Avery is with me, safe.

“Tell me what happened with my parents,” Avery asks as we step into the elevator to go up to our room.

“I’ll tell you everything,” I say. “After you get something to eat and take a load off. You walked at least five miles.”

“Was it that far?” she asks, leaning against my shoulder. “It felt like forever.”

I nod at her, slipping my arm around her tiny waist. I almost want to scold her for leaving the car, but I can’t. The salt of her tears still stain her face. She’s sunburned, and she looks beaten with physical exhaustion. I want to get her off her feet and get some food in her before any serious conversation takes place.

The hotel room is just perfect. It’s spacious and tasteful, and once inside I realize why it’s expensive. It’s probably the nicest hotel room I’ve ever stayed in (which is not saying much). It’s huge too, with a couch and a desk and a massive, floor to ceiling tiled bathroom.

“Oh. Nice,” Avery chirps, stepping in, looking around. “Who knew Oregon had decent hotels?”

Indeed. Who knew? How in the world am I ever going to keep this girl in the manner to which she was born and raised? Short answer, I don’t think I can. That said, I can do better in areas other than money. I can love her completely and without strings attached.

I put our bags down on the floor as Avery makes for the bed and collapses on it.

“I just want to sleep until the end of days,” she says, melting into the heavy comforter.

I pull her shoes from her swollen feet and climb up beside her, cradling her head in the crook of my arm. “Take a nap,” I say, drawing my finger along her jawline, then smoothing back her hair. “I’ll call Ella to let her know you’re safe.”

“Okay.” She yawns, her eyelids already drooping. She rolls on her side, tucks her knees up to her elbows, and relaxes. “Just a few minutes.”

I step out into the corridor to call Ella. She’s ecstatic when I tell her that Avery is with me, and fine. I promise I’ll have her car towed and fixed, and get it back to her some way, sooner rather than later.

“Don’t freak out about the car,” Ella assures me. “It’s older than I am. I’ll manage without it just fine for the time being. Just take care of Avery.”

I promise her I will.

“You guys need to get to Vancouver,” she says. “Fucking Evelyn put a guy on the street outside my place, watching me. I know they’re looking for her. If she used a credit card, they’ll be on your tail before you know it.”

“We will,” I say. “Your Aunt – she won’t mind me?”

“No,” Ella interrupts. “Bebe is cool. She’ll love you. Just get there.”

“Okay. But I’ve got to let Avery rest. She’s been through the wringer. She’s napping now. She needs to rest and eat something and rest more.”

“She’s tougher than you think she is,” Ella says. “She’s not going to break.”

That’s probably true.

Back inside the room I find Avery sleeping like a cat, nuzzled up on a big pillow, her arms wrapped around a second one, holding it close. She looks so peaceful. She’s beautiful, despite the road grime and sun burn. She’s the picture of perfection, and she’s here with me, safe, mine.

I watch her sleep for a long time, just studying her features and form. She’s a small person, with slender, taught limbs and a naturally lithe build. I try to imagine her fat with a baby. The picture I paint in my head is even more beautiful than she is now. In my mind’s eye she’s softer, filled out at the breasts and hips, her belly heavy and round. Her face glows as she smiles up at me, placing my hand on her belly. She smiles. The expression in her eye tells me she feels safe and loved.

I want to see that expression for real.

“Penny for your thoughts,” she says.

I blink. Avery’s awake and drowsily taking me in.

I slip in beside her on the bed, kicking my shoes off, pulling her close. “I was just thinking about how beautiful you are. And how much I adore you. And how glad I am that I have you back with me, safe. And that I’m never going to let you go.”

“I hope you always feel that way.” She says, a tinge of caution in her tone.

I kiss the nape of her neck. “I will always feel that way.” I assure her. “I want to grow old with you. I wanna spoil our grandchildren together.”

“Grandchildren?” She asks, laughing. “Man, I can hardly see my way through to one kid, and you’ve plotted us all the way out to grandchildren.”

She turns into my chest and meets my eyes with hers. “We need to talk,” she says.

“Okay.” I kiss her – chastely – on the lips.

“I… I’m… I’m a few weeks late with my period. And the test I took was positive. I haven’t been to the doctor yet, but...”

“You’re pregnant.” I finish her sentence, offering no reaction.

She hauls in a deep, anxious breath and lets it out. “Are you upset? I’d understand—”

“No,” I say. “I’m not upset. Are you upset?”

She takes a moment to think, then she says, “No. I’m not upset. I’m a little bit freaked out and overwhelmed. But upset, no.”

“Good. Whatever happens, we’re a family,” I say. “A real one.”

Once more I press my lips to hers and I kiss her, letting our tongues reacquaint themselves with one another. It’s been too long. I missed kissing her.

“Are you still feeling ill?” I ask her, finally breaking the kiss.

She shakes her head. “Not now. I was before and I probably will again, but right now I’m okay.”

“Then you need to eat something now, while you can.” I roll off the bed and retrieve the room service menu. Thirty minutes later, a knock on the door delivers our meals.

I watch Avery eat like I’m a lion guarding his pride at the site of the kill. I want her to eat her fill and I want her to keep it down this time. She’s eating for more than just herself.

She starts with cheesecake – whatever works – then dives in with carnivorous abandon to a medium rare cut of beef tenderloin.

“Oh my god, this is so good,” she mumbles, her mouth full. “I feel like I can finally eat. Oh yes,” She smears sour cream on her baked potato, then gobbles a mouthful. “It needs more butter.” She reaches for it and smears it on.

This is wonderful. She’s eating again. She’s been picking at dry toast and humus for weeks.

“Your parents did not react well to me confronting them with that report,” I say, broaching the subject she tried to open earlier.

Avery stops chewing and looks up at me, a wary expression darkening her lovely blue eyes.

“Keep eating,” I tell her, pointing my fork at her steak. Then I tell her everything, from leaving her apartment in the morning before she woke up, until the moment I saw her on the highway walking down that exit ramp.

“I’ve never been so scared in my life,” I admit. “Thinking of all the different ways I might have lost you. Please don’t ever take off on your own like that again. And if you’re ever in a car that breaks down, stay with it. Please. Promise me.”

“Okay,” Avery says. “One one condition.”

She’s got conditions. Okay.

“I want you to show me how to change a flat tire, and change the oil, and properly add coolant. I want to know how to read a road map. I want to know how to balance my checkbook and figure interest on a loan. These are the kinds of things that I never learned, because no one ever thought I should know them. And I know there are a thousand other things I don’t know that I should, that I can’t even think of.”

That’s my girl.

“That’s a deal,” I say. “I can do all that.”

“Good.” She grins at me. “I’ll tell you one thing I did right.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“I got cash before I hit the road. Cleaned out my checking account – almost twenty thousand dollars. The Thomas political machine may be smart, but it can’t track cash. I know you’re worried they’re on our tail, but unless they followed you, I’m pretty sure we’re clear of them.”

I know they didn’t follow me, but I also know we’re not clear of their reach until we’re on foreign soil.

“You went for a walk down the I-5 by yourself, with twenty large in your purse?” I ask her, forking a mouthful of asparagus.

She grins. “Pretty brave, eh?”

“Pretty stupid, eh?” I respond. “You ever do anything like that again and I’ll turn you over my knee and teach you what a spanking feels like. For real.”

She frowns. “I thought I did good.”

I take a breath. “You did good. You just did some really reckless stuff too. But… it all turned out okay. Luckily.”

I figure that Avery is correct. No one is close on our heels, not anytime soon anyway. I want her to rest. I want her to absorb everything that has happened. I want her to feel safe.

After we eat, while Avery showers, I call a local mechanic’s shop to get the Honda towed from the highway and repaired. I explain that it may take awhile to get the car picked up, but I’ll pay for the work as soon as it’s done.

“I may have a guy who can drive it to California – for a fee – and get the bus back,” the owner offers.

I like that idea a lot. We arrange it.

Avery comes out of the bathroom wrapped in a fluffy white robe courtesy of the hotel. Her hair is wet and clean, and has just a hint of curl coming back to its texture. I reach out and run my fingers through it, feeling the waves in my palm.

“I love you, Avery,” I say.

She smiles up at me, running a towel through her locks. “I love you too, Maddox.”

It’s the first time she’s ever come right out and said it that way. Hearing it makes my heart swell, my throat close, and my dick twitch. I realize I’m afraid to think of her in that way now that I know she’s carrying our child.

She steps toward me, loosening the belt on her robe. She takes my hand in hers and slips it inside the robe, placing it on her breast.

“I’m not fragile,” she says. “And I feel fine right now. In fact I feel pretty good. I’m maybe ten weeks pregnant. I don’t know yet. But I know that I feel a lot better than Idid.”

She smells like strawberry shampoo. She smells good. Her skin is hot, warm, and soft. I breath her in. I kiss her.

She meets my kisses eagerly, her tongue mingling with mine. Her hand slips to my waist and then around the small of my back, pulling me into her, while she returns my kisses with heat.

Her breasts, slightly swollen and hard, press against my chest.

“Make love to me,” she says. “I need to feel your skin on my skin so I know this is really real.”

Oh, my sweet girl, it’s real.

She hooks her fingers into my belt loops and pulls me backwards, walking with her, toward the bed. She grins and falls back into it’s plush covers and I tumble over her, catching myself, looming above her. I don’t know what’s safe at this early stage of her pregnancy, so I take it very easy. Her robe slips away, revealing her full naked body, gentle curves and milky white skin where she’s not pink with sunburn. I kiss those tender spots and then gently nip her breasts. Avery’s back arches high, pressing her belly up to meet mine at this attention.

“So sensitive,” I observe, teasing.

She agrees. “Unbelievably so.” She touches the nipple of her right breast and bites her lip. “I think I really like it.”

I follow her lead, nuzzling her tits, sucking nipples, tweaking them between my fingertips as I lay down kisses from her pubic bone to her sternum. She responds with little moans and purrs, but her hands urge me impatiently for more than foreplay. She tugs at my shirt, trying to pull it off. I help, unbuttoning it, shrugging it off my shoulders and casting it aside. Then I slip my belt loose and undo my button and zipper. Avery slips her hand inside my jeans, finding me hard against her fingers, begging for release from clothing.

“Come out and play.” She half giggles, sitting up, shoving my jeans off my hips with her free hand.

She strokes my cock expertly, working her fingertips against the base of my shaft while her palm presses firmly, pulling me to full length. Then she leans forward and takes me into her mouth, sliding my cock between her lips, wrapping her tongue around the head, lapping and sucking. I let my head tip backwards as I feel the exquisite pleasure of her attentions. My mind slips into oblivion, every thought fleeing except the drowning pleasure of this moment. There’s nothing except my cock and her hands and her mouth and the idea that I want to come hard – right now.

I push that idea away and snatch some focus back from the mind-numbing pleasure Avery is giving me. My hands fall to her shoulders and I very gently urge her backwards. She protests, without breaking her sucking, teasing rhythm, and even the subtle vibration of her whining sends a jolt of ecstasy into my core.

I don’t want to come in her mouth, but I’m close – so close. And it feels so fucking good.

“Baby – stop. Please. Please.”

Looking down at her, with her beautiful full lips wrapped around me, my balls in her hands, is just about enough to make me explode. Then she looks up at me, those blue eyes gleaming, a smile creeping into the corners. She’s enjoying it almost as much as I am.

That’s it. I press her shoulders backward, forcing her off me, then I push her down onto the bed.

“You didn’t let me finish my work.” She complains, her fingers crawling up my belly, tracing the contour of my abs.

I reach low, past the soft downy fur between her legs and slip a finger in, feeling her wetness. She’s positively soaking. Her eyes close with my touch and her hips rock hard to meet me.

“Inside me,” she begs. “Fuck me. Now.”

I hesitate, even as I part her legs with my knees, hanging above her, taking her in. I don’t want to hurt her – or the baby.

“Is this safe?” I ask her, pressing my hard-on against her belly as her body begs for me.

“Yeah.” She almost laughs. “Yeah, it’s fine. Like I said. Women’s bodies aren’t as fragile as everyone likes to think.” She finds my cock with her hand and guides me.

I slip inside her, blinded momentarily by the intense pressure and heat of her enveloping muscles taking in my full length. I’m anxious. I wait for her to set the rhythm, her body riding up to meet me, her hips rocking against mine. I breath deep to regain my focus. I don’t want to hurt her. I have almost no concern for my own pleasure – I’m too concerned for Avery – but I press in when she asks me to, and go deeper still as she comes hard underneath me. I feel her shudder and quake, trembling beneath me.

I see her laughter and smiles as she recovers, then feel her grip my ass with pressing hands that urge me on.

“It’s okay,” she says, running her fingers through my hair. “You can’t hurt me.”

I hope she’s right. I move in gently, rolling in, trying to be easy.

“Maddox. Fuck me hard,” she says. “C’mon. Don’t be afraid. It’s okay.”

I’m not convinced. I’m scared of losing control and being too rough with her.

I’ve shot people. I’ve pulled dead guys onto helicopters and tied off destroyed limbs on barely living men to keep them from bleeding out. I’ve defied orders to save lives, and killed people despite orders to the contrary. I’ve blown up sixty million dollars worth of government property to keep it from falling into enemy hands. But I have never – not even once – had sex with a woman who was pregnant with our child.

Avery shoves my shoulders backward. “Roll over,” she demands, pushing hard.

I find myself on my back with her on top, sitting on top of me, my cock buried deep inside her, her hips grinding against mine.

“I’ll fuck you,” she growls, almost threatening, leaning forward, pressing her round, firm tits into my chest, her clit hard against my shaft as she draws me out and then sucks me back in.

My hands fall to her hips, gripping the soft skin of her ass cheeks. She’s so warm. Her pussy so hot and so incredibly tight, wrapped around my cock as she rides me, shoving me into her, then pulling out. Every nerve in my body fires looking up at her, holding her, feeling her drive. She owns me.

She finds the pace and moves with it, burying me deep and then rising up, teasing the head of my cock with her muscles, pinching me hard.

“Oh fuck,” I hear myself say. My head rolls backward. My eyes squeeze closed. I feel my balls draw up as the tension at my belly tightens to a spring loaded coil.

“That’s it,” she urges me on, her hands falling to my chest while she grinds, moving me in deep and then drawing back slowly, teasingly.

“Oh fuck.”

I can’t stand it. I wrap my hands around her ass and in a second I’ve got her underneath me, my cock inside her, thrusting hard and deep. I’m suspended above her looking down, meeting her eyes as I feel her legs wrap around my hips, her body rising to mine in a pumping rhythm.

“That’s it,” she says again. “Just like that.” She comes again easily, giggling into my chest with wave after wave of throbbing orgasm as I punch into her. Then I feel my coil break and release, shoving a million volts of pent up angst, fear, and frustration from the day, releasing all at once in one massive, jettisoning explosion inside her.

I hear Avery cry out, her fingers digging into my back, stinging me.

I pull back. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

She’s crying. I see the tears streaming from the corners of her eyes. I’m terrified I’ve hurt her.

“No Maddox,” she says, breathless. “No. You didn’t hurt me.”

Her arms slip up around my shoulders. She hugs me tightly while her hips rock slowly, her body still quivering against mine.

“You make me feel so perfect. This is perfect.”

It’s perfect to me too.

* * *

We will figure all of this out. Not by the time we get to Vancouver, probably not even anytime soon. But with the help of friends like Ella, her Aunt Bebe, Salvatore and a few others we may not have even met yet, we’ll find our way. We have one another to take care of, and a baby on the way. Nothing is ever really perfect, but sometimes it’s not far off if you keep your priorities in order. I know what my priorities are now. I love Avery and our tiny potential of a family. I’ll be the best for her that I can possibly be. Beyond those basic facts, not much else matters.

Chapter 28

Avery - November 5, 2018

“Okay, I’m sick of the news,” I say. I lean back on the couch in our Vancouver apartment. “And I’m sick of the election. I just want it to be over. I don’t want to see my mother or father on TV again.”

Ella is visiting for an impromptu baby shower that I expect isn’t so impromptu. I think she knew it would be hard for me to get through the November election without her. So she’s here, sitting at the kitchen table, chatting with Maddox and eating a hefty portion of his French toast. The news is on mute behind them, and I hide my face from it.

Ella turns it off of mute. “Trust me. I was up last night when I got here, and I saw it before you did. You’re going to like this.”

The Canadian reporter talks with her clipped accent and round Os. I’m falling in love with it here — and the people have a lot to do with it. I feel like everything that happened in California is so far away now.

“… it was found that the Senator from California, Evelyn Thomas was embezzling money from her campaign funds. Yes, that’s right, Stewart. She has hundreds of thousands in misallocated funds.”

There’s a man next to the women, nodding and then shaking his head in disapproval.

“This is impossible.” My stomach ties in a knot, and my mouth drops open. “They paid us to keep quiet.”

“And apparently, they paid you from their misallocated motherfucking funds,” Ella says, taking a triumphant bite of toast. “Just listen.”

Maddox looks at me and shrugs, smiling.

“Yes, it appears that Senator Thomas and General Thomas were using money from campaign donors for a private investigator and for other personal expenses which have not been disclosed,” the man says.

There’s a shot of my mother in her office, face pale, eyes surrounded by dark gray circles. “I told the press I would not speak to them. This is between me and my lawyer.”

Nothing else. She shuts them down just like that. No apology to her constituents. Nothing else.

The TV screen flips back to the woman reporter. “It goes on like this, with her saying nothing and refusing to comment to the press. There hasn’t yet been talk of law enforcement involvement, but it does appear some of the misallocated funds also went to illegal enterprises. There may also have been some voter tampering in her home district of San Francisco. We’re not entirely sure at this point.”

“Oh my God,” I whisper. “What the hell is going on? None of the three of us was supposed to release any of the information we found.”

“None of us did,” Maddox says. “But there were other people who knew about Evelyn’s little games. They might have been nudged in the right direction to spill some information. Not everyone can be bought off by Evelyn and Richard Thomas. There are some people in this country who’d rather see someone honest win.”

“And needless to say, Mrs. Thomas is now withdrawing from the Senate race. I do believe her bid for president is no longer a factor in the next election…”

The woman keeps talking, and the man backs her up with more details. The three of us listen in silence as the speculation continues.

“If they paid us with misallocated funds …” I say at last.

Maddox looks at me and shakes his head. “They didn’t. They paid us from their personal accounts. I made sure of it. And your trust fund is still protected. We’re fine.”

Ella sighs. “I thought we had our hands on some dirty money,” she says, laughing. “Well, we’re okay. Your parents aren’t. How do you feel about that, baby?”

My best friend comes and sits down next to me, putting her hand on my belly.

My head swims. “I’m not sure what to think.” I swallow hard. It’s tough to hear that your parents weren’t even as good as I thought they were. And my opinion of them was lukewarm at its very best. “So they weren’t just spying on me with that money?”

“No,” Ella says gently.

Maddox comes and joins us on the couch. “It appears they were doing a lot more than that. Your dad may well get stripped of his rank, and your mom is likely to lose her job, her bid for reelection, and her reputation.”

I close my eyes and think about what they did to me and more — how they treated Maddox. “Good,” I say. “That’s nothing less than she deserves.”

“That’s a fact,” he says, but he takes his hand in mine. I feel the warmth of his presence, his protection. And I let it give me strength. “But what’s good about being an adult is that you get to build your own life. Your own family. I learned that in the Marines.”

Ella nods. “And here, you’ve got Maddox. And Bebe. And probably me when I finish up this degree. Vancouver is just as good as San Francisco.”

“It’s growing on me,” I say.

The baby kicks — hard — and I put Maddox’s hand to it. “She agrees with you guys.”

Maddox swallows hard, and I see tears at the corners of his eyes. For a tough-as-nails marine, he’s already insanely emotional about his daughter.

“She’ll never have to tolerate any of your parents’ bullshit.”

“I know. I’m not planning to let them have a visit any time soon.”

“I doubt they’ll be able to lift their own heads out of all this crap. It’s all about them. It always has been,” Ella says.

“And this — this baby — she’ll know unconditional love.”

“She already does,” Maddox says.

I hold his hand, and for once in my life, everything seems absolutely perfect.

Chapter 29

Maddox - January 10, 2019

“Avery, hurry up.” I stand at the door of our bathroom apartment, and I’m taken back to the memory of Avery, hiding in the bathroom and getting ready for her mother’s ridiculous foundation dinner. “We’re down to the wire here.”

“Just a second,” she says.

Inside, the water stops running. I hear her blow drying her hair — for the second time, and then there are the clicks of make up jars and whatever the hell else women do to their faces. Who knows? Tweezers and all sorts of other torture devices.

At eight months pregnant, Avery still doesn’t need any of it. In fact, she looks more beautiful than ever. Her hair is thicker and wilder, her breasts fuller, her ass even more delicious.

I listen as she rustles around in the bathroom, and I have visions of her falling to the floor, unable to move. I try to keep the panic out of my mind. It was her idea to get married at thirty-six weeks pregnant. And she and Ella had me agreeing to go along with it, since it was the only time Salvatore could make it up here.

“Dammit, woman,” I say. I adjust the bow tie of my tuxedo and rap on the door again. I’ve found that at this stage of her pregnancy, I’m not 100% comfortable with her being alone anywhere, especially given her propensity to tumble down stairs and trip over cracks in the street. Or smash her bike into lampposts.

“Hold your horses,” she says. “You have to let me get dressed by myself. You’re not my bodyguard anymore, and you can’t see me in my wedding dress.”

“You are already knocked up, and we’re riding over to the courthouse together.”

“Well, we’ll hook you up with a blindfold. It’s bad luck. My pregnancy doesn’t have anything to do with anything,” she quips. After thirty more seconds, the door opens, and there she is — my very pregnant, very beautiful fiancée. Her deep red hair falls in cascades over her shoulders, falling beneath her white strapless bra and touching the top of her very round belly. Besides that, she has on lacy white boy short panties.

I catch myself staring at her. “Ave, you look —”

“Pregnant? Whale-like? Gigantic.” She pauses and bites her lip. “Oh — actually. Like a hippopotamus with red hair.”

She laughs and pulls me into her arms. Inconveniently, my cock responds. I feel myself starting to swell against her, which is not entirely appropriate for the situation. “If Ella weren’t in the other room, I’d give you a run for your money right about now,” I say, nuzzling into the delicious scent of her hair. “You are fucking incredible.”

She lets out a peel of laughter. “Okay, settle down, marine. At ease,” she whispers back, her hand going to my cock.

“Hey now, if you actually want to get married before our daughter is born, I’d say you need to let go of my equipment.”

We both descend into laughter, and Ella marches out of the guest room, hands on hips. “Alright, you two. Lay off of the cutesy stuff. We need to get a move on. Avery is naked, and the wedding is in half an hour. Chop chop,” she says.

Before I know what’s happening, Ella has Avery by the arm and is dragging her back to her bedroom. “You,” Ella says to me. “Get on the couch and put on your blindfold. You are not allowed to see this woman in her wedding dress. Bad luck.”

“I heard.” I sit on the couch and put on the damn blindfold Ella has laid out for me. In a matter of minutes, the two of them are bustling me out of the door. I can hear the swishes of Avery’s dress, and I can’t believe I still haven’t seen it. Our apartment in Vancouver is all of eight hundred square feet, and we share a closet. I don’t know where she’s been hiding that thing.

“We’re leading you for once,” Avery says, taking my arm.

“I really don’t know why I agreed to this. It doesn’t make a damn bit of sense. That dress stuff is an old wives’ tale.”

“It’s definitely not,” Ella says. “My cousin’s ex-husband saw her in her wedding dress the day of the wedding. He turned gay like six weeks after that.”

Avery busts out laughing. “That’s definitely not how it works. Didn’t he marry her for a green card?”

“Yep,” Ella says. I hear a car door opening.

“Then her wedding dress was good luck, at least for him,” Avery retorts. My future wife shoves me into the car, and I feel it start up. She laughs, and pours in beside me. I feel her small, delicate hand take mine.

“We ready, Bryant?” Salvatore says from the front seat. The car pulls out before I can answer.

“Yes sir,” I say, grasping Avery’s hand.

She squeezes my hand a little too tight in response and takes a deep breath, letting it all out through her nose.

“You okay?” I whisper. My heart beats a little harder. Something tells me that breath was a little more than just a breath.

“Yep, just a Braxton Hicks contraction. The doctor said she’s not ready at all. It’ll be four more weeks at least. Calm down. I know exactly what you’re thinking.” Avery pats my hand, and I resist the temptation to pull off my blindfold.

The car pulls into the courthouse parking lot, and the four of us file out, Ella leading me by the arm into the judge’s chambers. Avery sighs heavily again, and I try to hide my nerves.

The judge snorts when we walk in. “He’s not supposed to see the bride, I take it.”

“Yeah,” Avery says. Her voice is breathy.

I feel her cool fingers at my temples, and she takes the blindfold away. What I see next is Avery — only Avery. Salvatore and Ella are standing in the background, and Avery outshines them both. Her dress was handmade by an old friend of hers named Mallory — and it’s amazing. Gathered over her splendid belly, and tailored to accent her every curve.

Behind her are Salvatore and Ella — and standing next to them are my mother and brother. My heart leaps, and I don’t know where to look next. I run and bring my mother into my arms. She still looks frail, but she’s here — and she’s alive.

“I didn’t know you’d make it,” I say, tears in my eyes.

“Anything for you, kiddo,” she says. “You got me all better, even though you went up and messed up that nice job of yours.” She laughs. “But I can see it was for a good reason. I think I’ll be in town long enough to meet my granddaughter, too.”

My brother joins us in our embrace. “Good on you, brother,” he says. “She ain’t half bad looking,” he says, gesturing to Avery. I laugh and punch him hard on the shoulder.

Avery is crying now, and there are tears streaming down my own face.

I turn to Avery. “Baby, you look beautiful,” I murmur. I pull her into my arms and kiss her deeply.

“Settle down, now,” the judge says. “I think you can wait until after the ceremony.”

Avery laughs and puts a hand to her stomach, wincing slightly. Maybe it’s because it’s our wedding day, but something about the way she’s looking makes me very nervous. “Avery —” I start.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” she says, ignoring me. “Okay, Judge Sands?”

The judge nods, and I stand up at the front of the room with Avery, holding her hand in mine. Instead of paying attention to any word the judge is saying, I stand there transfixed, trying to read the expressions on Avery’s face. Every so often, she winces, even as she’s saying her vows.

“Mr. Bryant, do you have anything to say to the bride before the exchange of the rings?”

The judge’s voice comes to me from far away. “Huh?”

“Get it together, Bryant,” Salvatore says, clapping me on the shoulder.

I laugh it off, but something about Avery’s face hasn’t been right since we left that damn apartment. “Yeah, I do.” I keep my eyes glued to the woman who is about to be my wife, trying to gauge what’s going on inside of her. She’s assured me up and down that she won’t give birth on our wedding day, but she clutches at her belly again.

“Go on, Maddox. Unless you’re getting cold feet,” Avery says, forcing a smile. Her face is far paler than when she left the apartment.

“Are you okay, Avery?” I ask.

She nods. “Let’s just do this so we can go somewhere to eat. I want to show off my dress.”

“Okay,” I say, pulling a piece of paper from my pocket. I look at it and shove it back in there. I clear my throat. “I’m not a good writer like Avery here. But I have known this woman for a long time, so I thought I’d tell her a few things today.”

Avery rests her hand on her belly again, but I keep on. I value my own life, and if I don’t get these vows done, I’m betting she might claw me to death in front of this judge and our friends.

“Avery was always the girl I saw myself with. I didn’t know it would be quite like this, or that I’d have a hand in bringing her parents down. Or that they’d hire me to annoy her for six months, and I’d end up getting her pregnant.”

Salvatore whistles, and Ella laughs.

“But here we are. I’m not marrying Avery because she’s pregnant. That’s just a fringe benefit. I’m marrying her because she’s the smartest, funniest, and most confident woman I’ve ever known. And baby, I promise you that I’ll always be by your side, through thick and thin, bad times and good. And all the rest of that stuff that they say. I also promise to give you a real family. One that won’t ever desert you or make you feel less than you really are. And above all, I promise that to our daughter.”

I rest my hand on her belly and feel it tighten. Avery draws in her breath sharply and gives a little moan. I had other shit to say, but it all flees from my brain. I can feel Avery’s body tensing and releasing. And that’s what they said would happen in our damn birthing class.

“Honey, are you okay?” My mother steps up next to Avery and puts a hand on her shoulder. “Are you having contractions?”

Avery shakes her head. “Nope,” she lies. “Not at all. She’s just kicking. Let’s get those rings, Salvatore. Snap to it.”

Salvatore steps up and shoves two rings into my hand. “No time for ceremony,” he says. “I’m ready for some of those weird French Fries Canadian people eat. And it looks like Avery might need to get to the doctor—”

“Nope,” Avery repeats. “But let’s get this done.”

The judge clears his throat nervously. “You may now exchange the rings.”

I put the smaller ring on Avery’s delicate finger. She’s shaking by this point, and I don’t like the look of pain coming over her face. But she manages to force the other ring on my finger.

“Okay, Judge,” Ella says, stepping forward. Avery tries to bat her away. “Let’s end this now and sign some forms.”

The judge nods. “I now pronounce you man and wife,” he says quickly. He pulls out some papers and has us sign them. As soon as Avery signs on the dotted line, she collapses onto the floor of the courtroom.

“Avery, honey,” my mom says. She sits down on the floor next to her. “Are you in labor?”

“No,” Avery moans. “Nooooo, I’m not. We need to get to the restaurant. We have reservations and a string quartet — nooooo. I’m not in labor.”

“Aves, I’m going to go ahead and say I think that’s total bullshit,” Ella says.

“Nope,” Avery says. She puts her hand in mine and stands up. “We’re going to lunch.”

As soon as the word comes out of her mouth, the six of us all hear an audible pop, and a flood of water comes rushing down Avery’s legs and onto the floor.

“Noooo,” she moans again. “My dress!”

“I’ll phone for an ambulance,” the judge says. “Hang on.”

The next minutes all happen in a blur. Somewhere along the way, Avery passes out from the pain, and Salvatore and I help get her onto a stretcher and into the back of an ambulance headed for downtown Vancouver. Avery flutters in and out of consciousness, and I hold her hand as the ambulance flies down through traffic.

“You’re okay. You’re okay,” I keep repeating. I rest my other hand on her belly.

“They’re going to have to cut the dress,” she says, crying. “I wanted to keep it for Abby.”

“Abby.” I test it out. “That’s —”

“That’s her name,” Avery moans. “Oh my God — I feel —”

“What do you feel?”

“I feel her. The head. I think I feel the head. Could I feel the head? Oh my God —”

The ambulance pulls up in front of the hospital, and the young EMT riding with us looks like he’s about to pass out. “Please hold on, ma’am. We need to get you to labor and delivery.”

Avery moans long and loud, and she starts involuntarily moving her body, lifting her legs and pushing hard. “Oh, nope. This baby is — this baby is coming —”

A doctor rushes out to greet us, and as soon as she hops inside the ambulance with us, Avery groans again. A head is born, and after that, a tiny pair of shoulders.

The doctor, without saying a word, delivers the baby. She nods at me to cut the cord. I do it, my hands shaking. The doctor places the baby on Avery’s chest. “Let’s get you inside, honey,” the doctor says.

Tears are streaming down my beautiful wife’s face, and I join her. The baby gives a hearty cry. I lean into Avery, and Abby’s little hand finds my finger and squeezes it.

“Shit,” Avery mutters. “I just wanted an uneventful day in our relationship. Like, a wedding and lunch.”

We laugh long and loud as they prep a wheelchair for Avery.

Hours later, we sit together, holding Abby. Our friends and family come and go. We don’t miss Avery’s parents at all — not on this day.

It’s the first day we are a real family, heart and soul.

And our future is oh so bright.

Epilogue

Avery - January 10, 2024

It’s funny how time passes in the blink of an eye. One moment, Abby was a tiny baby, born early at thirty-six weeks. She was five pounds, and so small that she needed to stay in the hospital three extra days. But she was strong and healthy, and by nine months old, she was in the ninety-eighth percentile for height and weight. Walking by ten months, and speaking in sentences by her first birthday.

She wowed us all.

It all happened so fast — it feels like I brought her home from the hospital in that infant car seat a week ago. And it feels like Maddox and I were just on that rooftop, drinking strawberry wine and talking about running away to Mexico. Now we’re permanently living in Vancouver, and we’re slowly convincing everyone we love to join us here.

Life has a funny way of speeding through its twists and turns.

Years pass, and it doesn’t seem like any time at all.

Today’s a big day, and everyone is here to celebrate it with us. It’s Abby’s fifth birthday, and it’s really the first birthday that I think she knows exactly what’s going on. She asked for carrot cake and cream cheese frosting (her dad’s favorite too), then insisted her entire name – Ellen Abigail Barbara Bryant – is spelled out in full above the “Happy Birthday”, and below the candles.

That little girl knows herself; not much gets past her. Maddox says she’s smart like me. I know she’s tough and wily, just like him. She’s a handful, with her mop of curly red hair and her rambunctious athletic energy, but she’s worth the effort. Even though she’s just five, she knows exactly who she’s named after, and why.

Ellen is for my best friend since freshman year in high school, Ella; who has stuck with me through thick and thin, who always tells me just how it is, and never let’s me lose focus on what really matters.

Abigail is for Maddox’s mom who passed away just a few months after Abby was born. She got to hold her grand daughter and see her smile. As sick as Abigail was by then, she still laughed and cried and sang silly songs, making Abby giggle and grin.

Barbara is for Ella’s Aunt Bebe, who’s also our aunt by adoption, choice, and default. When we were frightened and running, Bebe took us in, fed us, kept us safe, and bought me prenatal vitamins before I even knew such a thing existed, much less that I needed them. She also showed me how to breast feed, how to make stretch marks disappear, and how to help a cranky baby sleep through the night. Bebe is brilliant, along with being a crusty old soul who has all her priorities in order. She doesn’t suffer fools lightly and she cuts me and Maddox very little slack, but when it comes to Abby, there’s not much she won’t do to make sure that little girl is challenged, learning, and observing.

Bebe and Abby planted a garden in our back yard. We have tomatoes and squash, basil and oregano, hot peppers and green beans, and we’re over-run with eggplant, which Bebe turns into amazing lasagna and baked sweet breads.

Bebe lives with us, but she’s not our nanny. She’s more like our household manager, handling all the logistical and practical things that Maddox and I suck at. I don’t know what we’d do without her – which she reminds me of every single day.

My boss and his wife are at the party too, hanging out in the corner behaving like grow-ups with Lucas Salvatore and his brother. My boss is Elias Sanderson, California’s junior U.S. Senator. He ran against my mother in the last election cycle. Evelyn lost the election not just because Elias was a better candidate (he was), but because he’s a better person. That and her campaign was – in the last months before the November vote – buried in scandal, under investigation by the U.S. Attorney General’s Office, the Federal Election Commission, and the Senate Ethics Committee. It didn’t help her position that I was hired on by the Sanderson team as a strategist months before the election. The press loved that bit of turnabout, and I have to confess, I loved it too. It was great to be recruited by someone whose politics and ethics I believe in; someone I don’t have to tell lies for. Someone who appreciates my ideas and encourages them.

My parents are not at the party. They don’t have anything to do with us, and they never will. When I was eight months pregnant I was called to testify in closed session before the U.S. Senate Ethics Committee concerning the relationship between my mother and Robin Abbot. After that, all the embezzling stuff came out too — and I wasn’t around for any of that. But it all got worse.

A full investigation into their dealings revealed that Abbot, when he was a Senate page and just eighteen years old, had been lured into a sexual relationship with my mother. Years later, he used that fact to blackmail her. In order to keep him quiet, she gave him money and even put him to work on her campaign, using him to dig up or create damaging material on her political opponents and their family members. When all this came out, Abbot revealed everything – every sordid, inflammatory detail – and it destroyed my mother’s career as well as her reputation. It also destroyed my parents marriage. They divorced not long after the scandal broke.

Generally I am not one to hold grudges, but in the case of Evelyn and Richard Thomas, I will make an exception.

Life experience has taught me the difference between obligation and love. Today I surround myself with people who love me, and who I love. It’s a much better sort of family than the one I had before, and it’s full of fascinating, complicated people. One of those complicated people is Salvatore, and his closest friend and “accomplice” (as they like to joke). Lucas is rough around the edges with a short temper and boundless ambition. He works hard, plays hard, and drinks hard, and he’s the most loyal S.O.B. on the planet. He’s the kind of friend that everyone needs; the kind that would go to hell and back to protect and defend you, then buy you a beer for the privilege.

Lucas and Maddox started a consulting firm – Trident Security – a few months after Lucas retired from the Marines. It’s taken awhile for them to get on their feet, but now they’re almost too busy, working private, state, and federal contracts, and about to add more people to the staff. Ella works with Maddox and Lucas as a general office manager. She runs the place, keeping the two of them in line and all the tedious paperwork in order. Along with ensuring the bills get paid and payroll gets made, she keeps Lucas from pissing off the clients, and keeps Maddox from pissing off Lucas. She’s got her work cut out for her every single day, but she’s good at her job and she loves it.

Lucas’s brother, Brian just joined Trident to start a new service line in the area of electronic security and surveillance. Maddox says Brian was a contractor for the NSA and did some above-top-secret work with the Marines back in the day. Brian is nothing at all like his brother. He’s a quiet, deliberate, intellectual sort who’s way more comfortable with a computer than a firearm. Adding Brian to the mix looks like a good move to me, as I think his steady personality and shrewdness will bring a valuable new dynamic to the business. I’m no expert on the security consulting business, but I do know that there’s no lack of demand for their work.

Our life, while far from easy, is pretty damn good. Our friends are an odd assortment of working class sages, national heroes, dedicated public servants, and quirky curmudgeons who help us keep our priorities straight. I no longer have access to a bottomless credit line, but I do know how to balance a household budget and keep the oil changed on our two vehicles. I can write a speech for the Senator, while simultaneously kissing and cleaning a boo-boo on a baby’s skinned knee, while also making sure Maddox remembers to kiss me before leaving for work. Most days I don’t have to remind him.

Right now, Maddox is sitting on the floor, legs crossed Indian style, playing patty-cake with our daughter, singing with her. He’s such a good father. He’s really here – present – for us every single day. He pays attention and listens.

Maddox turns and sees me watching them. He smiles. Then he scoops Abby up in his arms and walks with her toward me.

“Kisses for Mama,” he says, leaning in. He kisses me on the lips while Abby presses her tiny palms to my face and smooches my cheek. “Mama is the best,” Maddox says, looking at Abby then back at me. His smile still melts my heart.

Abby grins beaming, sitting tall in her handsome Daddy’s, muscled arms.

“Daddy’s the best,” I say. “And Abby’s the best. And today is just about perfect.”

Life is never perfect, but when it’s this good, the idea of perfection pales by comparison. I wouldn’t trade anyone’s idea of perfection for what I have right here in front of me.

Deleted Scene

How the hell am I making it hard on him? He’s the one who’s treating me like I’m contagious.

When I saw him with that girl in the bar, and saw the way they were looking at each other, it brought everything back. The way he’d kissed me that night so long ago. The way the scruff of his beard felt on my cheek. The way his scent lingered in my head. The girl at the bar wasn’t even that pretty. And she was leering at him like a spider about to pounce on a tasty snack… Good Lord, I wanted to claw both their eyes out.

Maybe it was the alcohol that made me reckless. Maybe it was something else. Whatever it was, it caught Maddox completely off-guard. He saw my reflection in the bar mirror approaching from behind with an expression he’d never seen me wearing before.

I’ve shown him pouty. I’ve shown him stubborn. I’ve shown him freaking out in tears. But Maddox has never seen me really, really mad. I was as angry as a bag of snakes and I was moving fast in his direction.

He swung around and caught me in a bear hug just as I was about to hurtle myself, arms flailing, claws out, at the girl he was chatting up. Despite the fact that he had me in a body hold, I kept fighting him and screaming at that poor girl, who scrambled backward as fast as her five inch heels could carry her.

Maddox was trying to get control of me and checking the bar to make sure no one was Live Streaming my latest tantrum to Facebook, while shouting, “What the hell, Avery? What’s wrong with you? Get a freaking grip.”

I fought him all the way out into the lobby, ranting about the girl at the bar and the way she looked at him. Then ranting about the way looked at her.

Maddox pointed out the obvious, “Good lord, Avery, you’ve had too much to drink.” He shook his head at me like I was an errant child.

I’m standing there, wobbling on bare feet, carrying my heels in my right hand like a weapon, trying to be clever. “Oh and you’re in there drinking Pellegrino?” It was the only thing I could think of. My head was in a blinding rage, and I’m seldom quick with the witty repartee when I’m pissed-off – much less when I’m drunk.

“We’re not talking about me.” Maddox snapped. “I’m taking you upstairs. It’s my night off, and I’m still having to babysit you.”

And then he asked where my security detail was.

He’s always so responsible. Dependable. Predictable. Even three sheets to the wind and he’s all-business. Why can’t he take a risk?

In that second, when he asked about Marc – the guy assigned to provide security for me on Maddox’ night off – all my rage vanished. I screwed up. I just looked to the side, shrugged and confessed. “I gave him the slip between the restaurant and the first bar. He bugged my friends and he bugged me, and I just wanted to have fun, one – last – time, before Evelyn ascends to Empress of the World.”

Maddox scowled at me, then his expression changed to disappointment. He gets preachy when he’s disappointed.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed.” He said. “If you don’t get someone else killed first.”

He grabbed my elbow, turning me in the direction of the elevators. He pushed me forward like he was prodding a willful cow, walking me toward the mirrored doors. Once on the elevator, and reasonably confident that I’d calmed down, I saw the adrenaline rush in his eyes subside and the alcohol buzz start to creep back in. He was still angry though.

“Don’t be mad with me.” I begged him, trying to conjure up a sympathetic tone. “I’ve had too much to drink, but I never do that anymore. You know that. You know I always do...”

“Exactly what you’re supposed to do.” Maddox interrupted me, finishing my sentence. He’s heard it all before.

And then he starts guilting me.

“You do do realize that Marc Baker – your detail – is probably going to get fired over this? He lost his principal. First rule of protective service work; don’t lose sight of your principal. He should get fired. But honestly Avery, I doubt he thought you’d be stupid enough to try to ditch him. He’s probably freaking out, thinking you’ve been snatched or something.”

I wasn’t quite that thoughtless. “No. I called him. He knows I’m alright.”

Maddox looked up at the ceiling and heaved in a deep sigh. “You are one complicated pain in the ass, Avery Thomas.”

That was two weeks ago. Tonight I’m sitting on the edge of the tub looking at his last text.

Maddox calls me through the closed bathroom door with a brittle edge in his voice.

It’s the same tone he took two weeks ago – after he slipped the key into my hotel room door and directed me into it – and I hesitated, then reached up and cupped the back of his neck in my palm and pulled him toward me.

He moved my hand away roughly. “You’re drunk, Avery. Stop it.” His tone was edged with tension.

I just stood there, staring at him, still wobbly from too much drink and not enough to eat.

“Avery. Go inside and go to bed. Tomorrow is a big day and it starts early.”

He was a little bleary himself.

“Check my room?” I asked him. That was protocol, after all. I’m accustomed to this song and dance now. I know the rules. That’s how I break them when I want to.

He rolled his eyes at me. “Alright.”

Maddox stepped into the hotel suite and flipped on the lights, leaving me outside in the hallway. I wasn’t supposed to, but I followed him in a few seconds later. He checked the bathroom first, then the bedroom, making sure the balcony doors were locked from the inside. He checked the closet and then the sitting room. He turned around to fetch me from the corridor, but I was already inside, slipping out of my dress. I was on a mission.

“Jesus...”

Maddox dropped his eyes and tried to move around me, headed for the door, but I anticipated him. I slipped my hand around his waist and held on tight from behind. If he’d kept moving he’d have brought me stumbling to my knees. Instead of that, he stopped dead in his tracks. I slipped my other arm around him, over his shoulder and pressed myself close against him, wearing only my bra and panties. My dress was on the floor at his feet.

“Stay with me.” I asked him. “Please.”

I felt his heart pounding underneath my left palm.

He took a deep breath and exhaled, saying, “Avery. We’ve both had too much to drink. This is not...”

I slipped my hand lower, down his belly, pausing at his belt, unbuckling it with just one hand. Then I reached even lower, letting the tips of my fingers find that firmness increasing just under his zipper. I heard his breath catch and felt him stiffen as I stroked him.

“Just one night.” I said. “We’re both curious. I know it. And… It’s your night off.”

It happened fast. Maddox turned and swept me up, and in just a few fumbling seconds, we were entwined together, he was inside me, and we were moving with the rhythm of angry waves crashing on a storm wracked beach. It was nothing like I imagined it would be. It was heated, and furious, and hard, but he made me come so fast, as rough and as thoughtless as it was, it was also good. I came a couple of times – but it took Maddox awhile to get there. When he finally did it was like the tide inside him turned. It was furious, raging. When it was done, he melted into me like a passing hurricane evaporates on the horizon, leaving only glassy seas and a pile of debris in its wake.

~~~

For more from Lexi Whitlow, check out the bonus content ahead!

Bad Boy’s Fake Wedding

Prologue

Liam

The dream starts off like this.

It’s a Saturday morning, or at least I think it is.

I’m in bed, which is where I usually am on a weekend. But today is different. It’s earlier than usual. It’s not afternoon. It’s seven, maybe eight. I can tell by the quality of the light coming in through the window.

But I’m not annoyed when I wake up. I usually am if I wake up any time before eleven, even on a weekday.

There’s no one next to me in bed, but there’s someone in the house. That’s the thing too—it’s a house. Like one of those brownstone houses out in Brooklyn, even though I fucking hate Brooklyn and the hipster restaurants there that only serve sushi and roasted Brussel sprouts and nothing else. It’s not my shitty apartment above the bar, the one I’ve lived in for years.

And the woman here—I know it’s a woman—I can hear her out in the family room. There’s soft music playing, like a lullaby. And there are squeals and soft coos and the occasional sound of a little girl singing. It’s my little girl, Brie—I know that without a doubt. But she’s older. And she’s not alone.

I don’t feel panicked or angry or any of the things I ordinarily feel when a chick overstays her welcome at my place. I’m not reaching for my phone in the dream to get her a Lyft home. And I’m not thinking of some excuse to make. A trip to the DMV. A wedding. A meeting with the accountant for the bar. There’s none of that. I’m just happy.

I hear footsteps in the hall, heavier than Brie’s six-year-old feet, even though she’s already so big, and where did the fucking time go and all that shit that parents think. I’m not a normal parent, but in this dream, I am.

“Daddy,” she says, peeking in the doorway, deep green eyes staring at me. That dark brown hair her mother had, falling in curls around her face, longer than it is now. “It’s time to get up. We want the pancakes with the blueberries in them. And then we’re going to walk down to the market. They have music there today.”

“Oh, are we? Who says?” I say that and lift onto my elbow, yawning. Feeling that thing I used to feel a long time ago. Parent style tired, like I could sleep for another four hours, but those four hours are long gone.

Call me crazy, but I miss that feeling all the fucking time.

Anyway.

“I says,” she replies.

There’s a shadow in the hallway, and a voice I can’t make out.

There’s always that shadow, and then I wake up.

I’ve been having that dream on and off for two years.

Since Tabitha died.

Since I hunted down the man that sold her that shitty smack and beat him within an inch of his life. It was within an inch only because my brother pulled me off him.

Since six months of prison, and getting out, and everything after.

When I wake up, I’m usually next to some woman, but every time, I’m always in the same shitty apartment. A million steps away from getting Brie back in my custody. And even further from building a good life for her, like this one. I don’t even consider the woman because that’s not who I am anymore.

I fuck women. I make them come. I send them home. I serve drinks at the bar, and every idea I have that might get me closer to that moment—the parent-tired moment when Brie comes in my room and wakes me up—is stupid, shitty, and worthless.

On this particular morning, I wake up alone.

And everything changes.

I just don’t know it yet.

Chapter One

Liam

I shouldn’t keep doing this.

I thought I’d quit. When I woke up this morning, I reminded myself that I shouldn’t pull this shit anymore.

Girl after girl. Another one every night. Not that I ever had a dissatisfied customer. I had a whole fan base who kept coming back for more. For the experience—screaming, moaning, multiple times until morning. They weren’t the type to ever stay for breakfast. I always kept myself clean—no drugs, always use protection. I used that to justify my behavior to everyone around me. It’s what I say to my brothers, to my mom, to my ex-girlfriend’s family.

I’m no addict. I’m done with that shit.

But Finn pointed out that I was addicted to girls, to the thrill of the chase. Not that I need to chase the tail that comes in here. I watch them all, a parade of women. Some regulars, some who come to an Irish bar in Hell’s Kitchen to get a taste of the local flavor. I estimate I’ve fucked maybe forty percent of them, and that’s just because I stopped two months ago. Because the court told me I had to quit. Not that they can test for that sort of thing. But it’s easy enough for a determined, powerful family to find out what I’m up to at any given time.

I miss it. Warm, soft skin. The way a woman begs for me to take her deeper, so she can feel every inch of me. The way she sighs when I push her to her limits and then push her even further.

I look around the bar. I could have any one of these women. Take one of them—or two—to the apartment upstairs. Fill the time with my favorite hobby. I call it that, anyway. A hobby.

But my brother Finn tells me it’s a way to numb the pain of everything happening around me. All the things I’ve lost in the past two years, all the shit I’ve done that I haven’t gotten over. And it’s prevented me from getting forward, from moving on, from getting back the one thing that means everything to me. He’s right. He always is. I think about the last girl I fucked, and even if you held a gun to my head, I couldn’t remember her name. I remember a few flashes of her—fake tits, shaved bare, rode me until she came three times. But I couldn’t tell you anything else. Just like a junkie thinking about his latest and greatest high.

An addict.

Good pussy makes me forget. I’ve been clean for a good while. Just drinking a beer here and there. Socializing with people in the bar. Being a good host, keeping my damn self out of trouble. And my cock away from the women who come in and parade themselves in front of me.

Two months ago, it was every night. A display of fake blondes, names I can’t recall. Sent them home every morning. Satisfied, but gone. Didn’t bother with anything else.

It hurt my case. It hurt my case real fucking bad.

I polish up the glasses on my side of the bar and set them out, one by one. “Finn, you okay to let me off early tonight?”

He looks at me and rolls his eyes. “Another girl.”

“No, man. Or maybe.”

“No is the right answer, kid.”

“Don’t call me ‘kid,’ dick.” I lean against the bar and pour a beer for myself, while Finn tends to the old guys who sit up front. “One won’t matter.”

“It always matters when you’re dealing with fucking Marta. And her P.I. And the courts.”

I growl. He’s right. But there’s an aching need swirling inside of me, a coil about to tighten to the point of breaking. I need something.

“You’re right,” I say, still scanning the women in the bar. None of them is any different from the girls I had before. The ones who didn’t mean anything.

“I always am. And you’re always an idiot.” Finn looks over his shoulder at me. “Be my guest. Ruin your chances at getting custody of Brie. Have her live with that crazy bitch for the rest of her life.”

My fists tighten. I’d like to punch the superior look off Finn’s face and slam him into the floor for good measure. But he’s the one who came to see me in prison. And he’s the one who came to court. Bought me a suit. Got me a job.

“Shut the fuck up, Finn. One time won’t hurt anything.”

He shrugs and fixes some girly drink for one of the ladies making eyes at him. He winks at her and turns back to me. “The only way you could get away with your stupid shit—well, not get away with it—” He stops mid-sentence. His dark eyes glint in the way they did when he pulled pranks on my parents when he was a kid. “That’s not you. You wouldn’t do that.”

“What wouldn’t I do?”

Finn smiles and turns back to the customers. “Nothing.”

I step up next to him and lean against the bar, nodding to one of the regulars who looks like he should have been cut off an hour ago. “Tell me. You got an idea?”

“You’ll fuck it up,” he says. “Shouldn’t bother telling you. Because knowing you, you’ll fuck a girl, screw everything up. And I’m Brie’s uncle. You’re alright.” He looks at me for a second and frowns. “But I love that kid. She needs you. She needs a stable life. And who the fuck knows—maybe she’s got that with Marta, not you. I mean, if you’re going to go back to banging girls every night.”

“I’m not. And I’m not going to.”

“You just need a fix?” he says, all the humor gone out of his voice.

“Fuck you and the boat you came in on.”

“It’s the same fucking boat, Liam. You think I’m the responsible big brother—”

“I don’t think that. I think you’re an asshole,” I say, even though it’s not true.

“Yeah, well. I am. I was. The difference between you and me is that I don’t have anyone to go home to. And if I did, I’d keep my act squeaky clean. If I had a kid to take care of, I’d make sure any girl I got with wasn’t just a one-night stand.”

His words wash over me. I’m barely paying attention. Because there’s a shift in the air. It might be what my brother said—even though that ain’t me. I’m not that guy. Not after Tabitha, Brie’s mom.

All that talk, it makes me want to go back to all the drugs and all the girls, and every ounce of alcohol in this bar.

“That’s not exactly a good idea, and you know it,” I say. At that moment, there’s a girl who walks in, stepping quietly behind her redheaded friend. I spot her immediately. She’s not the type of girl who comes to Dougherty’s. She shouldn’t even be anywhere in the vicinity. Natural dark hair falling just to her shoulders, so deep in color, it’s almost black. Natural tits too, and a small waist, sensual hips and ass parading around in a skirt that her friend probably convinced her to wear.

Her friend waves down drinks for the two of them, and this girl, she takes it awkwardly and drinks two fingers on the straw, pinky finger lifted. When she looks up, she doesn’t see me behind the bar. Her eyes sparkle, and she turns to look at her friend like they’re sharing a secret. Awkward in her own skin, but when she smiles… I see those sensual pink lips. I close my eyes and imagine them wrapped around my cock, her eyes looking up at me, desperate, hungry.

I look over at Finn, who’s tending to a group of girls from Brooklyn. Tourists in this part of town. “Who’s she?” I ask, nodding toward the girl. When I look over at her again, she’s chewing on her lip, and for a moment, I think she looks my way. The coil inside of me, it grows tighter.

“Don’t even think about it,” Finn says without looking.

“You didn’t even look,” I say. I dry one of the glasses, hot from the dishwasher, absently pouring whiskey for one of our regulars. My eyes keep going back to the girl, who looks more and more awkward by the moment. She crosses her arms over her breasts, sighs, tries to get her friend to leave. “I might like to get to know a girl who’s not a regular. Maybe that wouldn’t get back to Marta.”

“You might like to just stay away from any girl right now. Forget what I said before. I know you’re not capable of anything real. And Marta’s itching to get any information she can to keep you away from Brie.”

“Fuck Marta,” I say. I keep watching the girl. Not much older than twenty. Nearly ten years younger. Supple, soft skin. Sweet, tight, hot. “Marta doesn’t have the best lawyer in Manhattan in her pocket.”

“Listen to yourself, occasionally,” Finn says. “You sound like an asshole. Do you care about keeping Brie? I mean, really? You say you do—”

I give Finn a look, crush my hands into fists. If he were any other person in this fucking world, he’d be in a world of pain right now. I’d make sure of it. “I get it. I’m an asshole. I say shit out of the side of my mouth. I’m an ex-con, ex-dealer. Remember you come from the same genetic pool.”

“I do. But like I said, I don’t have much at stake. I can do what I want.” Finn doles out second and third drinks to the gaggle of girls watching him and giggling at his every word. Charismatic. Charming. The smart one.

“Yeah, well. I guess you can.” I keep my eyes locked on the girl. Skin so pale, eyes big and searching. She’d probably give anything for a night with a guy like me. She looks like one of those romantic types, too. “I might be a guy with an idea. What you said makes a little bit of sense. That thing about not just having a one-night stand. I told you I was always thinking of Brie.”

“You’ve said that, yeah.” Finn steps to my side. He looks at me, meaningfully, like he does. “Forget what I said, Liam. Just lay off any stupid shit right now. No runs for the family. No girls. You might have a goddamn good lawyer. Mickey Donnelly is terrific as a lawyer. But judges don’t like guys like us, and not every one of them around here is in our pocket. It’s not 1970, and Dad doesn’t have the hold he used to. Just a fair warning. Your hearing is coming up in—”

“Thirty days,” I say. It’s automatic. The number is seared into my brain. A few days before I see her again, before Marta drags her in front of our lawyers. Then maybe a supervised visit if they let me, if everything looks good enough and everyone agrees. Twenty days until the next supervised visit, maybe an overnight. And thirty until the hearing.

Everyone in my family thinks I’m a fuck-up. A man-whore. But I did make it off parole without a single violation. I haven’t touched a single drug besides beer in two years, and my every waking thought outside of getting pussy and tending bar goes to her. There’s no reason I can’t work a good idea in between getting girls and tending bar. Really, it’s Finn’s idea. I can blame him if Mom gets pissed at me. Though I can’t really use that excuse with Marta.

I keep looking at the girl. There’s something about her.

Finn nods. “Okay. You can keep your shit together for that amount of time. Maybe.” But he can see I’m not paying attention to him anymore. He looks in the direction I’m looking and grins. “That’s Rhiannon Maguire. She’s out of your league. Can’t say I blame you for looking.”

“Not the redhead. The girl with her. The one with the curves.”

“That I don’t know. All I can tell you for sure is that she’s definitely out of your league. Stay far away. Far, far away. She looks like she woke up one morning and decided she wouldn’t be a nun after all.”

I cuff Finn on the shoulder, and he hits me back. “Every single goddamn girl who walks in this bar has heard of me. And they want to fuck me. They know what I can do—”

“Yeah, fine. But those girls aren’t the ones who come in the bar every night. Rhiannon is some kind of—therapist, I think. And that other girl—she probably walked out of Columbia University yesterday. Nice jewelry. Nice haircut. No dye, no fake tan. Like I said, that one—” He points at the dark-haired beauty conspicuously. “She’s way out of your league. Trust me on this, bro. You need to leave her the fuck alone. And do me a favor—forget I ever implied you should have a relationship. For some people, that would be a bargaining chip in court. For you, you’d find a way to make her into a liability. She’s way too good for you.”

I watch her for a few seconds more. She looks down. Runs her fingers through her hair. Something inside of me tightens, like it wants more. More of all of that. And she’d be damn perfect for a relationship. She’s a judge’s wet dream. Proper, smart, college-educated. And she’s hot as hell in that way that a librarian is hot. Like a school teacher who gets dirty behind closed doors. Something tells me she hasn’t been too naughty before, but I can change that. By the time I do, she’ll be happy to stay.

I shrug. “Let’s just hope she doesn’t know she’s too good for me. She’d be perfect in front of the judge. And the lawyers. And I think she could help keep Marta away from that money I have saved for Brie.”

“Don’t think about it. Stop thinking about it. I never should have said anything,” Liam says, groaning. “How the fuck am I related to you again?”

“You think it’d be easy enough to get her name on that trust?”

“Jesus, I don’t know, Liam.” Finn turns and grumbles, paying attention to the women coming in instead of me.

My lawyer Mickey Donnelly would know exactly how to arrange every damn bit of it. This girl is ripe for it. A scam like I used to run every once in a while, except this is for a good cause.

She’s damn hot, too.

And I’m also hoping she’s available for the next thirty days.

My cock twitches. I almost like the idea of taking her to breakfast, if I get to wake up next to her and fuck her all over again. The family is supposed to come over tomorrow morning, anyway. Fucking, breakfast, lay the surprise on that she’s my girlfriend. Fiancée. Whatever. Sure, that could work.

I smile. Just looking at this girl, I know she’ll be a challenge. She doesn’t have one night stands. She doesn’t mess with ex-cons covered in tattoos, and she’s not out for a casual fuck. And I’m almost certain she’s not a mafia groupie girl.

I imagine her bouncing on my cock, throwing her head back in ecstasy.

I nod at my brother and start walking toward the girl. He sighs and shakes his head. All he sees is the screw up, the one who never does anything right. Well, I’m damn good at being a dad, and it’s about fucking time I got custody of my own damn flesh and blood. The judge has been on me about getting a stable environment together for Brie. Wifey, house, breakfast on Sundays.

This girl has that wholesome shit written all over her. She’s a poster child for stability. And she’ll be begging me for more once I get a hold on her.

It’s impulsive, reckless. Probably idiotic.

I nod at her, and she blushes.

But, I’m going in for the kill—and I never miss.

Chapter Two

Skye

“You need a casual fuck,” Rhiannon says. She hands me a drink. “It’ll fix everything. Trust me. I know one of the guys who owns this bar. One of his brothers will apparently deliver exactly what you need. My friend Trista said it was like nine, ten inches at least. And he knows how to use his tongue.”

“That’s good,” I say. “I guess. Isn’t that like—too big?” I blush, cheeks hot and red. He looked at me. I could swear it.

I should be home re-reading Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban. Or listening to that podcast I downloaded. Pouring myself one, measured glass of chardonnay. I could put it together with that fig and honey cheese I got from the farmer’s market.

That’s my life—measured, boring, reliable, predictable. My own mother said I needed a little bit of adventure in my life. But adventure seems dangerous. My heart hurts when I think of any kind of adventure, stomach dropping. I’m not good at that stuff. Not redheaded or talkative, or much of anything at all.

“In my personal experience, that’s juuuust right,” Rhiannon says. “Trust me. I know you’ve only slept with Charlie, and by the look of his truck, he was definitely covering up for something. You need a walk on the wild side. This guy is an ex-con, and now he owns a bar. He’s the kind you won’t see again, so it doesn’t matter. What does matter is the glorious size of his reputation.”

I blush even harder, though I don’t believe that’s humanly possible. The redness extends all the way to my ears, like my own body is trying to prove to everyone in the bar how lame I actually am.

“Ha. Yeah,” I choke out. It seems like the kind of noncommittal response Rhiannon would give. “Size of his reputation. I get it. That’s funny.”

My dearest friend in the world has no idea I’m a virgin. You’d think Charlie would have taken the opportunity to finally fuck me in the six years we were together, but he didn’t. He was always way too focused on Jesus. He wanted us both to wait. He made me wait all this time, and where did that get me? Nowhere. I just turned twenty-three, and I’m still a virgin. In every way. I’ve only ever been kissed.

The mere mention of a cock that big—it makes me quiver with fear. But it also makes me feel empty inside, and intensely excited in a way that I haven’t been before. I take two giant gulps of the Cosmo Rhiannon got for me, and I choke and sputter. Too much at once.

Much like a dick that’s too big? I wouldn’t know.

I always thought about it a lot. Sex. Then I met Charlie, and I thought he was the one. Pretty stupid idea. Rhiannon might be right. I might need a casual fuck, as she says. But it terrifies me. What would it even feel like to have a man touch my body? To have him inside of me?

I shiver. Maybe not tonight. Another time.

Pretty ridiculous for a girl who always wanted to be a romance author. I always liked the parts with the sex. My mom’s old Harlequins were dogeared and cracked on the seams. There were a few that opened right up to the good parts—the pirate capturing the maiden, taking her down to the hold for the first time, her dress ripped, exposing one fair, virgin shoulder.

It was romantic in those books to be a virgin. A maiden. Maidens are sexy. Virgins are lame.

For a grown-ass woman in the publishing business, it’s just pitiful. And hilarious, if I’m looking at it on a good day.

“You look smoking hot, Skye. That bad boy is here for you. Like a gift from God. He’ll show you how it’s done. I’m sure Charlie had no idea.”

“Oh, you’re right. He had literally no idea at all.”

I look around and sip my drink, slower this time. The guys here are hot. They’re all bad boys. They’ll give me a good time, pay for my drinks, and fuck me silly until morning. And what’s more, they won’t expect me to come back around. I try psyching myself up.

That one guy, the one behind the bar, he looks at me again. A chill runs down my spine.

“Trust me. You’ll definitely find what you’re looking for here. That outfit looks fierce as shit.”

“I’m… passable.” I’m wearing a shirt that’s far too low cut, a skirt that’s far too short, and a thong that Rhiannon made me buy at Target. It feels weird. Not just the thong; the whole outfit she dug out of her closet and forced onto my body. She shoves me up to the bar and flags down a second drink. She’s like that—always easygoing with her personality, with her body.

I usually end up watching people from a corner and taking notes on their names and body language on my phone. I do it for myself—for the novels I’d like to write someday. And for my boss, Mariella Davidson, the famous romance author who writes about exactly this type of guy. I told Rhiannon that this bar would be good research—but I told her that when we were a bottle of wine into our pre-gaming, back at her apartment. I’m feeling way too sober to be here right now. Low lights, the smell of beer and old smoke, alpha male types laughing way too loud and talking over one another. And girls, every one of them taller, thinner, and more charismatic than I am.

Rhiannon shoves another drink in my hand, and I sip it tentatively, like it might bite me. Like everything in here might. This one is clear, and much stronger.

“You look way more than passable. I keep telling you, guys like boobs. And you’ve got them. And an ass like Beyoncé,” Rhiannon says. “Well maybe not quite like her, but you know what I mean. It’s really good. It’s a real nice ass.”

I laugh. “I don’t think Beyoncé would like that comparison.”

“She would. I promise you that.” Rhiannon points at me, tottering from side to side a bit.

Clearly, Rhiannon is not feeling her sobriety. I laugh and try the drink again. “You’re full of shit. But I’ll take the compliment. I kinda doubt that guy is going to notice me though. It seemed like a good idea back at your place—”

“The Dougherty brothers own this place. I know Finn. And his brother—the one I was telling you about—he’s the guy. Ten inch cock. Or nine, whatever.” Rhiannon shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “And with you, looking like you do—you could pull him into the bathroom, just like that.”

I cringe. “The bathroom? Isn’t that a little…”

“You’re right. It’s gross. But you need to get laid. It’s been forever, right? This is the place to do it. And it’s your research. For science.” Rhiannon looks at me and winks. She pulls off the whole sex kitten thing really well, even though she’s an overworked social worker by day. She polishes off the last of her vodka tonic and clinks the ice in the glass, signaling the bartender again.

“Oh yeah, research.” I look down at my drink. Is it straight vodka? What the hell did she order for me?

“You’re a romance author. This type of thing should be part of the job!” She laughs, loud. Too loud.

Nervously, I look around to see if anyone heard Rhiannon. If that guy heard her. The one with the bedroom eyes, like they say in the old Harlequin romance novels. When she’s drinking, her voice gets twice as loud and an entire octave higher.

“Oh God, no. I’m not an author at all.” I groan. “I assist Mariella. That’s all I do. She’s the romance author. I’m just the intern. Barely paid. I get coffee. I look over proofs. I get her marketing and interviews and all that shit. That’s not called being an author. It’s called being an English major with no direction in life. But I will take down some notes and get a list of good names. I like doing that kind of thing. And I’m good at it. Maybe that’s the best thing I can hope for tonight.”

Rhiannon rolls her eyes and tries to get a few more drops of vodka out of the bottom of her drink. “You want to write like her. That’s what you said. And this is the place to get laid, get the juices flowing. It’s all in the name of research. For science. It’s bad boy central. And this is the best place to learn your trade.” She gestures broadly to all the bar, and I catch her hand, bringing it quickly back to her side.

“Rhiannon, come on.” Researching bad boys and hooking up with strangers had seemed like great ideas when we were drinking wine at her apartment an hour ago. But now—it seems sort of terrifying even if it’s exciting, too.

“We came here for bad boys. So, you need to actually start talking to boys. One in particular, I think. His name is Ian or something. Something Irish. You need to talk to him. So, you can, you know—” Rhiannon makes an obscene gesture with her fingers, and I bury my face in my hands. “Seriously—it’s been—how long?”

It’s been never. And yes, I get it, I’m pathetic. Especially if I want to be a writer someday.

“Six months or so. I guess. That’s how long it’s been.” I take another long swig. It burns my throat. The way this conversation is going, I decide to finish it off, hoping to get some of the buzz back that I lost when we came in. With Rhiannon, drunk-yelling about my sex life, I’ll definitely need something more than a buzz. The drink is gone now, and I’m still about to jump out of my skin.

Rhiannon clinks her glass against the bar again, and finally, the bartender takes a step closer. A shadow falls across him, obscuring his body. But even from here, it strikes me—he’s the kind of man that could be an adventure, a major life event. The kind Mariella might write about if she weren’t so in love with billionaires at the moment. It’s like he materialized straight from one of the covers of her books.

“Another one for her too!” Rhiannon shouts at him. “She’s thirsty. For vodka. Or whatever. And men. Definitely men.”

The bartender steps into the light, laughing and polishing a glass instead of focusing on the growing crowd and line of customers. He nods to another man behind him, who starts taking orders. He takes a step closer to us, and my heart catches in my throat for a second. I had that tingling sensation before when he caught my eye, but as he approaches, I see what Rhiannon was talking about. This is the kind of guy who would be called a legend in my high school. He’s a swaggering, muscle-filled, chiseled masterpiece. It might be the alcohol, but this guy—he takes my breath away. I close my eyes for a second and imagine him as the pirate, the one who took the maiden down below deck.

I open my eyes again. He’s still there. Looking at me, harder than he did before.

Rhiannon taps on the bar again, gesturing at him wildly.

I hope he doesn’t walk over here. I hope he does.

Fuck.

Not that I’m into that sort of thing beyond the research I’m doing or the novels I like to read. Or that I even really know what that sort of thing is like. Hazel eyes, beneath dark eyebrows, flash in our direction. When he smiles, it sends another tiny shiver down to the base of my spine. But I’ve known guys like him—all talk and flashy watches, black t-shirts, and pick-up basketball. Not the type that gives a second glance my way.

He did glance at me before. But that was probably a trick of the light.

“What do you ladies want? I can’t come down there just to wait on a couple of pretty girls. I have responsibilities. Customers.” He takes a step toward us, his voice steady and deep. There’s a slight rasp to it, like he’s been talking all night. When he comes closer, I can see the faintest hint of dark stubble. Beneath the sleeve of his black t-shirt—or is it dark gray?—I can see the beginning of a multi-colored tattoo. His eyes catch mine for a moment, and he gets a beer from the tap for himself. When he drinks it, the tiniest bit of foam clings to his upper lip. Even from here, ten feet away, I can see the fullness of his lips, the square jawline, the hooded intensity of his eyes.

“Two vodka tonics. Heavy on the vodka,” Rhiannon says.

The man shrugs and pulls down two glasses. His movements are languid, like he’s comfortable in his own skin. I might be imagining it, but he looks our way again while he’s pouring the drinks. And not at Rhiannon. At me, again. I try to take my eyes off him, but I can’t. It’s probably the alcohol. And all the talk about this guy and his cock.

Oh my god. I wonder what it looks like. What it feels like. Shit.

Rhiannon leans down toward me and whispers in a voice that the three people closest to us can probably hear it. “Skye. You have to hook up with him. He was looking at you. He looks like he could throw you over his shoulder like a caveman. God, he’s even better in person. And get you out of your slump.”

“No. No—definitely not. He’s not the type of guy who looks at me.” When I look up, the man is looking at me. Smiling, one corner of his lip turned up. That smile reaches his eyes and stays there, sparkling. He gives me a quick wink and finishes making the drinks.

Rhiannon shrugs. “Hurry up! My friend here wants her vodka tonic, and she wants your number. Or at least your name! It’s Ian or something, isn’t it?”

The guy shakes his head and laughs.

At that, I nearly melt into the floor. But the guy—he walks over.

He places the drink in front of me. I expect his eyes to cut over to Rhiannon, but they don’t. He stays focused on me, instead. I take the drink and take a long swig. The buzz is hitting me hard now, but my mouth is dry, the words suddenly vanished. I look over for help, but Rhiannon is already talking to some other guy. “I, um, thank you for the drink.”

The guy smiles again. “Liam,” he says. “Not Ian.”

“Nice to meet you, Not Ian.” I try to sound cool, but inside, my core is on fire with a feeling I don’t quite recognize.

“I usually go by Liam,” he responds, smiling brighter. Full of teeth. “I thought that’s what you wanted. My name. Or is there something else you’re interested in?”

I take another long sip, and the alcohol pulses through my veins, warming me. Making me bolder. Which is something I’m definitely not—bold.

“Liam. That’s good. I collect names, actually. That’s a good one.” The veins in my temples pulse, and a lump forms in my throat. That was an idiotic thing to say, and it makes me sound like a serial killer collecting trophies. I clear my throat. “I mean, for my job. It’s my job to write interesting things down. For my boss.” I lift the drink in his direction in a fake toast.

“Yeah? What do you do? Write phonebooks or something?” His accent is pure New York. “No. Let me guess, you’re a librarian. Something about you looks like… a sexy little librarian.”

I swallow hard. Sexy. Shit. I gather myself together.

“Books, yeah. But not phone books. And I’m not the one writing them. My boss does. I go out and do research. Help her get proofs together.” Anxiety surges in my body, and I try to tamp it down with more vodka.

He shrugs, like he has this effect on women all the time. “Yeah? What does she write?” He studies me for a second, taking another sip of his beer. “Let me guess. Historical fiction? Fantasy? Some of that young adult stuff? The next Harry Potter? Or some Hunger Games shit? I liked that one.”

“First of all—no. She writes romance.” I try to keep my face calm when I say this because it’s ever so slightly embarrassing. “And second of all, I can’t see you kicking back with a young adult novel.”

“There are lots of things you might not know about me, librarian. I’m totally hashtag team Gale. Peeta’s a pussy.”

“He is not! He’s sweet!” I find myself laughing in spite of myself. “And you just said hashtag out loud.”

“The more important topic here,” he says, laughing. “Is whether those romances you write are clean. Or are they—” He leans in closer to me. “Dirty?”

I’m glad the alcohol is kicking in because I would not be able to handle this otherwise. “My boss writes them. I don’t yet. I haven’t given anything but short stories a try.”

“Clean?” he asks again. “Or dirty? I mean, if you were going to write one, would it have fucking? That’s all I’m asking. A romance novel is nothing without fucking.”

I make a slight strangled sound in my throat. “I guess I’d write something on the dirtier side.” A hint of warmth begins between my legs. This guy is good. Charming. He’s even got me talking.

“What’s your name, anyway? I want to know it so—well, I got plans for your name.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” I say. “But it’s Skye. Skye Williams. And what are these plans you have?”

He leans forward slightly, but he still talks loud enough that anyone in the bar could hear him, if they were listening. “I want to know what to call you when I get you on your knees in front of me later tonight.”

I freeze. Shit, shit, shit. Oh my God. This is a thing that could happen.

“I think Rhiannon might want to go home…” My voice trails off. “I—I might need to go home.”

No, you’re not going home. You might actually have a chance with this guy. If you stop saying stupid shit.

“Your friend?” He gestures to Rhiannon, who’s dancing now. “She’s having a good time all by herself. No reason you shouldn’t have a good time too.”

“I came here to do, um, research. Not really to go home with anyone.”

Shit. No. He’s going to ask—

“One—you don’t need to go anywhere else to go home with me. And two—what’s the research on? I’m very curious.” He lifts an eyebrow.

“The, um. This part of town. And the bar. The people here.” I smack my lips together. Another nervous tick. “Yep. This part of town, and the people who—well, own it.”

Men like you. You, in particular. Apparently.

“The Irish families,” he says. “That’s us. That’s me, I mean. The Doughertys. They own this area, and the more violent ones are still trying to stir up trouble every once in a while. I’m not in the life anymore because of certain responsibilities—” He stops for a second. “Because I don’t need to get back in trouble. I’m co-owner of this bar, and I’ll leave the other shit to my family. Back to the issue at hand. You going upstairs with me. My shift is about to end.”

Several girls look over our way, and I’m pretty sure they’re glaring daggers at me. Liam is talking loud now, and he’s leaning over the bar, his broad chest poised over his elbows. I can see the tattoo. It’s an elaborate Celtic cross. I don’t ask, but I’m betting it’s part of the whole family thing. From the scars on his arms, and the one fading on his jaw, I can guess Liam wasn’t always just the co-owner of a bar.

He’s not your type. Not at all.

It occurs to me in that moment that maybe no one is, or was, my type. And maybe this guy standing right in front of me, the one very obviously flirting with me, he could be the type for one night, anyway. Then it wouldn’t matter that I’m saying stupid, meaningless bullshit.

“I’m not very experienced,” I blurt out. “I don’t do stuff like this. Rhiannon got me out to try something new, I guess. And I mean, I really don’t want to waste your time. I had a bad relationship, and that’s it. That’s the beginning and end of my experience.” I look down.

His eyebrow raises. “Oh really? I like the sound of that. Because I have plenty of experience. And I could be an inspiration for your research.” He leans over and touches my hand, sending a shock to my core. “I can be very inspiring.”

Rhiannon catches this bit of our conversation, and she looks over, giving me a big, exaggerated thumbs-up.

“I’m sure you can… but I’m not exactly your type. I don’t think.” I chew on my lip.

Liam looks at me. Holds my gaze. Waits for me to continue. His eyes move down to my breasts, unabashed.

What do I want? Do I want a one-night stand? A few sentences, a hot evening, no goodbyes? Or do I want him to leave me alone?

“When I say I’m not experienced, I mean I’m really not experienced.” I’m just digging myself deeper and deeper. I make a move to slink away from the bar and pretend that none of this ever happened, but Liam catches my hand again, fingertips linking with mine.

“Wait.” He smiles, and then he laughs again, rich, and dark. It stirs up something inside of me, like I want to leap across the bar and run my fingers through his hair. Examine his tattoo in detail. See if I could rip his shirt in half with my bare hands. Charlie didn’t give me that feeling. Not ever. Which could explain a lot.

“I don’t usually talk to guys like you,” I blurt out. My heart starts beating fast. I remember the last time I was with Charlie. It was dark and horrible and awkward. I’d wanted to so badly—and he hadn’t wanted any part of me. And with Liam, with someone I don’t even know, it would be seventy times worse. “Not ever, really. I’m stumbling over my words here. I should go. This—” I gesture between the two of us. “Isn’t going to go well.” Because you’re scorching hot and totally fine. And I have no business talking to you. The thought hangs there in the air.

“Who says? And I don’t know if I should take offense to the whole ‘guys like me’ thing, but I won’t. Like I said, there’s plenty to me you don’t know. Maybe you’d like to. Who knows?”

His smile. Infectious. Addicting. I need to see it again.

“I mean, like. Bad boys. Guys like you. With a past. And—” I look around. “At least six other girls staring at you.”

He laughs aloud. “So, you’ve heard about me?”

“I can guess. And yes. A little.” Nine inches, ten inches. At least. I finish the drink. Was it three drinks? Four? I’ve said just about every embarrassing thing I know how to say, and this guy is still talking to me. Still flirting with me, for fuck’s sake.

“You can guess, huh? That means you’ve been thinking about what I can do for you.” He leans closer, eyes sparkling. He leans in close and whispers. “I’d like to see you come, Skye Williams. On my fingers. On my tongue. On my cock. Not necessarily in that order. I do take requests.”

I almost faint. “Did you—this is a little fast. Did my friend say something to you?” The alcohol rocks through my body. I’m bold. I feel like I should. Heat is pooling between my legs. I feel my body in a different way than I have before.

“No,” he says. “You looked out of place when you walked into this bar.” Liam looks at his watch. I imagine getting in bed with him, letting it happen, never seeing him again. It’s appealing. The next sip of my drink makes it even more attractive. “And I’m sick of the girls around here.” He puts a finger to my chin, tilts my head up like men do to women in the movies. “Maybe I need a little forgetting, too. An escape. A release. A fix.”

“I don’t do this sort of thing.”

“That’s exactly why you should. Gotta have material to actually write a book, don’t you?” He leans in, kisses me. Powerful and warm. Rhiannon waves at me and gives me a big grin.

I melt. And I follow him upstairs.

Chapter Three

Liam

When I take Skye upstairs, that feeling stays with me—the feeling that this is an unusually good decision. Like this is something singular, something good. I’m not exactly planning to share it with her, so I keep it in my mind, hidden. A secret.

We reach the top of the stairs, and I look back at her. She looks like she’s about to bolt. Like a terrified wild animal, caught in a trap. Except I’m the one standing by the door, and she’s behind me, with the freedom to run if she wants to. She looks back down the stairs, like she just might.

“You look skeptical. Trust me—I won’t bite.” I pause. Skye is chewing her lip again, and something about it turns me on. My cock stiffens against the fabric of my jeans. An aching need I’m about to fill. Unless she runs off. And I can’t have that. She’s now a part of my long-term plan—whether she likes it or not. “Unless you want me to.”

“It’s not that I don’t.” She’s still chewing her lip. “Trust you, I mean. It’s that—like I said—I’ve never done this before.”

“No worries.” I take her hand before she can start thinking about it anymore. I’ve had a lot of girls tell me that they never ‘do this kind of thing,’ that they’re ‘not into one-night stands.’ That they’re not ‘experienced.’ They might not be experienced, but I always find a way to bring out the vixen hidden inside. It always turns out that they’re secret freaks. And that’s exactly what I predict is going on here. Beneath that librarian I-don’t-do-this-kind-of-thing exterior is a girl who wants to do this kind of thing. “I’ve done it lots.”

I pull her inside and bring her body to mine. She trembles beneath my hands, which is something I haven’t experienced in a long time. I have to say that I like it, her whole helpless, nerd-girl type of thing. That attitude doesn’t match the body that the good Lord gave her, and it’s fucking hot as hell. I bet she has a closet full of cardigans at home. And white, lacy bras. Little cotton bikini panties with bows on the center. The thought of those little panties makes me grab her ass, slip my hand in her skirt, see if those panties are soaked like I’m guessing they are.

I grab it. And that ass—it feels fucking amazing under my hand.

She yelps in surprise. “Hey, what are you doing back there?”

“Nothing. Just checking for—” I run my thumbs between the waist of her skirt and her hot, smooth skin. There it is. “A thong.” I bring my lips to her neck. Beneath my lips and fingers, her skin turns to gooseflesh. Even in the dim light, I can see that her skin has turned the best shade of pink. I bet it’s spread all the way to her nipples, the tops of her breasts. And holy shit, I bet those are good. I cup one breast tenderly in my hand, other still firmly planted on her ass. Two fucking handfuls of perfection. A breath catches in her throat, and her eyes almost roll back in her head. Like it’s good to be touched. She’s about to find out just how good.

“I didn’t know things would move so fast.” Her voice trails off, and I take the opportunity to kiss her, my tongue finding hers. Skye’s lips melt into mine, and tentatively, she brings her arms around my neck. I like how her body moves, the way her hair smells, the heat and heft of her body. I could imagine waking up to this, or at least indulging again from time to time. “But I guess that’s good,” she mumbles when I pull away. “Get it over with.”

“Get what over with?” An alarm goes up in my head. That’s a weird fucking thing to say.

“But maybe we should go into the bedroom, where there’s less light.” Her voice is distant, her body still shivering like it was when I brought her in here. My cock throbs, straining now, aching for her. God, I bet she’s tight. Hot. Sweet.

I refocus. “Sure,” I say, my voice wary. I’ve dealt with enough drunk people at Dougherty’s. Skye is either at the drunk stage of saying weird shit—or she’s saying some legitimately weird shit. “I’ll take you to the bedroom, but maybe we should sit down first. What do you think?”

She nods, and I pull her over to the sofa. She’s stiffer than she should be. Nervous. But when I sit down next to her, she automatically straddles me, her skirt hiked up, showing off the expanses of her creamy, white thighs. It’s a strange thing for a nervous, uncertain girl to do. Especially one who told me she was inexperienced.

Red flag. Shit.

She’s fine, I reassure myself. Just tipsy. Just out of her element.

I bring my hands beneath her shirt and unclasp her bra, burying my face between her breasts. My mouth travels to one nipple and then the other, pulling them into my mouth through the soft, clingy fabric. She lets out a series of little moans. Her hips start to rock against me, the heat of her sex pressing into my hard cock. Her body is more limber now, warming up. Everything is just fine with this one. A good girl in the bar, a bad girl in my apartment. And a fine, sensible lady to present in front of the judge.

That tightness comes back to my center—it’s the longing to lose myself in someone, to forget my job, my bills, the courts, all the people and shit swirling around me. And with her, it might be the sweetest release. Innocent, pure. She shimmies out of her shirt and tosses her bra aside, revealing a set of impossibly perfect breasts. Nipples dark pink, and stiff, atop full, round orbs. My fingers find them again, and she moans, this time louder.

“Oh, my God,” she sighs. “This is better than I thought.”

I bring my mouth to one breast, tasting her skin this time. Her fingers come to my hair, and her nails trail over my scalp. My spine tingles. Everything does. I want to bury myself, lose myself inside of her. With my tongue flicking over her nipple, I bring my hands to my jeans, unbuckling myself and then bringing the zipper down to release my cock. I want to be inside of this girl now. I can fuck her first and focus on getting her to come later. But the need is overwhelming. I’m fast, moving her back slightly so that I can stroke myself.

“You’re so fucking sexy. I wanted you from the first moment I saw you.” I’m stroking my cock with this beautiful girl straddling me, and nothing else in the world matters. She moans, and she throws her head back. I think about wrapping my fingers around that perfect neck while I fuck her from behind. I might get to do that, too. When I get her to stick around. Once I make her come, she’ll be begging to stay. Skye is shaking like she was before, and she gasps when she looks down at my cock.

“Oh my,” she murmurs. “That’s… impressive.”

Something about the way she says it makes me look up at her face. I see trepidation. No, more than that. Fear.

“It won’t hurt. I’ll make sure of it,” I say. “I’ll get you warmed up.”

A line I’ve used a hundred times. It’s true. I have the reputation not just for a big cock—but for pleasing a woman like no other man in Manhattan.

But when I say it, her eyes go wide, like a deer in headlights. She pulls away just a bit, trembling.

“It’s just that—” She stops and rolls away from me so she’s sitting next to me on the sofa. “It’s just that I haven’t done this before.”

“You said that. You don’t go home with guys like me. That kind of thing.” I’m immediately feeling a lot more sober, and there’s something slightly off about her tone. More than slightly off, if I’m being perfectly honest. I’m still as hard as I’ve ever been. Still, want her. But I zip up my jeans, going on instinct more than anything else. I gently place a blanket over Skye’s shoulders. She still looks afraid, but embarrassment is starting to creep in on her exquisite face. Her eyes are still as wide as saucers, her lips pursed.

“I mean—I haven’t done this at all before.”

I nod, like I understand. But what she’s telling me is so surreal I can barely comprehend it. I haven’t been with a virgin since before I graduated from high school. That can’t be real. It can’t be. “You mean you haven’t been to a guy’s apartment who works in a bar?” I crack a smile.

She shakes her head, pulling the blanket close around her. “I haven’t been with anyone. Not ever.”

“You’re what—twenty-five? You were just waiting—” I try to search around for the right words, but I’m shit at this sort of thing. That’s why girls don’t stay put, why I don’t want them to. It makes me think too much about Tabitha and all the ways I failed with her. And all the ways I’m failing now with Brie.

“I’m twenty-three. I was waiting. For a guy that I thought loved me. But he said—” She groans and lies back on the sofa.

I want this girl. I want her more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time—more than the rotating door of women, parading in and out of this apartment. Ceaseless, tireless. All the same.

I’m still hard, aching. Tight. The animal part of my brain wants to take her, throw her body back on top of mine, and watch as she lowers herself onto my cock. But as I look at her, half-dressed on my couch, dazed and nervous and trembling, I feel a wave of protectiveness. Shit I don’t normally feel.

“This isn’t the time then,” I say. I lean closer to her and brush a lock of silky dark hair behind her ear. It falls over her face again.

She looks at me, pupils dilated, skin flushed. She still wants it. Good God. I imagine how it would feel to take her for the first time, pushing all the way into her tight, virgin—

“I should probably go,” she mutters. She looks around for her shirt and bra. I watch as she picks them up and holds them protectively to her chest. Her fingers are long, the fingers of an artist. Delicate.

I’ve kicked women out for less. Set up a ride on Lyft while they were in the bathroom.

Skye gathers her things, embarrassed. Humiliated might be a better word. Since I’m an asshole, I just watch her for several seconds before speaking. But something in my character cracks, breaks inside, maybe for just a second. I wouldn’t fucking tell Finn about this kind of thinking, but I want to erase the pain off this girl’s face. When she’s pulling on her bra over those perfect, round breasts, I stand and catch her again, pulling her to me by her waist.

“It’s late. Stay the night. I’ll make it worth your time. There’s plenty we can do without—” It feels strange to say the words, so I don’t. Without taking your virginity. The mere thought of it makes my brain and body nearly explode. It takes every ounce of strength I have to contain myself. “Without, you know.”

“That doesn’t sound like a great idea, Liam.” She doesn’t sound convinced when she says it, but that humiliation is still written all over her face. “I think maybe we should just leave this whole thing alone.” She chuckles for a second and looks up at me. “Maybe I’ll just hire a male escort to get this whole thing over with. Then I can come back next year.”

I grin. “You want to get this whole thing over with? That was your goal, huh?”

“Yeah. I think I ought to go for it before I’m twenty-four.” She chews on her lip like she did in the bar. And she laughs again, light, and airy. I stand up and take her into my arms again, this time gentler. I tilt her face to mine and kiss her again, this time slower and deeper, my hands finding her breasts again. She shudders and lets out a low, throaty moan, like it’s throwing her into ecstasy just to be touched. My fingers find her nipple again, rolling it beneath her shirt.

“Just how inexperienced are you, Skye? Tell me.”

She swallows before she speaks, looking nervous. “I had a boyfriend in high school and college. We kissed. He touched me—over my clothes. We never even came close. ”

A man has never touched her like that. Never made her come.

“Really?” I chuckle, then laugh louder, still holding her tight. “That’s crazy. I mean—really fucking nuts. How does that even happen?”

“It’s not really that funny. Or crazy.” She pulls away, pushing her hand against my chest. “I should go, like I said. I’m better off figuring this out myself without you being an asshole and acting like I’m a circus freak show.”

“Hey, I’m an asshole for sure.” I keep hold of her arm, gentle but firm. “But I wasn’t laughing at you. I’m laughing at the idiot guy who passed up a gorgeous girl like you. He’s the real asshole here. Stupid fucker. He was weird as hell if he wasn’t fucking you every single day he had you at his fingertips.” I flash her a grin, and for a second, she just stands there, looking at me with her eyebrows knitted. “Wasn’t he? Fucking idiot.”

She just pauses, like she’s thinking. “He was.”

“Personally,” I lean into her. She’s still letting me hold her arm, even though it feels like she might bolt for the door at any moment. “I’d fuck you every day. Sometimes twice. Three times. Basically whenever you got naked in front of me. Or sometimes not naked.” I shrug. “I’m not tied to one particular way of fucking you. I just know I’d do it a lot.”

That makes her look down and brush her hair behind her ear, which I like. Very much. It’s sexy as hell.

“Yeah? I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should. I’m up to the task.” I pull her back into me, and she doesn’t resist. She’s like a blank canvas, a sweet little girl I can teach while everyone around me thinks I’ve got some kind of dedicated girlfriend. Even fucking Marta. It’s better than I thought.

“Up to what task?” She raises an eyebrow.

“Making you—” I kiss her on the cheek and trail my lips along the length of her neck, down to her collarbone. “Come. Teaching you what you need to do to—” I let my hands move lower, cupping her ass, and then lifting her skirt. The smooth ripeness of her hips gives me the sudden image of her bent over, taking me to the hilt. This whole plan suddenly seems very enticing. “Please me. Please yourself.”

“What makes you think I want that?”

“The fact that you came up here tonight. That you even took a chance on a guy like me. I think we’ve established that I’m not exactly the type you would usually go for.”

She gives me an indecipherable look. “Okay, yeah. I wanted to get it over with and leave in the morning. I’m not looking for a long term… anything. Nothing long term.”

I shrug. “I think that’s what you need. Just for a while. Friends with benefits. You get the benefit of someone teaching you. I get to have fun while I do it. We’re both a little less—alone.” She smiles at that.

And you can play the part of my girlfriend. Fiancée. Wife if we need to.

Something about that makes me excited. Even though the deal is far from sealed.

“Okay.”

“Yeah?” I pull her in closer and kiss her again. It feels good, kissing her. Like I should be doing it. I wonder if I ought to inform her about what she’s about to sign up for. But I’ve never told any other girl about my daughter, my ex. About the custody battle. Anything like that. The words sit on the tip of my tongue, but they don’t come now. She’ll know tomorrow morning. Maybe it’s best if all the information comes out at once.

Instead of telling her, I lift her up into my arms, and I carry to the bedroom.

To show her what it feels like to give in.

Chapter Four

Skye

He carries me into the bedroom, throws me down onto the bed. My heart is racing, and I taste salt and metal at the back of my throat. I used to feel that way when I was little and I woke up in the middle of the night. I’d look into the dark, gaping mouth of my closet, just waiting for a sound, or a small movement. A monster hiding inside. Or worse, a man come to abduct me and take me away. Later, that feeling was mixed with fantasy, mixed up with the Harlequin novels I’d read. The sinful priest. The pirate with an appetite for virgins.

It’s been a long time since I had that feeling. Fear, mixed with deep, forbidden excitement. When I look up at Liam, I feel that now. He could do anything. Tie me to his bed. Keep me here forever. The heat between my legs only intensifies, magnified by fear. His strength. The things he’s not telling me—the tattoos, scars. His family.

He sits down next to me on the bed, and I prop myself up on my elbows, body vulnerable. Exposed. I’m suddenly very aware that I’m not wearing a bra and that I have on a thong. I think of the comfortable things I usually wear—briefs, sports bras. Nice long shirts and jeans made soft by washing and drying many, many times. These clothes—this whole mask—it makes me awkward, my body out of place. There’s something terrifying about it. Something thrilling.

Liam is silent as he takes off his shirt. There are other tattoos, faded ones, interlaced with old scars. But otherwise, his body is a fierce work of art. His abs are chiseled, leading down to the deep V of his pelvis. The sensual, long lines of his forearms and biceps hypnotize me. I’m sure he’s set it all up that way—he’s made it so that he’s irresistible to any stupid woman who walks into his bar.

And you, Skye, are one of those stupid women. It’s a Saturday night, and I’m usually curled up with a book. Harry Potter. Pride and Prejudice. Jane Eyre. Or one of the soft, well-loved Harlequins my mom left for me when she died. The pages are worn, like petals. Those romances feel safe.

They’re not hot, or strong. Not simmering and physical, like this man. The sex exists only on the page—or not at all. And if I had to guess, the real Mr. Darcy didn’t look anything like this man.

He slips off his jeans again, and I can see the faint bulge of his cock. A shock goes through me. Does he plan to use that on me tonight? He said he wouldn’t. My breath hitches in my throat, and my heart flutters in my chest.

“Take a picture,” he says, smiling. “It’ll last longer.”

“I wasn’t looking at—”

“You were. I don’t blame you. It’s a pretty fucking impressive instrument. But it’s not happening now. You’ll have to wait.”

I chew the inside of my cheek. I want to wait forever. And I want it now.

“Then why am I here?”

“Because I say you should be. If you’re in this deal with me—I’m calling the shots.”

I sit up straight. “I didn’t agree to that.” I think of all the time I spent trying to stand up for myself in college, in my own family. And here I am, letting a stranger tell me what to do. For the sake of losing my virginity. It doesn’t make a bit of fucking sense. But when I look at him, I feel something profound and animal, drawing me to him. Making me want to give in. Stay at least one night. See what he does.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t go.” He stands at the edge of the bed. My eyes are drawn to his muscled legs and the curve of his ass. “You can leave now if you want to. But you won’t find someone else who will make you feel as good as I can.”

That gets me. For all my hesitation, for the freak-out I had earlier, I can’t help but imagine what it would feel like to have him between my legs. His fingers, his lips, the length of his cock.

“And tonight?”

“You ever sleep next to this boyfriend of yours?”

“Ex-boyfriend. One time. He only let me stay over one time. There was an ice storm. The electricity was off, and we stayed in our clothes, wrapped up in blankets.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“I guess not. Six years of my life, and it feels like none of that counted for anything. I’m boring—and I’m still a virgin. I told one other guy about that, and he dropped me after the first date.” The words pour out, even though I don’t mean for them to.

Liam nods and looks at me like he’s calculating something. He pauses and sits on the edge of the bed, his hand going to my leg, pushing its way up to my thigh. “You’re going to stay here tonight. You’re going to sleep next to me, naked. And if you decide to keep coming back for more, you’ll do a favor for me in the morning.”

“What kind of favor?” Liam’s hand roams higher, his fingertips playing with the waistband of my thong. My aching sex throbs in response. It almost doesn’t matter what he says the favor is—I know I’m staying the night and waking here in the morning.

“It’s not a big deal. The favor. How about I tell you in the morning?”

I shrug like it’s no big deal even though my heart is racing. “Okay.”

“Lights on or off?” he asks.

I stare at him in disbelief. Did I really agree to stay here tonight? I don’t know how we came to this. “Off,” I say. “I guess. I don’t know.” Part of me wants to see him, to memorize the hard, straight lines of his body. To remember it all.

But he flicks off the light, and we both become shadows, the moon and streetlamp the only source of light to illuminate us.

Things happen fast after that.

Liam slides in bed beside me. His cold hands find my body in the dark and make me jump.

“We’ll take things slow. We have plenty of time.” He takes my face and turns it toward him, letting his tongue explore my mouth, lips covering mine. My body sings with desire. I turn to him, let myself go.

This isn’t me, but it also is. It’s the self that I left hiding in those romance novels, the invisible part of me that I let fade when I was with Charlie.

Strong, deft fingers pull at my shirt, ripping it and flinging it away from my body. Liam groans and presses into me, the bulge of his cock against my thigh. He cups my breasts, bringing his mouth to one, and then the other. His tongue glances against my nipples, sending white hot need straight to my center.

“You ever have a man’s mouth on you before?” he asks as he pulls away. I shake my head, and his fingers move away from my skirt and panties.

I can’t help it.

I think of him filling me, coming inside of me. What would that even feel like? Is it like I imagined a long time ago?

His strong fingers move down the length of my body. I’m naked now, and he wears only his boxer briefs, a thin layer of fabric separating us. Even though I’ve seen it—the length, the girth. It makes it that much more real, that much more present in my mind. Like I can fill in the blanks and for a moment, feel his cock entering me, hips grinding against my skin, fast and then slow.

“I’m going to touch you. Which is what I’ve been wanting to do all night.” He stops for a second, his hand resting against my breast. “Actually, I was going to fuck you first and then make sure you came. I don’t like to leave my guests dissatisfied. But this—we’ll take it step by step.” His hand travels down the length of my body, over the curve of my belly, stopping just above my thighs. “Is that what you want? For me to make you come? Slowly?” His voice is husky and low.

“Yes,” I say. I arch my back. My spine is tingling, my nipples stiff as bullets.

His fingers slide lower, finding my sex, exploring it, barely grazing my clit. Each time he touches it, I shiver.

“Good,” he mutters. “So good. So wet.”

A finger slips inside of me, and I gasp. “Oh, my God,” I whisper. My brain starts to go blank, the room collapsing in on itself as I close my eyes and give myself over to the sensation.

“It’s so tight. When I fuck you, I’m going to love how you feel.” A second finger slips inside. Gently, methodically, Liam presses the base of his palm against my clit, moving his fingers inside of me, sending shockwaves through me, each stronger than the next. Each building to an inevitability that I’d only ever reached by myself.

I arch my back, moan, voice loud and animal. Sounds I don’t recognize coming from my throat as he brings me closer and closer to the edge.

“Come for me,” he whispers, his fingers rocking inside of me.

He says it as the tongues of flame rise through my thighs, through my sex, setting fire to my core. I groan, sigh. Come against his fingers. Come for him.

I slump against his body after that, sleep heavy behind my eyelids.

“You get a free pass this time.” He holds me to him when he says it, arm wrapped around my shoulders possessively. I wonder if this is what it feels like. The thing I didn’t have with Charlie. “Next time,” Liam says, “I’m going to make you beg.”

I close my eyes like that—naked, nestled in the crook of his tattooed arm.

I don’t let myself wonder if he’s held anyone that way in recent years. If he ever has.

I sleep, and my dreams are filled with the scent of him, his presence.

When I wake in the morning, my entire body aches, like I’ve been running a marathon. I look blearily over at the other side of the king size bed—a bed made for seducing girls like me—but there’s no one there. For a brief moment, I wonder if he’s gone.

Isn’t that what guys like this one do? They cut and run?

No.

They send the girl home. Don’t they? That’s how they do things.

But he told me to stay.

I lift the covers up. I’m naked underneath. At home, I sleep in pajamas. Pink cotton pajamas that my aunt gave me for Christmas. I keep a glass of water on the bedside table. Chapstick. My laptop. Evidence of a life lived alone, proof that I take few risks. I keep myself close to my own heart.

Why, then, am I here? Why am I still here?

There are muffled clanks in the kitchen, followed by a cheerful sound I haven’t woken up to in a long time. Fifteen years, maybe. Whistling, and then humming, followed by the sizzle of butter in a pan, the splat of batter, and the popping of bacon. The scent of it fills the apartment.

I stand, still wobbly on my legs from last night, and I pull on the dark gray t-shirt Liam was wearing the night before. My shirt sits on the floor, ripped. And my thong—well that isn’t anywhere I can find it.

Anxiety takes me over, rolling through my body. I’m going to have to talk to him. I gulp and walk to the door, trying to smooth my hair down with one hand. When I peek around the corner, he looks up from the frying pan in his kitchen and gives me a lopsided grin.

“Sleep okay?” he asks.

“I did.”

“I thought you might. After the workout I gave you.”

“Somebody thinks a lot of himself,” I say. Even though he’s right. I have the yearning to be the cool girl around him. The one who takes this all in stride.

He looks me up and down and chuckles. “I do. I’ve been told as much. And you, you’re not wearing panties. Ready for more? I’m going to get you some breakfast first. And then you’re getting dressed. I have a dress you can wear. No panties. But a dress. Should fit you.”

He flips the pancakes and dips his finger into the leftover batter. When he licks it off his thumb, I feel it. That thing. Of wanting, waiting, anticipation for the next thing. Even though that there shouldn’t be a next thing with a guy like this. Not a single next thing at all. The next thing I should be seeing is an Lyft driver and the inside of my apartment in Brooklyn.

“You have a dress? Is there something I need to know? Or is it just because you’re a—”

“Manwhore?” He laughs. “Yeah. Some girl left it here a year ago. Made off with my favorite hoodie. I kept it.”

“Okay. That’s a little—gross.”

“I washed it. She was wearing panties at the time. And it came off before any of the magic happened.”

“I wouldn’t call it magic.”

Liam rolls his eyes. “You would. And it is. And you haven’t gotten to the main event yet.”

I swallow hard, wishing I could somehow hide the red rising in my cheeks. “Who—who, um, says I’m staying for the main event?” I feel like a nervous rabbit with his eyes on me. I’d normally be working out by now, reading more Jane Austen on the elliptical or jotting down plot ideas on my iPad.

I think of my apartment. The Chapstick on the table, the water bottle. My skin routine, my cherry-scented shampoo. The calm predictability of it all. If I hadn’t talked it up with Rhiannon, if I hadn’t gotten my courage going with wine and whatever hard alcohol she gave me at the bar, and if Liam hadn’t looked at me the way he did, I wouldn’t be here.

“You’re staying. You’re too curious about the main event to leave.” Liam shrugs. “I know women well enough that I can tell.”

“Oh, you do?” I cross my arms.

Liam piles all the pancake and bacon onto two paper plates. “I’d love to have this conversation with you, but I have breakfast ready. The dress is in the closet, at the back. Put it on. Sit down. Eat. I have that favor to ask.”

I open my mouth to speak, to tell him that he can’t go around giving me orders. But he points me back into the bedroom. “Dress,” he says. “Get dressed.” There’s an authoritative edge to his voice that stirs something inside of me, and I find myself following his orders, doing what he asked me to, almost mechanically.

The dress is a soft gray knit with a scoop neck and a skirt that hits just above my knees. It’s maybe half a size too big, but it doesn’t look bad. I wonder about the girl who wore it—if she was like me. Out of place in that bar, out of place in this apartment. Looking for something different. Running home in the early morning wearing a hoodie and an old pair of Liam’s gym shorts, hair mussed, body sore.

When I walk out, Liam’s little round kitchen table is set with paper plates and plastic utensils. There’s maple syrup and a carton of Tropicana orange juice. There are paper towels at each place—and there are four place settings.

Blood rushes in my ears. “Liam,” I start, heart racing. “Why are there four place settings?”

Before he has time to answer, I hear the thunderous sound of at least two people making their way up the stairs to his apartment. I hear talking and chatter below, an older voice with a thick Irish accent. I close my eyes and groan as Liam brings the pancakes and bacon to the table. He steps back to the kitchen and starts making scrambled eggs, like nothing unusual is happening.

He even has the nerve to look at me and grin. Like a kid on the playground who’s gotten the better of me. “That’s the favor. That and one other thing,” he says. “Sorry I didn’t have time to explain it.”

Time. He had plenty of time. We just spent that time in bed. What a fucking jerk.

There’s a knock at the door, and I hear a man’s voice just outside. “Let us in, you prick. We’re supposed to make it to church, you godless—”

“Stop talking like that. It’s Sunday.” I can hear the woman’s voice as plain as day. The thought comes to me that it must be Liam’s mother. But that isn’t right.

I have the sudden sensation that I want to melt right into the floor, become one with the splintered hardwood floors in Liam’s ramshackle apartment.

But Liam puts on a smile. The same smile he gave me last night, his hands on my body. His fingers inside of me.

He walks past the steaming breakfast food to the door and opens it. A woman with fading red hair and a cane walks in, followed by a man who resembles Liam—but looks like less of an asshole. Less like someone who’d do this to me.

The guy looks at me in shock and then catches his brother’s eye. “You gonna introduce us he says?”

“Skye, this is my brother Finn, and this is my Ma.” Liam’s mother looks over at me, apparently surprised too.

“You haven’t introduced us to a girl since—” She pauses at that and looks to her son. The one who lures innocent girls up to his apartment and makes them unwilling participants in whatever game he happens to be playing.

“Since Tabitha,” Finn says.

Who the fuck is Tabitha?

“Ma, Finn,” Liam says, apparently unfazed. “This is my Skye. She’s my girlfriend.”

Knees weak, legs wobbling, I grab onto the door frame of the bedroom.

I’m wearing some other girl’s dress.

I’m in a criminal’s apartment. Or, if he’s not a criminal, he’s a sadistic jerk.

And I’m in some kind of role that this man wants me to play. The man who says he’ll cure me of my virginity, and have me begging for more.

What the fuck do I say?

“She’s shy,” Liam adds. “Introverted. Balances me out.”

Finn groans. I’m sure he saw me last night but doesn’t want to let on in front of their mother. Liam smiles even broader. The room fills with deafening silence and the aroma of bacon and pancakes.

“Nice to, um, meet you,” I finally say.

I sit down to eat breakfast. Because I’m hungry. Because I’m tired and spent. And because, compared to all of this, the Chapstick and water bottle on my bedside table seem far less compelling.

And hell, I might even write a story about all of this someday.

That’s what I tell myself anyway.

The first in a long line of excuses, and the one that changes the course of my life. Forever.

Chapter Five

Liam

For the entire breakfast, my Ma keeps giving me looks. Like the looks she gave me the first time I introduced Tabitha to the family. The hopeful glances, a slight sparkle in her eyes. The hint of a wish for more grandkids. And probably, most of all, for a future with Brie.

I might be mistaking that look, reading too much into all of it.

If I’m in this apartment with no girlfriend, no wife, I’ll be this way forever. A revolving door of meaningless hookups. At least that’s my mom’s opinion, and probably Finn’s too. My other brothers couldn’t care less. But he’s the oldest, so in this kind of family, his opinion counts for something.

Finn just glares at me and rolls his eyes.

His whole fucking attitude makes me want to pull it off even more.

Combined with that, every time I look over at Skye, my eyes focus on the rosy color of her cheeks, the way her hair falls, the smiles, and stories she places into the conversation. When she smiles, the smile always reaches her eyes. It’s not faked.

She doesn’t need to be here, no. She could have left. Could have freaked out and run away. But she stands her ground, wearing that dress. About half way through the meal, I remember that she’s not wearing her panties.

I look at her and raise an eyebrow, taking a bite of pancake. She blushes an even deeper red. If it were just her at this table, I would have let the pancakes get cold. She’s the kind of girl who thinks she’s not into anything kinky, but I’m betting I could prove otherwise. Even without the sex.

It’s the buildup that’s going to be the good part. Scratch that. The whole thing will be good—with big ass benefits all around.

“How did you two meet?” Ma asks, looking between me and Skye. I’m sure she’s trying to read the looks I’m giving my girlfriend, trying to gauge how long we’ve been together.

Not long, I think. Long enough for her to get a taste and want to come back for more. And, if I’m honest, just long enough for me to do the same.

“We met at a book store.” Skye says and gives me a withering look. She crosses her legs, bumping my foot in the process. “He was browsing through the poetry section.”

“It’s next to the romance section. That’s where she was. Looking at ‘90s romances with Fabio on the cover.”

“I was not!” Her protests fall on deaf ears, as Ma starts to recount her own taste for old romances. Finn just piles his plate high with bacon and eggs, telling us both something about bulking up. He mentions something about Crossfit, and my brain goes numb. Instead of listening, I’m looking at the girl across the table.

I should be honest, I think. I will be. About what happens next. Just not the next step after that. If she’s still here after all this, I should be able to pass her off as my girlfriend for the courts. For Marta. For the private investigator.

And she can know all about Brie when it’s time.

“So, Skye. Are you looking forward to next weekend?” Finn turns to her, and my stomach drops. He has that look in his eye like he knows what’s best for me. Usually, he’s been right. But this time, I’m following his plan to a tee. Even though he told me not to follow it, I guess.

Skye looks over at me before she responds. “I… don’t know. What’s happening next weekend?”

I groan. “I haven’t told her yet.”

“Oh, you haven’t?” Finn says, looking between me and Skye. “Well fucking color me surprised.”

“Language,” Ma says. She pours herself a glass of orange juice and acts like she’s oblivious to what Finn is doing. She’s always done that, even when we were eight and six and used crayons to make designs on the wall. Always my fault, not his.

“It’s a special weekend, Skye.” Finn turns to me. “But maybe Liam was waiting to surprise you with it, since you’re his girlfriend and all. And I don’t know, maybe you like surprises. Maybe Liam doesn’t even know if you like surprises. Do you?”

Skye looks at me again, confusion written all over her face. “I’m okay with surprises,” she replies, cautiously. “But maybe this time… it would be best to let me know what’s going on.” She looks at me pointedly. “Sweetie.”

I smile, trying not to look nervous. I don’t look nervous in front of chicks. And hey, what the hell have I lost if Skye freaks out? She probably will anyway. I’ve got the better end of the deal here—and she gets to act out the part of the girlfriend for very little reward. I’ll just have to convince her that being with me will be truly fucking rewarding. “Well, honey,” I start, emphasizing the word. “I think we might have talked about it.”

“I’m one hundred percent sure we didn’t.” She stabs a piece of pancake and puts it into her mouth. Her full lips purse together as she finishes it.

“I have visitation with my daughter. If her guardian’s lawyer allows it,” I blurt out.

Her face goes pale. I wait for her to respond, but she doesn’t. She picks up her cup of coffee, even though it’s empty. She looks at it like it should have something in it, like coffee might magically appear.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about her. She’s all Liam ever talks about.”

“Brie’s grandmother is keeping her right now. She’s the legal guardian. Since I got out of the clink, that is. I raised Brie before that. I’m her real guardian. I should be, anyway.” I catch Skye’s eye. “I know I told you that.”

Ma is now looking between the two of us, slowly eating a piece of bacon.

Skye looks over at my mom. “Yeah, you said.”

Relief floods my body. Jesus, she’s a champ.

“And she has a P.I. looking at my every move,” I add. “And God knows who else. Last time she was making rumblings about CPS. Trying to make it out that I’m not a fit parent. I’m filing for full custody, but the judge keeps saying she needs a two-parent household. Hypocritical if you ask me, especially since Marta’s husband left her twenty years ago.”

Skye bites her lip, but her face softens slightly. “Mm,” she responds, like she might have heard this before, or she might not have. Finn looks at her in amazement.

“It would be great if I had my serious girlfriend with me to see the judge. Really good for providing stability for my girl. She’s a good kid. And she deserves to be with me. Not her grandmother, who insults her at every turn.” I pause. “That’s what Marta—her other grandmother—does. I’m not a great guy—”

Finn cuts in. “You’re not. Definitely not.” Ma shoves Finn on the arm.

“But I’m better than that,” I continue. “And Brie deserves someone who tells her she’s beautiful and smart. And cool. And all the things she is. Even if that someone fucked up in the past.” I watch Skye’s face. She’s cool as a cucumber, even though my own throat is starting to tighten. “Even if he’s an ex-con, an ex-junkie. A player. A liar.”

Ma puts her hand on mine. “You’re a good father. None of that other talk, Liam. And Skye seems like a nice girl—she’s good for you. You haven’t had a girlfriend in so long. I thought you’d never have one again.”

Skye clears her throat. “Is there more coffee? I’m going to need some more.”

“Can’t say I blame you on that one,” Finn says. He takes her cup. I follow him to the kitchen, trying to avoid Skye’s stare.

“If she stays after this,” Finn whispers as the water in my kettle begins to boil. “Let’s just say you better not fuck it up. What’s worse than lying about a relationship in front of a judge? Lying about the relationship and then losing your girlfriend right away.”

I glance over to Skye. She’s still talking to my mom, smiling, saying something about books. Ma pats her on the shoulder and squeezes her hand. For a second, Skye catches my eye, and she nods slightly.

Finn mixes the coffee into the boiling water, and I feel suddenly embarrassed that all I have to offer is instant. I make a note to clean out the coffee maker from downstairs.

“She’s way—” Finn says, adding creamer. “Way out of your league, man. Light years. If she stays after this morning? You owe her fucking big time.”

Shit.

He’s right.

I’m an idiot, and she should cut and run.

Finn brings Skye her cup of coffee and touches her on the shoulder, like he used to do to me when I was a teenager. When all the shit in my life started to go south. Something clenches tight in my chest, another thing I haven’t felt in years. I push that feeling aside. I don’t know where it came from, this protective thing. Best not to consider it with the shit show I’ve just created.

“Ma,” Finn says, bringing his other hand to my mother’s shoulder. “I think we oughta stop talking Skye’s ear off about her job. It’s, uh, a step up for Liam, you know. But I bet they’ve got a nice Sunday planned. Don’t you, Liam?” He looks to Skye. “Or maybe she wants to get out of here too, after all this. You need a ride home?”

The room stills, and I wait for her response. Like I’m standing at the edge of a precipice, looking over the edge.

“No, I’m good. Liam and I are going to… enjoy the day. And plan for next weekend, aren’t we?”

I watch as my mother gets up. She leans on her cane and gives me a knowing look. She doesn’t buy our relationship any more than Finn does. There’s no reason I should have thought I could pull one over on a sixty-year-old Irish woman who’s lived through immigration, raising four boys, and forty years of marriage to my father. But still, she’s hopeful. I can tell. She’s been on me about getting a girlfriend as much as the judge has. Improves the chances for getting Brie back. A pragmatist, as always.

Skye starts clearing dishes, and I’m left face to face with my mother. “You’re doing the best you know how, Liam. At least I think you are. But Brie means something to all of us. If this is some half-cocked scheme—and if you’re planning on using this girl just to get Brie—it’s all going to blow up in your face.” She puts a hand to my arm. “It’s a handsome face. But one that’s made a whole lot of bad decisions. Cut her free if she’s another one.”

I’m left standing there, dumbstruck, as Finn and my mother walk out the door.

I went through it all in my mind when I was making eggs and bacon, putting a dash of cinnamon in the pancakes. I’d tell Skye I needed her to pose as my girlfriend, we’d both get through breakfast, and then I’d let her know about my daughter.

Instead, I’m left standing in the middle of my apartment as Skye scrapes eggs into the garbage disposal. She knew too little before everyone arrived, and now she knows far too much. The balance is all wrong, and guilt washes over me. I don’t feel this way with women, no matter how much I fuck up. But when I look at Skye, it almost crushes me.

She gazes at me, her eyes sad. “This isn’t what I had in mind when I woke up this morning. But I guess I was stupid enough to come upstairs with you last night. And I woke up to a giant fucking mess.”

“You weren’t stupid.” There are more words I should say, specifically that I was the one who was stupid. That I shouldn’t have involved her against her will. That she can go if she wants to. And it was all a bad deal to begin with. But the words don’t come. I’m not practiced at saying things like this. Not with anyone, let alone a smart, beautiful one like Skye. And never sober.

“Yeah. I was.” She pours a tepid cup of water and mixes in instant coffee grounds. “There’s not enough coffee in the world to deal with this shit.”

I stand there, expecting her to go. But she just pours creamer in her coffee and drinks it down. And then she walks back to the bedroom, to my shower.

Stunned, I follow her. “I don’t understand. You’re not leaving?”

She turns to me, and pulls the gray dress over her head. Those full, round tits. The supple curve of her hip, the dark thatch between her legs. My cock twitches.

“I should leave,” she says. “Against my better judgment, I’d like to help. Not for you. For the little girl. If it turns out you’re lying to me about her—”

“I’m not. I promise. I fucking promise.” I step forward, my hands drawn to her body, desperate to touch her.

But she steps back instead. “If it turns out you’re lying, I’ll be gone. No visitations—no court dates. And you keep your promise to me.”

I cross my arms. “What’s that? The sex? It seemed like a good proposal when I said it last night. But the light of day makes most of my ideas seem fucking ridiculous.”

She walks into the bathroom and turns on the shower, pulling a towel out of the closet. “It’s ludicrous. But I’m a little ridiculous myself. Especially these days.” She checks the water and looks at me. Her eyes are tired, vulnerable. Like she’s been carrying a burden for a long time. “I’m a virgin, but it’s not cute or sexy. Not to me. It means that the man I thought I would marry treated me like shit. He never wanted me. He made me hate myself. My body. I need that part of me gone.”

My cock strains against the fabric of my pants. The man that didn’t want this woman was a complete and total fucking lunatic. An idiot of the highest order. I look her up and down. Beneath her proper exterior, her very existence radiates sex, and sin. I can see it better now, with her slightly mussed hair and the faint aura of heat and desire, still radiating from her skin. Skye represents all the good things about sinking into a woman and never coming up for air. “I can get that part of you gone. If that’s what you want.”

“It is. With no strings attached after all this is over…” She steps in the shower, steam billowing around her. “Well, that makes it all easier. And we can both move on after it’s all done.”

“Sure. Sure, we can.” Something deep inside of me drops. It’s a vague, ugly, uncomfortable feeling. Like the disappointment I felt when I was scolded back in grade school. “No strings attached,” I repeat. But the words feel strange and unwieldy in my mouth, like I regret saying them.

I shrug off the feeling.

I’ve lived life for the past three years without a woman. When Tabitha left, that was the end. And when she died, a piece of me died. She was never the love of my life, but she was Brie’s mom.

I’ve told myself a thousand times since then that I was done. That feeling of love—or anything like it—didn’t exist for me anymore. It was easier just to be alone, for good.

But as Skye soaps herself in the shower, water sluicing over her smooth skin, those thoughts seem distant and old.

I take my clothes off and step in the shower behind her, my cock at full mast.

“That’s more like it,” she murmurs, pulling my arm around her waist. My cock rests against the juicy, thick curve of her hip. I want all of her, all at once. Her pussy. Her ass. Her sweet lips, wrapped around my cock.

But for once, I’ll take things slow. Make it all last until the very last moment.

Because when this one’s gone, I suspect she’ll be gone for good. Back to hipster-town in Brooklyn, away from me and all the weight of my past.

Chapter Six

Skye

“You’re supposed to live here now,” he says. I balk at that, as I dry off from the shower.

“I’m supposed to live wherever the fuck I want, Liam. Besides, there’s shit I need at my apartment. And stuff I left over at Rhiannon’s. I usually go to Pilates on Sunday. And then I work. On Monday, and the rest of the days of the week. You know, like regular people. I can come back tomorrow night.” I pause. I want to sound cool and noncommittal. “Maybe.”

“Go to Pilates or whatever it is you Brooklyn inhabitants do. If I had known you actually lived there—I might not have invited you up. Or given you the privilege of being my fake girlfriend.” His voice is gruff, and I get the sudden sense that he’s displeased with me. Worse, that feeling makes me unsettled, upset. I try to shove it all down.

“You’re an asshole,” I mutter, but when I look at him he’s smiling. For some reason, that makes me even angrier. The fact that he got to me, that he made me think for a second that he was serious. The fact that I’m even here right now, toweling off in his bathroom, with its yellow paint peeling off the walls. Most of all, I’m angry at myself for taking everything he says seriously.

In the back of my mind, I’m already moving things in. Playing along. Doing the favor that I didn’t know anything about until this morning. And there’s something fucked up about that. Something dangerous. When I think of his hands on my body, I want more. Another fix. Another hit.

And then I want to scream. Yell. Shout and kick the wall.

That’s the thing about Liam Dougherty. He makes me want to throw something at him, right this instant. His empty tube of toothpaste, or his deodorant with its heady scent of pine and spice. But I decide against it, opting instead to dry my hair, and give him a withering glare.

Isn’t that what a real romance heroine would do? Make him guess if she’s interested, keep him on his toes.

The reality is much simpler.

I’m here because I want him, I think. Because last night was incredible. Better, far better, than any night I’ve had in years.

“I’m teasing,” he says. “Or am I?” He slings a towel around his waist and watches me as I shake out my hair and run my fingers through it.

“See, I need a brush. At least. Plus, some people’s girlfriends do occasionally go home.” The word makes my stomach drop. Girlfriend. “Even if his fake girlfriend is moving in for—how long?”

He doesn’t answer directly, which makes me grit my teeth in frustration. “Not mine. We need to impress this bitch’s private investigator. Or whoever she sends around the way. You need to live here. Be domestic and shit.”

“How long am I supposed to stay? To keep your kid away from—her grandmother?” I look over to him, and a corner of his mouth raises into a smile.

“A month or so.” He crosses his arms. I’m aware of them, the sinuous muscle. The strength of his fingers. “And I wouldn’t use the word, ‘grandmother.’ Grandmothers bake cookies and play board games. Knit little flowers and shit. My ex’s mom—she just bullies people.”

“Your ex? Not just a fling?” I keep my eyes locked on him. I want to know. I need to know.

“I don’t talk about her. Not to anyone.” His mouth is terse, and the entire presence of his body changes—harder, angrier. “She’s gone. She can’t take care of Brie. And her mom is a piece of shit.”

“Is she okay with Brie? Like, most of the time?” I ask quietly. “I know you said she wasn’t… kind—”

Liam looks over at me, slapping aftershave on his face. Harshly, like his face owes him money. “She tells Brie she’s not smart enough for kindergarten. That she doesn’t have friends because her parents were junkies. That God hates me and her mom.” He stops and swallows hard, pushing back some emotion I can’t quite place. “And she spanks Brie. Hits her. Not enough for a judge to take away custody just like that. No bruises. Just a little girl who’s scared, who cries. She says her stomach hurts when she sees me. Marta doesn’t hurt her enough that I could even document it properly—not in this burrow anyway. The judges are a little old school here. Spare the rod and all that bullshit. But I was hit. And I’m not planning to let anyone hit my daughter.” He cracks his knuckles. “If I can get her back, I won’t let anyone hurt her again. They’ll have to get through me first.”

“I can’t say I understand. I don’t have kids,” I say, carefully. “But I’ll help you. I’ll try.” I don’t realize that the words are coming out of my mouth until I say them, but there it is.

I do want to help. I think again back to my bed, my nightstand. I can get back to that after this, can’t I? It won’t go away. My life, just as it is, will still be there. And nothing will change. It’s what I tell myself, but as I pull on the gray dress again, his eyes sear into me, and I’m not sure if I’m right or wrong.

“Good.” He glances at me. “I’ve been clean for a year, just so you know. I drink some. And I’ve had my fair share of girls here, but that’s no secret.” He runs his fingers through his thick brown hair. “But I’m not a junkie now. Haven’t been in a long time. I keep myself healthy. Tested. Clean. Like I said.”

I shrug, like it’s no big thing. “Okay. You know, I trust you when I hear you say that this is the best place for her. You don’t have to give me every single reason.”

He steps closer to me, pulling me to him by the waist. He takes me and kisses me hard. These are the actions of a lover, more than a casual fling. The way his tongue finds mine again, the way my body melts into his. But I ignore the alarm bells going off in my head, and instead I focus on the aching warmth spreading through my center.

It’s just sex. And all of this—it’s just a favor.

That’s what I keep telling myself. This is all an adventure, and it’s turned into a way to help someone—a little girl. And her dad. It’s not because of his dark, changeable hazel eyes, hooded with lust, the way they look over my body with hunger. It’s not his lips pressed against mine, or his hand pulling at the strap of my dress so that one shoulder is bared. He kisses me there, and I gasp.

“I do need to get back to my apartment,” I murmur. “Then I can come back. We’ll… talk about all of this later.” He brushes aside my hair and grabs my ass, pulling the other strap of my dress away from my body—abruptly, harshly.

“You said you were in, Skye. Are you?”

I nod slightly. “I am.”

For your sake. For the little girl. And maybe that whole virginity thing I’ve been hung up on for so long. Separately, those seem like terrible reasons. Together, they make one adequate reason. And oh—fuck—what am I agreeing to?

Before I can form a more coherent thought, he kisses me again. He presses into my thigh, his cock hard.

“I need to go.” I swallow.

“You’re coming back,” he says.

“Yeah. I am. Tomorrow. I don’t work on Tuesdays so I can stay—maybe—” I sling my purse over my shoulder and walk to the door without saying anything more. If I say anything else, it might all feel too real. Like we’re making a date or planning something for the future, even if it’s for the very near future. There’s something tugging deep inside of me, something that I don’t recognize. I never felt that way with Charlie. Part of me wants to turn around and stay the rest of the weekend. Let him teach me. Train me. Have his way with me.

“The orgasms are guaranteed,” he says. When I turn to look at him again, he’s peeling an apple, the knife moving in a rhythmic circle. He’s skilled—even at this. I think of those hands. His tongue. This is how he is.

“Good. I guess that’s what got me into this mess.”

He shrugs, looking at me nonchalantly like his tongue wasn’t just deep inside of me. My cheeks grow hot as those hazel eyes land on mine. “This mess. That’s a good word for it.” He pauses. “You know a realtor? Or a property manager or anything? Or anyone who does events?”

“No,” I say cautiously. “I might know someone who knows someone, though. Why?”

He takes a bite of the apple, and the juice runs over his chin. “With you, I might have a chance of getting my daughter back for good. Full custody. The whole nine.” He takes another bite, and I find myself staring at him, not really listening to his words. “But a six-year-old shouldn’t be living in a shitty apartment above her dad’s bar. We need to find somewhere real to live.”

“Hold up. I thought you said we were living here.?”

He doesn’t acknowledge that I’ve said anything. “Just a little upgrade. An apartment outside of Hell’s Kitchen. Very slightly outside. Nothing fancy. Just functional. You can decorate it with some of your shit from Brooklyn. I’m sure it’s nicer than mine. I know a moving company—”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Yeah, I am. Get on the stick. We need a place before next Sunday.”

“In New York?”

“No, in fucking Connecticut. Where the fuck do you think we’re going to live? Of course, in New York.” He sounds amused, like he’s given me the easiest task in the world. “It’ll be fun. Like ‘House Hunters.’ Those kinda shows couples watch when they’re buying a house. Except we’re not really a couple, and we’re looking for an apartment that’s not a cesspool.”

“I don’t think that’s—”

Feasible? Reasonable? A good idea?

“It’ll fall into place. We’ll have a bedroom for Brie. And if it doesn’t work out, you can leave like you never knew me. But something about today makes me feel lucky.” He finishes the apple and tosses the core in the trash. “Come to think of it, maybe it’s you. I’ll pay you fifty bucks if we can’t find a place. Come on. It’ll be a challenge.”

I cross my arms. “We can try. But I can guarantee we won’t find anything before next week—”

“Fine. Whatever. As soon as possible.”

“Where does Brie live now? Where’s her school?”

“Marta’s in Queens. But that doesn’t matter. Queens sucks almost as much as Brooklyn these days.”

I turn to leave, but something strikes me. “What’s this about an event planner too?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Just need to have our bases covered. Make it all look real.”

“I’ll get an apartment for us in a few days. Give me a few. Three days.”

“Fine. I’ll be thinking about you until then,” he says. His grin is downright lascivious.

I leave, heart pounding, like the conversation we just had was normal in any way whatsoever. It wasn’t.

But I’m still on a high from his touch, and I float back to Brooklyn, just like that.

What would it hurt?

Along with all the excuses from before, it’s this thought that absolutely does me in.

Chapter Seven

Liam

I haven’t seen her in three days. Fuck. I haven’t thought this much about a woman since my first girlfriend in high school. And with her, I was just hoping to get in her pants.

It’s a little different with Skye. We have business, sure. She’s been apartment hunting for my sorry ass.

But there’s more to it than that.

Her quirky half-smile. The way she talks about books. Her hair falling over her face, messy after waking up at my place. The way she sighed in the shower when my hands roamed over her body.

That’s all relationship shit, and I don’t do relationship shit.

Fuck.

For some reason, I’m almost nervous. Not quite nervous. I don’t get nervous, not like that. I know women, and this one is easy to read. We’re casual, a team. In this whole thing for the advantages.

Right now, I’m arranging the barstools, waiting for her to come. She said it would be six, right before we open. And Finn promised me the evening off.

Finn doesn’t especially like my update on the situation. It’s been tough to sell him on his own idea.

Whatever, motherfucker. It was a good damn idea. I’m taking some action for once.

I move the last barstool again, glancing out the window. No sign of Skye yet. I check my phone for a text from her. When I look up, my brother is watching me with the brand of skepticism he reserves for our resident alcoholics who claim they need ‘just one more drink.’

“Tell me again what you said to her. And explain to me why the hell she’s going along with it.” Finn starts polishing the bar, scraping off specks of dried lime and the sticky sweetness of spilled beer. But he keeps his eyes on me.

“I told her we’d need to move in together. It’s not my plan. It’s your plan, but one step further. I made your plan even better, ya dick. If we’re really going after sole custody here, I can’t be living above this shit hole anymore.”

“It’s not a shit hole. You own half the damn bar, Liam.”

“I do. But it’s not the place for a little girl, is it? So, we’re going to look at—”

“You’re a ‘we,’ now?”

I ignore him. “We’re going to look at a few places. Right around here. Just outside of Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Sure. Yeah, okay, that makes sense. Even though Brie’s entire life is in Queens,” Finn says, wringing out the towel and wetting it again. “Where the hell are you going to get money for a down payment on an apartment? You’re not making her pay, are you?”

“Fuck no.” I glance down at my phone again and put it in my pocket.

“Then what are you planning to do?”

“I work my ass off here.” I shrug. “I have some saved. Didn’t know what I was saving for, but it could be this. Never figured I’d get a real chance at getting custody of Brie. Now I got one. Her name is Skye.”

“Why not get an apartment on your own? Brie could come there. Skye could still pretend to be your damn girlfriend.”

“It’s the appearance of the thing. If I want Brie overnight—and eventually, full time—I can show off my girlfriend with the regular salary. Judges think women pack all the lunches and do all the mom shit. It’s a pillar of my case. The other judge I saw even mentioned it. Hell, you were making rumblings about a relationship being a good idea. After it’s all done, Skye will go back home to Brooklyn. Everyone will be happy.”

“And I’m sure she’ll go quietly, just like you never lured her into your web, drank her blood, and spit her back out?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Finn smiles at me, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I told you, this one is out of your league. But from the way she looked at you at breakfast yesterday, she doesn’t know that. At least not for sure. All that sob story shit about your kid—”

“That sob story is true.” As is the one about her mother. And her grandmother. And the time I spent away from my baby girl—too long. Years. “And she does want to help me. She’s in it for the sex. She wants to get laid. Have an adventure. Walk on the wild side for once.”

Finn rolls his eyes. “Could be part of it. But it’s not everything. When she moves into that apartment with you and starts sleeping in your bed every night. When Brie is allowed overnight visitation… tell me she won’t fall for you. And tell me she won’t fall for that little girl.”

I think of Brie, pushing her on the swing at the park, higher and higher. She squealed with such laughter. It was a year ago, that time. And it seems like minutes.

There’s an uneasy feeling at the pit of my stomach when I think about Skye and Brie in the same space.

“She’ll love Brie,” I say. “Everyone does. That’s kind of universal. But she’s a—what’s that word when someone is real serious about things—”

“A pragmatist?”

“Yeah,” I say. “She’s a pragmatist. She gets it, like I said. She’s doing me a favor. I’m giving her the time of her life. That’s all. No other strings. After the custody hearing on the twenty-eighth, we can end it easily. I’ll be able to keep my life stable for Brie. And Skye can roll back to Brooklyn. She loves it there—loves her life—doesn’t want to be with someone like me. Not for the long term.”

Finn nods and takes a seat on one of the bar stools. Then he taps his chin like he’s thinking. For a moment, I think he’s going to tell me I’m right. That all of this is a rock-solid plan. After all, it was his plan—not that he really encouraged me to follow it. But he shouldn’t have mentioned it at all if he didn’t want me to consider it. But then I see the look in his eyes.

“You’re full of shit, Liam. You always have been. Especially when it comes to women.”

“We’re opening soon. You don’t have time for this,” I say. One of his speeches again—I can’t fucking stand this shit. Since I got out of prison, it’s been one every other week or so, on average. Sometimes more. I put my head down and start checking the bottles of liquor, seeing if we have enough on hand for our regulars.

“I’m just warning you. This girl—I saw the way she looked at you. I never should have said a damn thing to you about your court case. It was irresponsible. I should have known you would take it too seriously. It was just a joke—”

I look up at him, my big brother. “It was a damn good idea, Finn. Last week this time, I didn’t have a shot in hell. That judge kept getting on me about the lack of stability, the lack of a solid relationship. There wasn’t even a reason to try and find a new place for Brie. Now, I’ve got Skye on it.”

Finn saunters over to the door and flips the sign that tells customers we’re open. “Skye’s ‘on it?’ She got more than she bargained for, didn’t she?” Finn turns to me and crosses his arms. “She’s actually looking for an apartment for you.” He says it as a statement of fact, not a question.

“Yeah, she said she would. What’s so bad about that?” I feel my body taking a defensive posture, like it used to when I was in prison. When the guys from the yard would take the same posture. A constant dick-measuring contest for six months. I’m not this person—and especially not with Finn.

And I shouldn’t be with Skye either.

“Nothing.” Finn shrugs. “Sounds normal if you’re in a relationship with someone. Sounds like relationship shit to me. Sounds like it has the potential to blow up in your face.”

“It probably will,” I say. “But she’s smart enough to know that.”

Just then, I see a figure standing outside of Dougherty’s. I can tell from the way her hair falls across her face that it’s Skye. Warmth spreads in my chest, and it feels like there’s something opening inside of me when she pushes on the door and looks inside. “Liam?”

Her voice sounds even huskier than it did three nights ago. Sexier. The image of her, coming for me. My cock stirs, bulge rising against my jeans. I put down the bottle I have in my hand and turn to her, an almost automatic reaction, like I don’t quite know what I’m doing.

Finn holds the door open for her and doesn’t say anything. There’s plenty he could say—to defame me, to encourage her to stay away. He looks for a second like he might say something. I wouldn’t blame him. There’s a little girl at the center of all of this, and she’s a Dougherty too. We’re both trying to protect her, in our way. Skye is part of that plan for me—and she knows it.

Finn doesn’t trust what I’m doing. But he’s uncle, not father. I know best. And when I see Skye after an absence of two days, I know she’s right. She’s good, and honest, and pure. All the things I’m not and never have been. A judge will see that—she’ll make me those things by extension. That’s how good she is.

She looks between Finn and me and tucks her hair behind her ear like she’s shy. “I found a couple of places. We can look at them tomorrow. Or I can choose one—”

I walk over to her, closing the space between us. I take her into my arms and kiss her hard, my tongue finding hers. “I have other plans for tomorrow morning,” I say.

Finn waves and walks to the back room. “Don’t fuck up, Liam. Whatever that means to you.” When he locks it behind him, he looks back at me through the glass and shakes his head. I flick him off while I’m still kissing Skye.

When I pull away, Skye is breathless. “I didn’t think—I didn’t know if it was going to be like this.”

“Like what?” I slip my hands under her shirt and lift her onto one of the bar stools. My fingers are already rising to her bra, unsnapping it, letting her breasts fall free. She gives a little sigh that makes my cock stiffer than it was before.

“Like this. Like you being happy to see me,” she says, blushing. When she speaks, there’s a little moan in her voice.

Her hand finds my cock, long fingers stroking it through my jeans.

“Let’s take this upstairs,” I say. She looks around, eyes hooded with lust, looking to see if anyone is passing by on the street. If anyone can see that my hands are all over her body, that her bra is falling free, and the strap of her shirt is hanging from one shoulder.

I grab her hand, and we run upstairs to my rickety old apartment. We’re both laughing—it’s a feeling I haven’t had in years. Like we’re teenagers, hoping not to get caught. But there’s no one waiting to catch us. And she’s all mine.

I push the bad things away from my mind—the losses and failures, all the women who came before.

I pull her clothes off, and they land on the floor in a silky puddle. Her body is timid, a bit shy, and a blush rises over her chest and cheeks, turning her body the perfect shade of pink. Pulling her close, I bring my mouth to her shoulder, kissing her there. She looks up at me, and I hook my thumbs into the waistband of her chaste, white panties.

“These really need to come off.”

“You’re not going to—we’re not—are we—”

“You mean—” I pull down her panties, and they fall to her feet. She shivers and bites her lip nervously. “Am I going to fuck you? I don’t know. Do you want me to?”

“I think maybe—I do.” She swallows hard, like she’s nervous again. My cock strains against my jeans, almost painfully. “But after that—” She stops.

“After that what?” I bring my hand to my jeans and unbuckle myself. The thought of fucking her, taking her virginity, right here, right now—it creates a nearly painful tightness in my center.

“Nothing. Never mind.”

I pull my shirt off and bring her naked body to mine. “Tell me,” I say. “This won’t work if you keep shit from me.”

Even though there’s plenty I’m still keeping from you.

She gives me a sharp laugh. “Okay—wait—like you not telling me I’m supposed to be your fake girlfriend or find you an apartment?”

“That’s not the same,” I answer quickly. “I was planning to reveal that information when the time came.” I brush her hair aside. “So, you need to tell me what it is you think is happening here. Why you’re scared.”

“I told you,” she says defensively. “My ex—he made me feel like shit. Being with you is…” Her voice drifts off, and I bury my face in her hair. I haven’t done that in a long time. The scent of her is vaguely tropical, like flowers and coconut. I let her rest her head against my chest, even though my desire pulses through me in ever-increasing waves.

“It’s scary,” she says finally. “After actually fucking, we’re done, right? Or do I need to keep coming around for appearances?”

That idea hangs in the air between us. “No,” I reply. “I need you to be here, to live with me. For real. For the courts. The judge. All that.”

It’s a shitty, lame response, and she knows it. She’s quiet, her head nestled against my shoulder. God help me, it feels right, like we ought to be here, right now, in this mess together.

“Okay. That’s what you said before. It makes sense. It all does.”

I tilt her face towards mine and kiss her lips softly. That mere action makes my cock harder than steel—the soft, pillow-sweetness of her lips, her eyes dewy with emotion. In this moment, I want her as much as I’ve ever wanted anything. I want to own her, destroy her, make her mine.

I want to tell her these things, but the words don’t come. They’re stuck, somehow. It seems like a vast, echoing expanse of time since I felt like that about someone. And when I did feel that way, it was only fleeting. With Tabitha, we were high a lot of the time in the beginning. After Brie was born, we were clean for the years of her early childhood, but we were always fighting. Tabitha was always leaving, disappearing for days, and I was learning to be a dad in the ultimate trial by fire. The only happy times were in the very beginning, and that all exists in my memory in a cloud of cocaine dust and crushed pills, and needles, later on. Our love was a tainted one.

Standing here, looking down into this sweet girl’s face, I know that I can’t let go and tell her these things, even if it’s what she wants to hear.

I can give her sex, and she can help me build a safe harbor for my daughter. If she’s looking for something more than that, she should wait for someone better. Someone more equipped to do all the normal things she needs.

I can give her adventure, maybe. Pleasure. Beyond that, I only have capacity to care for Brie. And I’ll have to dedicate myself to that.

Instead of saying anything, I kiss her again and carry her to the bedroom, slipping out of my jeans.

“We can see the rentals tomorrow,” I say. “There’s plenty of time.”

She nods, still looking at me with her head cocked to one side, eyes wary and searching. “Yeah. I think that’s fine.”

“I’m not getting rid of you, Skye,” I say. “If this is too much for you—” I let my words trail off because the truth is that I need her here. I might have succeeded on my own, but she makes the whole thing seem more real—and she makes me feel like I might have a chance to be a real father again.

“It’s not.” She puts out her hand and catches mine in hers, and she pulls me towards her.

When I fall onto the bed next to her, she pulls at the waist of my boxers. I grab her hand and shake my head. “What I can do is make your first time planned. Make it special. Like you deserve.”

“And tonight?” She bites her lower lip again.

“I can make you come. Make sure you fall asleep with your legs shaking. Make sure you wake up sore.”

She smiles at that, and I lie down next to her, running my hand over the planes and curves of her delicate body. I spread her legs apart on the bed and explore her wetness with my hand, observing her jolts and sighs. My fingers slip inside of her with ease, and my thumb finds her clit, circling it. Her body tenses and releases as she draws closer to the edge. I bring my mouth to her nipples, one after the other.

My mouth trails over her smooth skin to the slick cleft between her legs, darting my tongue in and out, tasting her. Soon, my fingers and mouth are working in tandem as she writhes beneath me.

“Liam,” she moans. She repeats my name like it’s a mantra, a prayer. With each utterance, I grow harder. I swirl my tongue over her clit and then down to her slick folds, where I remove my fingers. Slipping my tongue inside of her, I take in her essence, sharp and sweet. Skye’s body shudders beneath me, and I can tell she’s close to letting go. Her fingers find my hair, pulling it hard. She cries out, and I bring my tongue back to her clit, sucking it into my mouth, pulling gently. Her legs shake and she lets out a deep, animal groan as she comes for me, saying my name still, over, and over. I don’t pull away until she comes again, quickly on the heels of the first orgasm.

When I move next to her on the bed, her eyes are still filled with need.

“Can’t we—” Her gaze communicates exactly what she wants.

“No, not tonight,” I say. “But soon.”

Very soon, I think. She nestles in beside me and drifts off to sleep. Why am I holding out? I’ve never held on like this. But there’s something about Skye that makes me want to make this moment last, keep it going until the bitter end.

It’s a shame that we’re running against the clock, that there’s an end in sight.

This is one thing I can stretch out.

And there’s lots of ways to make sure the time in between is really fucking good.

Chapter Eight

Skye

The next morning, it’s crisp outside, my favorite type of weather at the beginning of spring. But I feel a pervasive anxiety as we start leaving the apartment, walking down the rickety old stairs.

There’s something I neglected to mention to Liam last night. And he’s not going to like it.

After talking on my own to Finn, I made a modification to the apartment search.

Liam grabs my ass as we walk to the front door of the bar. “I’m looking forward to this.”

“My ass or the apartments?”

He shrugs. “Little bit of this. Little bit of that.”

I clear my throat as we wait for our Lyft to show up. “Well, you may not love the location.”

“Lower East Side? I can live with that.”

“No.”

“Tell me it’s not in Brooklyn. That’s you. That ain’t me.”

The Lyft pulls up, and we get in the back seat. The floor is a little worn and dirty, and the driver looks like a college kid down on his luck. “It’s in Queens,” I say. “Finn said that’s where Brie lives now. So that’s where her friends are. Her school. Her life for the past two years.”

“It’s in Queens,” he repeats. The sound in his voice is not good when he says it. “I live in Manhattan. I’ve always lived in Manhattan. Why the hell did you go listening to Finn?”

I give him a look, and the Lyft driver looks in his rear-view mirror between the two of us. The driver, thankfully, doesn’t add his opinion on Queens.

“Finn said the commute from here to Queens is forty-five minutes on a bad day. You want her to do that every day she goes to school?” My stomach knots up as I say it. I’m basically telling him what to do with his life, how to live it. But shit, he asked me to find a place. I figured I’d make sure it was a place that would look good for the damn judge.

“Wouldn’t be that long,” he says curtly. But he sighs right after he says it. “Maybe forty minutes. I could drive her there.”

“You have a car? Why the hell do you have a car? No one in Manhattan has a car.”

“I do. It works most of the time. I used to drive it out to the mountains in the fall.” His voice is haughty, defensive. But there’s the slightest hint of doubt there, too.

“You cannot drive your daughter around New York in a car that works ‘most of the time.’” I roll my eyes and look out of the window, cheeks hot. This was a bad idea.

“It works,” he says. “Well enough that we don’t have to live in Queens. Queens is almost as bad as Brooklyn.”

The Lyft driver rolls his eyes, and I’m glad Liam doesn’t see it.

“Liam,” I say, turning my body towards his. I try not to think about the way his hands feel on me, the way he can look at me and convince me to do just about anything. If I want to help him, this is one thing he has to understand. “If you want the court to actually take you seriously, you need to move somewhere that Brie knows. I’m not a social worker, but Rhiannon is, and she gave me the run down on what the courts are looking for. And Finn gave me her address. Her school’s name and location. These apartments are just blocks away from there. I’m looking out for you. Judges are looking for a good faith effort on the parent’s part, especially if that parent did some time.”

His hazel eyes shift and change, green to brown. Brown to green. He looks away. “Yeah,” he says. There’s a long pause. “Who says I want her at that school? Public school system was good enough for me.”

“She’s not at a public school right now, and it’s the middle of the year. If she’s going to live with you, she needs an easy transition. Like I said, a good faith effort. That’s what Rhiannon called it.” I think for a second, looking over at Liam. His long, muscular body stretches out over the seat of the car, his knees hitting the back of the passenger side seat. “You’re making an effort. They’ll see that.”

“I should have done it before,” he says, looking out of the window. “Gotten a place that Marta could actually bring Brie. By the way—” he stops and looks over at me.

“What else?” My stomach drops. “I don’t like your ‘by the way.’”

“We’re meeting with the lawyer after this, and then you get to meet Brie. I thought it would be next weekend, but fucking Marta says she needs to bring her along to see the lawyers. Before she’ll even consider letting Brie see us again.”

“Christ on a bike, Liam. Why in the hell didn’t you tell me?” I groan and throw my head back against the seat. “Jesus. Give me a little time to prep for these things.”

He doesn’t answer me directly—again. An irritating fucking habit if you ask me. Instead, he looks out of the window as we cross over into Queens. “I fucking hate Brooklyn. And I hate Queens too. It’s the new Brooklyn. Fucking hipsters.”

I groan. “I’m going along with all of this and I don’t know why—and then you spring this newest shit on me like I’m some idiot who’s going to do whatever you say.”

Liam looks at me and grins. “You know why you’re going along with all of this. It’s pretty fucking clear you want this magic—” Liam looks at the Lyft driver and then leans into me. “Cock,” he whispers.

My cheeks color, and warmth spreads through my body. “I don’t know for sure if it’s magic. You haven’t seen fit to test it on me yet.”

“I’m going to,” he says. “And it definitely is.”

When he says it, there’s laughter in his voice, like there was when I first met him. I liked that sound. The goofy sense of humor that goes along with his New York accent and his inexplicable hatred of all things trendy.

He brings his hand to touch my leg, resting just below the hemline of my skirt. It’s not an apology, not exactly. Liam Dougherty hasn’t apologized to me for any of this. It doesn’t seem like that’s the kind of guy he is.

I add to my mental checklist for a long-term life partner. Must be able to apologize.

His hand inches higher, and a thrill runs through me. We’re pulling into the neighborhood my friend found—cheaper than just about anywhere in Manhattan and close enough to Brie’s school to get her there and back in ten minutes. Not so far away from the bar that he couldn’t get there by subway in an hour.

This is a sacrifice he can make for his kid. It isn’t even a sacrifice at all. Fucking asshole. He should be bowing down and thanking me—

His hand is warm. Hot. It stays, pressed against my thigh, like a reminder that he’s in this with me. That I’m here, with him, for a reason. A favor. Something that will stick in my memory forever. I’m venturing out of my comfort zone. This is for me as much as it is for him.

“This is it,” the driver says, pulling up to a tiny townhouse. The bottom floor was converted to an apartment with two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a little family room just big enough for a sofa and a chair. Cute. Homey. Comfortable. The countertops might still be Formica, and the floor might slope to one side, but it’s safe and warm and far better for someone with a kid.

When I see it—really look at it—as we pull up, I realize I picked somewhere I might want to live. Even though I won’t be living here. Not really.

I look over at Liam as the car parks. He opens the door slowly, his hand falling away from my thigh. He grabs my hand and pulls me out with him, looking back at me for a second. The impression I get of him in that moment is one of curiosity, interest, maybe even excitement. The expression on his face doesn’t match his rumblings from before. It signals something hidden deeper inside of him.

Maybe.

The driver pulls away, and we’re left standing there together. I realize we’re holding hands, like a real couple. That thought makes me woozy.

Being with him goes from being infuriating to tantalizing in a matter of moments.

He walks to the stone steps, still holding my hand. “Where’s the realtor?”

“She said she couldn’t make it. Told me the combo to get in. She’s a friend of Rhiannon’s so—” I fumble with the lock on the door, entering the code twice before it pops open and delivers a worn looking key. The door sticks when I try it, so I jiggle the handle. When it opens, there’s a change in the air. It’s warmer, quieter, inviting. “So, we can look at it ourselves.”

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly as I walk inside.

Behind me, the door closes and locks. Liam is silent, walking over the slightly crooked, worn hardwoods, over to the kitchen with its old gas burners. The Formica is stained very slightly from years of use. There are some scratches in the kitchen tile, and some cracks in the walls. But it feels nice, like a place we could live.

A place he could live. After this is all over.

He turns to me and smiles. “This is good. I gotta hand it to you.”

“Even though it’s in Queens—”

“Don’t mention that. You’ll ruin the moment.” He takes me in his arms and lifts me onto the kitchen countertop. There’s a window behind me that looks out into a tiny backyard. “And besides, I think I could pretend I’m somewhere else in here.”

“Like where?”

“Like not in Queens.” He kisses me, slowly, movements languid, like we’ve got all the time in the world.

“Hey, I thought we needed to meet with the lawyer.”

“Not until one,” he mumbles. His lips trail over my neck, hands searching beneath my shirt. His fingers unhook my bra. “I’d like to take this opportunity…” He lifts a hand to my breast and pinches one nipple, rolling it between his fingers. Before I can say anything, he’s lifting my shirt over my shoulders and throws it to the floor, along with my bra. “To show you more about my magic cock.”

“Come on,” I whisper. “That’s not a good idea. We don’t live here. I mean—this isn’t our place. The realtor does have a key too. She’s not in the area, but you never know for sure. Shit. What if someone else—”

“No one else lives here,” he replies. “Not yet. And besides, it’s ours. We’ll sign a lease today. After the lawyer.”

“I have two other places to look at. One in Brooklyn—”

“Fuck no,” he says, lifting my skirt and tugging at my panties. “No fucking Brooklyn. This is the place. This is the one that’s closest to Brie’s school? Close to Marta’s. And my Ma’s old church, I think. We’ll sign the lease today.”

“You mean you will.”

“You should too. Sign the lease. Make sure I can’t kick you out.”

I balk at that, putting my hands on top of his. “It’s twenty-seven hundred a month. Are you just doing all of this to get me to pay?”

He laughs and moves his hands away from mine, pulling my panties off and tossing them on the floor. “The bar isn’t just a fake job. I work my ass off. I’ve been putting money away for two years. And more before—” He stops, moving his fingers to my aching sex. “I have plenty. For as long as you’re here, I’m paying for you.” He kisses me in the hollow of my neck. “For your rent. Your meals. Like a real couple.”

I’d like to tell him how that makes me feel—warm inside but also deeply anxious.

Seconds ago, he was giving me shit for making him even go to Queens. Now he’s ripping my clothes off and feeling me up on a kitchen counter.

It’s troubling, this thing growing between us. If it’s not real, then what is it?

Two fingers slide inside of me, making a beckoning motion against my g-spot. Lightning strikes through my veins, smoldering heat licking over my thighs. My focus is growing blurry around the edges. My anger is fading from a deep, furious red to light pink. And then to nothing, as heat sings through me.

“I shouldn’t sign it,” I say, a little moan in my voice. His palm rests against my clit, his fingers drenched in wetness. “We’re not a real couple.”

“Real enough,” he says. “I’m starting to know what you like, anyway. My little librarian. Pure and innocent. But she secretly—” He leans in, the base of his palm resting against my clit now, my legs spread over the kitchen counter. “She wants to fuck.”

“I’m a writer. Not a librarian. I’m not even a writer. Just an assistant.” I laugh as I say it, and I throw my arms and legs around him. It feels good to be wanted like this, to know that his cock is pressing against my thigh, that he could fuck me at any moment. The woman who was heretofore unfuckable.

“I know what you are. I don’t get that shit confused.” He shifts his hand and lets his thumb work against my clit. White hot flame rises in me, focused on the spots his fingers find, the places he touches me, where no man has ever touched me before. I moan softly, leaning into his shoulder.

“Liam, come on. I can make an appearance when and where I need to—” I stop, panting, moaning. He has me close and he knows it. “Fuck. Just listen to me—Are you going to fuck me?” I almost blush when I say it, but we’ve been building to this. He’s teased me, taunted me, made me want it more than I imagined I would.

It strikes me. I’m invested now. How much deeper will I go when we start sleeping together?

Still, there’s nothing I’m going to do to stop it now. It’s clear to me—I’m in this. And I’ll see it through to the end, whenever that is.

“Not today,” he growls. He brings me to the edge with his fingers, kissing my neck, his mouth moving down to one nipple, his other hand holding me up as the sensation builds in my body. Everything grows tighter and tighter until it feels like I’m about to snap.

“Please.” I hear myself saying the word. It wasn’t a conscious decision—to want this, to beg for it. The need is so deep that the words come out anyway, unexpected.

“Please what?” His voice is gruff.

“Please… make it today. I want you to fuck me today. Here.” My head swims as I’m saying it. This isn’t our apartment—and shit, wouldn’t we get arrested or something if the realtor caught us? If the landlord came by? The heat builds, pooling between my legs, centered on his fingers.

My orgasm explodes through me, the wave so strong that my brain goes blank for a second. I hear myself calling out Liam’s name, and I’m babbling like a madwoman. My muscles pulse against his fingers, and I whimper as the pleasure crescendos and slowly fades away. “I want more,” I say without even thinking about it. “Make me come again. Fuck me. Please fuck me.”

“Not yet,” he says. He leans in and nips at my neck.

He takes his hand away, leaving me panting and exposed. “Come on,” I whimper. The thrumming in my body is maddening, taking me to heights I never experienced with Charlie. I want it again. Already. I didn’t experience much of anything at all with him—just sleepless nights when I’d get off by myself. Each experience unsatisfying.

Here, with Liam, this one moment is better than a thousand nights with Charlie. Liam’s touch trumps all the chaste kisses and promises of a future together.

He pulls me from the counter, wrapping my legs around his waist, carrying me to the back bedroom. “We haven’t seen the master bedroom yet, little miss.” He kisses me on my neck as he carries me. “Don’t worry—we’ll break it in when we do.”

I think of him, his hips thrusting between my legs. His cock, filling me to the hilt. I want it, want him bare, coming inside of me. I’ve never had these thoughts before. The images, fast and intense, frighten me.

“You mean you’ll fuck me, right? Today?”

He doesn’t respond. Instead he carries me into the room and puts me down on my knees. The gray carpet is new and soft. The light filters into the windows, illuminating both of our bodies. If someone came and looked through the blinds, they’d see Liam unbuckling himself, releasing his cock and stroking himself in front of me.

“Pull your skirt up for me, sweetheart. Let me see your pussy.” I turn red, but I do as he says. I always do. It’s become a habit. It’s become my reality.

I kneel before him, totally exposed, skirt lifted around my hips.

“And? What do I do now?” I look up at him. If anyone had asked me a year ago if I imagined myself here, my mouth watering at the sight of this man’s cock. An ex-con, a bad boy. A man with tattoos and reckless mistakes and insane passion in his history.

I would have told them no. I’d be married to Charlie, trying to make a baby. Maybe writing a book. A boring one. One with no experience behind it.

But those are all dreams that didn’t happen—and what’s more, they’re dreams that are far less exciting than my reality now, at this very moment.

“Now? I’ll teach you how to suck my cock.” He strokes himself again, tugging his pants down to the floor and stepping forward. I haven’t seen it in the light of day—it’s huge. I swallow hard, anxiety and excitement swirling together in the pit of my stomach. “It’s a skill every good girl should know. And you’re a good girl, aren’t you? Good for your man?”

I nod. He places his cock against my lips, and I open my mouth, pressing my tongue to his hot skin and wrapping my lips around the head.

“But your man was never good to you, was he?” Liam brings his hand to my head and brushes his fingers through my hair. It sends shivers down my spine, my body lit on fire from the inside. “I will be. I might be cocky. I might hate this fucking neighborhood. I might drive you crazy.” He thrusts forward, making my mouth open wider. I taste him, salty and sharp. A groan escapes from his lips, deep and throaty and rich. “I might be an arrogant asshole.” He shudders. “But I treat my women good. Especially if they’ve got a mouth as pretty as yours.”

I swirl my tongue over his cock, and I close my eyes. This is a visceral, deep pleasure—taking him, letting him thrust into the back of my mouth as he holds my hair, pulling it. I moan against his cock, and he grunts in response. My eyes are watering, tears streaming down my cheeks as he hits the back of my throat. But I find I like this particular brand of discomfort—my nipples stiffen in the chilled air of the room, and my sex aches for him. I feel myself getting even wetter than I was before. My body is hot, ready, anticipating.

I bring my hand to the cleft between my legs, finding my clit. I let my fingers flick over it, heightening my own pleasure as I suck his cock. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, chills running up and down my spine. I start to come, sensation overtaking me, waves of release hitting me so hard I feel like I might temporarily go insane.

“You like that? Sucking my cock? Coming for me while you taste me?”

I can only moan and mumble against his skin, and he groans at the vibrations.

“God, I’m close,” he says, his cock moving faster now. I bring my hand to the base of his cock, stroking it tentatively as he fucks my mouth. “That’s perfect. You’re doing so good. So fucking sweet.”

I taste him then, stronger. Sharp and musky. He moans, fingers tangled in my hair, pulling it hard. The mascara I put on earlier is ruined, running down my cheeks. I don’t care—I have no capacity now for modesty. All I want is for him to come, to fill my mouth, my throat. To give him the pleasure I’ve been dreaming about since I met him. He thrusts hard, once more, and his essence fills my mouth.

“Swallow it,” he groans. “I want to feel you swallow.” I obey, and he groans again, a shiver running through him. “That’s my good girl. You like being a little fuck toy, don’t you?”

A tremor of uncertainty hits me. Do I? Is this what I am? Secretly? Who I am? Did I stay here today instead of bolting because this is exactly what I want?

He pulls away, and I lick my lips, still hungry for his taste. I look up at him, and slowly, I nod.

Liam falls to the floor beside me, pulling me into his arms. His taste is heavy on my lips. And to my surprise, I like it. A sensual secret, a brief sign of what took place in this room with him.

I keep it close, a memory for when we’re done. When our time wears thin. He’s told me it will—he’s not a man who stays.

Chapter Nine

Liam

Skye’s face is flushed when we leave the apartment.

“So, this is really what you want? You don’t want to look at the other ones?”

I turn to her and take her by the shoulders. “Yeah, really. I like this place.” I smile. “Besides, it’s where you gave your first blow job.” My cock throbs at the thought of it, at the messiness of her hair, her pink cheeks.

She bites her lip hard and shushes me. “Come on, someone might hear you.”

“What? We’re wholesome. A couple moving into an apartment in fucking Queens of all places. We haven’t even fucked. Can’t get more wholesome than that.”

“We should fix that,” she whispers. A shiver runs through my body and reaches the base of my spine. “You have to tell me when.”

I take her in my arms and kiss her, pulling her close. “We should. When the time is right. Besides, I like making you wait. Something sexy about that. Keep the virgin waiting.”

“Look at you with all this romantic stuff,” she says. “Someone might say you like me.” She looks at me, horrified when she says it, like she’s said something wrong. Something tightens deep in my chest, causing me an almost physical pain. “Sorry,” she adds.

“I do like you. We’re friends, aren’t we?” I give her a grin and pull her in close as we walk down to the subway. “More than that. You’re helping me. And I know you were in this for a casual thing, but—”

We stop in front of the stairs that lead down to the trains. “Don’t say anything else,” she says. “Casual is good. Romantic—not so much, right?”

“Yeah,” I sigh. There’s so much more I want to say. I want to put my hands on her body, push her against the wall by the stairs. Tell her I don’t know anyone like her, that she’s different. And different is good. So good.

If she were anyone else, I would have fucked her by now. But she’s not anyone else. I don’t know why I’m hesitating, why I’m standing here, just looking at her. I like the tension. The wanting. The thought that waiting might make her stay longer, might make her more invested.

“Come on, Liam.” Skye grabs me by the hand and pulls me down into the pit of the subway. The ride is a quiet one, with many things left unsaid. But when we arrive back in Hell’s Kitchen, she takes me by the hand and doesn’t let go until we’re in the lawyer’s waiting room.

“This is it,” I whisper. “My lawyer—Mickey Donnelly—he’s meeting with Marta’s lawyer to put custody back on the table. Overnight visits at the very least. I don’t have hard evidence against Marta—” I crack my knuckles, thinking of my little girl’s stories. Her anxiety. The stomach pain she complains each time she comes back from her grandmother’s.

“Rhiannon says you probably have a good case. We’ll see.”

The lawyer’s office always reminds me of the dentist—cold and clean with its anonymous white walls. There are law degrees and shitty paintings and a sad beta fish in a bowl with a plant in it. But nothing makes it personal. Shit, my dentist’s office is way more personal.

This time, being here feels slightly better. This time, Skye is with me, and we have an apartment and a plan. I’m down to the wire with this custody thing, and she came along in the nick of time. I glance at her, sitting in the hard-backed chair next to mine, wondering what she’s thinking. She looks lost in thought, and she pulls out a little notebook to write in. It has roses on the cover, and the edges are worn down.

I have the impulse to take her hand into mine and squeeze it. But I don’t.

Don’t want to confuse things, I think. We’ve already got them confused enough.

I look over at Skye again. She’s jotting things down, then occasionally looking around the lawyer’s waiting room, then writing down a few more words.

She’s got bigger dreams than me and an old apartment in Queens. It’s not close to her work in Soho, and it’s sure as hell not what she would have imagined for herself. At least, I think it’s not. She’ll be moving on when we’re done here.

But I want to pull these moments apart and spread them out, keeping them as long as I can.

“Mr. Dougherty,” the receptionist says, looking over the fish bowl on her desk. “Mr. Jameson will see you now.” She looks at Skye somewhat suspiciously. This isn’t exactly a great area of the city, and they don’t expect people who look like Skye to wander in with a guy like me, who previously had no chance in hell of getting his daughter back. “And this is—”

“My girlfriend,” I answer. Skye blanches, but then she looks over at me and nods. “We’re getting an apartment together for Brie. My little girl.”

We stand together and walk back to the room where I was told—three times—that Marta would retain full custody until I had a more stable living arrangement for Brie. Marta’s fucking family has these lawyer people on her side, and half of the court system too. My lawyer is on the Dougherty side of things, but, until now, it’s all seemed completely insurmountable.

But I look over at Skye, and it doesn’t seem that way anymore.

“Are they going to buy this shit?” Her voice is a low whisper, full of worry.

“They better. It’s my only strategy.”

She sighs heavily, but before she can get a smart-mouthed comment in, we’re in the lawyer’s conference room. There’s Marta and her guy, Lorne Jameson, who looks like a little bulldog. And there’s my lawyer, sitting across from him. I stop cold, because today there’s something different. Brie is here, too.

I knew it before we came today, but seeing her here is a reality I wasn’t quite ready for. Skye takes a deep breath in when she sees my daughter. I look over at her, and she cocks her head to the side, biting her lip.

“Daddy!” My daughter bursts out of her chair before Marta has a chance to catch her arm and hold her back. That’s how it usually is—Marta is always policing Brie’s quick bursts of energy, holding her back. But today, her gnarled old hand isn’t fast enough. Brie rushes into my arms and holds onto my waist. Before anyone can say a word, I’ve lifted her into my arms and twirled her around now. She’s at least fifty pounds and nearly four feet tall, but she feels as light as a feather to me. She always will.

“I missed you, Pumpkin,” I say. I never expect my heart to fill up quite like it does, like there’s no one and nothing else in the room. It surprises me every time. Recently, it’s gotten even worse—not worse, exactly—but more intense. The longing for us to be a family again. I squeeze my girl tight. When I glance at Skye, there are tears in her eyes.

“This is inappropriate. This man is only allowed supervised visitation,” Marta says. Her voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard. Her face, so similar to my ex-wife’s, has been distorted by years of hatefulness and narcissism.

“We’re here to overturn that today,” my lawyer says. “Mr. Dougherty has proven himself to be an upstanding citizen in the years since his release—”

“That’s it exactly,” Marta snarls. “Since his release. Kindly put her down, Liam.”

I don’t. Instead I shift Brie to my hip, and she nestles her head against my shoulder. “Not a chance,” I say. “Let me have five minutes. It’s been over a week since I’ve seen her.”

“Please,” Brie says. “I just want to stay with Daddy.”

“That’s right,” I say. “Just a few minutes.” I kiss Brie on her cheek and take in her little kid smell—kids’ shampoo, a hint of sweat, the faint smell of the outdoors. At least Marta is keeping her bathed, I think.

“At school,” Brie whispers, “there’s a big kid who’s—”

Lorne Jameson cuts us off. “I’m afraid I do think this is inappropriate, just as Mrs. Maguire said.”

Marta looks at me, pleased with herself, a creepy-looking smile taking over her face. “And with your new girlfriend here too—might be confusing to Brie. Or is she even your girlfriend? My guy keeps his eye on you. I hear about you and your women from the bar. If you can rightfully call them women, that is.”

“Marta, please watch your mouth around Brie. If you didn’t want me to see her, why did you bring her here?” I try to keep the anger out of my voice. “And this isn’t just some woman from the bar—”

“Please put the child down,” Jameson says. I don’t know much about this new lawyer of hers, but I can tell that his face looks like it needs to be punched. “Mrs. Maguire was unable to find childcare this afternoon, which is something she wishes to discuss. We feel you should be paying child support—”

“Child support,” I growl, protectively putting my hand behind my daughter’s head, just like I did when she was a baby and couldn’t quite sit up straight yet. “I pay child support every month. I don’t know what Marta’s been telling you, but you can check my bank statements. I’ve saved every penny. And then some.”

“And that’s why you’re living in that horrible place above the bar. It’s no place for overnight stays, let alone joint custody,” Marta says. Her lawyer puts his hand on her shoulder, trying to get her to stop speaking, but she brushes him away. “And you—you wouldn’t even be able to get her to school on time. I know you’ve got money saved somewhere. Tabby told me that a long time ago. You’ve just got it somewhere where you can’t get it to me. Or your precious little girl. How dare you even think she could live with you? When you can’t even pay for her.”

This woman is fucking nuts. I send exactly what Brie needs and more. And I have a sneaking suspicion most of it is put right back into Marta’s own hefty bank account. She plays her poor-me bit up for the judges. But I know she’s paying for a PI and a bunch of other shit to keep Brie away from me.

Skye looks over at me meaningfully and nods. Fucking Queens. Why did she have to be right about that? But I think about her in the apartment, how beautiful she looked when she was exactly where I wanted her. Maybe Queens isn’t that bad.

“I can get her to school on time when I move into a new apartment. It’s more than an apartment—it’s an old townhouse converted into apartments,” I say. Brie buries her face in my neck, her long brown hair cascading over my shoulders. “Two bedrooms. A backyard. Dishwasher, the whole nine yards.” I try to remember if there’s a washer and drier because I know it’s something Marta will find out before the day is over.

“In Hell’s Kitchen. That’s no place for a kid,” Marta huffs. “If my daughter were alive—”

I look to Skye and her eyes go wide. She regains composure before anyone in the room notices. That’s a thing you’d tell your serious girlfriend, isn’t it? That your ex-wife is dead. Shit.

“She’s not, Marta. I’m the only living parent she has. She belongs with me.”

The old woman crosses her arms, shutting the rest of the room out. Good. I know where this is going. She’s about to say something she won’t be able to take back. Fucking let her. Marta looks up at me with her vicious cornflower-blue eyes. “You were in prison for six months. You’re broke as shit, and you’re a criminal. Every one of your brothers are criminals.” She’s on a roll now, and her lawyer is trying to stop her.

“Keep going, Marta. Brie certainly needs to hear all of this,” I say. I try to make my voice threatening, but I break out into a grin even as I put my hands over my little girl’s ears. “Brie actually hates when you pull this crap. When you yell. When you gripe. It makes her anxious. Know how I know? She tells me. She cries on the phone with me.”

When you insult her. When you make her feel like garbage. For the first time in months, I feel something new rising within me. With Skye, even standing next to me, not saying anything, I feel braver and more powerful than I have when facing Marta and the courts.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Marta says. “My family is far better than yours. You’re a broke piece of shit.”

I hold Brie close, wishing I could take away every one of her grandmother’s words. “That’s where you’re wrong, on every count, Marta. I’m not broke. I’ve worked my ass off every day for two years, planning for this hearing. Waiting for it. Making sure everything was in order so I could get my little girl back. I pay you your child support. But I’ve got an account locked up for Brie, and you’re not getting your hands on that.”

“I’ll get it if you have your name on it. I’ll find a way,” Marta sneers at me. Lorne tries to shush her again, but he doesn’t succeed. “And where were you before you found this cute little ‘girlfriend’ and this magical apartment in Queens?”

“You know where I was. I went to prison for a crime your family had me commit. To pay for the funeral expenses for your daughter. I did the time. I’m out of that life for good.” I bite my tongue. I want to tell her that I know she had me do it so she could get rid of me—so Marta could have the prize of her granddaughter to show off to her friends for the rest of her miserable years on earth. But Donnelly has coached me not to say this shit. He sits back and nods, watching the back and forth between me and Marta. If she does this at the hearing—and we both know how to push her buttons—the ball goes back into my court.

“And here you brought this whore along when you knew your girl would be here,” Marta says.

That thing clenches tight in my chest again. I look over at Skye, and I see how pale she is. Shit. This is way more than she bargained for.

“That’s not what she is,” I say. “And if I were ever able to see Brie, I might have gotten to make the introduction a lot earlier. We’ve been together for—” I search my brain for a reasonable amount of time. “Three months. Isn’t that right?”

I glance at Skye again. She’s keeping her cool. “Yeah,” she breathes. It’s the first word she’s said since we got in here, and I can hear the uncertainty in her voice even if no one else in here can.

Marta looks over at her lawyer with an angry expression on her face. “I doubt that,” Marta snips. “You’ve never been with anyone for longer than a few nights. My people keep tabs on you, and you know it. This girl is nothing more than some tramp you’ve found to make you look slightly more reasonable.”

I take a deep breath. Rage has clouded my judgment before with this woman, and it’s threatening to now. When I close my eyes, I see red. When I open them, I blurt out the only thing I can think of. “This is Skye Williams, and she’s my fiancée. We’re getting married. Next weekend.”

Skye makes a small, strangled sound. But, to her credit, she keeps her cool. She shouldn’t. I’m an asshole, and I have so little to offer her in return for her help.

I wait for her to say something else, but she doesn’t. Instead, she grabs my hand.

“Well,” Donnelly says. “Congratulations.”

This probably isn’t the proposal Skye had imagined.

But if I get her out of this mess quick and get custody again, she’ll get the one she wants. The one she deserves.

I put Brie down, still holding her close, and pull out my phone. When I open it, there’s a copy of the lease. All we have to do is sign it through the app, and we’re done.

“Brie should be able to come stay overnight after the wedding. Get to know her new room. And go to the park with us before that. For the entire day. Unsupervised.”

“Please—can I?” Brie looks at all the adults in the room, who are arguing loudly. Marta’s voice is rising. “Will it have to be locked, Skye?”

Brie turns her big brown eyes to Skye. Skye shakes her head and gives me a worried look. The comment is small, said in Brie’s quiet voice.

It might have gone unnoticed, but something dawns on Skye. She kneels on the floor next to my girl, and she takes her hands. This woman I barely know—she does this for me. She finds the key—literally—that sways everything in our favor. At least for today.

“Do you mean your bedroom, sweetheart?” Skye asks.

Brie nods. “It’s a little scary. At night. With the door locked.” Her voice is barely more than a whisper. “If I can stay with you, you won’t lock it, right?”

“No, honey, we won’t. Never.” Skye pulls Brie to her and hugs her tight.

The room goes quiet. Even Marta’s skeevy lawyer bites his lip and shakes his head. “I think we can arrange an overnight visit. It seems you’re making a good faith effort, and the judge will sign off on it, Dougherty. I don’t think you’ll be getting custody any time soon—”

“What the hell are you saying, Lorne?” Marta snarls at him.

“He did what the judge said, Marta,” her lawyer says. “I don’t like it any more than you do. But if you want to maintain full custody, you have to allow visitation to the biological father when he meets the judge’s orders.”

When Skye stands up, she brushes Brie’s hair away from her face, and she smiles. “The apartment is a few blocks from Brie’s school. And Liam and I will be moving in shortly. So we’ll need to see Brie there soon, too. After the wedding.” Skye cuts her eyes at me and gives me an unreadable look.

Slowly, Marta’s lawyer nods.

We stand there, waiting, watching.

Things start happening around us. Legal things. Pens to paper. The tapping of keys on laptops.

The sound of things, finally, moving forward.

Shit. I guess we have a fucking wedding to plan.

Chapter Ten

Skye

The days until the move pass by in a blur. I ordered a dress online that might or not fit properly. And both Liam and I focused on Brie more than anything else. Buying a bed. A lamp. A nightstand. Pictures for the walls. A twirly dress for the wedding.

I pick up the brown box the dress came in and put it on my bed next to my suitcase. I move slow and cautious, like a spider might jump out of it at any moment. I wring my hands nervously and stare at it for a few moments. Rhiannon is here, and I can hear her sorting jewelry on my nightstand, muttering to herself.

Dress. Okay, I’ve got the dress. It’s got cap sleeves, and a silk sash, and the skirt goes just below my knees.

Now how do I tell Rhiannon that I’m getting married?

My parents, they were surprised. More than a little bewildered. But that’s not the hard part. The hard thing is explaining this to someone who really knows me, who was in the trenches with me when I was grieving the loss of Charlie. When I was resigning myself to be a spinster forever.

“I can’t believe you’re moving in with him,” she says. “Today. You just found the place a week ago?”

I gulp. “Yeah. I did. It’s nice. And he needs a stable place for the kid. I’m doing him a favor.” I must have said ‘I’m doing him a favor’ like sixty-five times so far to Rhiannon. All the while, she’s been helping me put clothes in suitcases, nodding silently and giving me looks like she thinks I might be certifiably insane.

Married. Married, married. I’m getting married.

Here comes the bride.

Holy shit.

I swallow hard. I have that peculiar taste at the back of my throat—the taste of fear. In my job as a writer’s assistant, I got used to that taste when I was making phone calls and scheduling advertising. It’s the taste of anxiety, the taste of fear. The words are on the tip of my tongue. I need to tell her. I have to tell her.

I open my mouth to say it, and then I just start packing again. In the days since we signed the lease and made the decision to get married—my stomach drops at the thought of it—Liam has informed his entire Irish family. He had his mom book the church in Queens. He’s gotten adjustments on his brother’s tux. All I had to do was get a dress.

I did at night, online, alone. Without my best friend.

I sigh deeply.

I think of that little girl, and the urgency piles on. We need to get into that apartment so she has a place to go, a place that doesn’t terrify her. Doesn’t grind her down, doesn’t ruin her childhood. It’s all worth saving—Liam, Brie. The two of them together.

How did I get into this again?

I think of Liam. The way he makes me moan, legs shaking, brain and body seized with white hot light and energy.

“You’re in for it,” Rhiannon says, pulling me out of my reverie. She crosses her arm and watches me pack up my old pictures. “It’s been what? A couple weeks? And you’re setting down roots.”

“No—it’s not like that. It’ll all be done and over with when the court grants final custody.”

Hands against bare skin. His tongue, inside of me. I shiver when I think of it, the feeling reaching the very base of my spine. And by the way, there’s something else. We’re getting married.

“You say that like you know what you’re talking about,” Rhiannon says. “That shit could take months. I told you that you might be able to help him get custody if you can prove the grandmother is abusing the kid. Even if the girl is saying she doesn’t feel safe, it can take a while to overturn a decision like that. Depends on the judge you get. You could get one who sides with you right away. You could get the one who told Liam he needed a steady relationship, and then you’re golden. Unless he realizes it’s all a sham.”

What if it does take months? Does Liam want me with him that whole time? He said he did.

“Yeah.” I look at her. “I guess I didn’t really think that far ahead.”

“No, you didn’t. But I support you. Especially since I’ve heard about the size of his cock. You are boning him, aren’t you?”

“Uh—” I look down at the picture in my hand. It’s Charlie and me at the beach. His arm is awkwardly over my shoulders. It’s clear to me now that we didn’t even really like each other. “Not yet. We’re not boning yet. There’s plenty of other things going on.”

She pauses and starts picking out a few bras from my drawer. “Okay. That’s weird. I mean, no judgment.”

My heart pounds hard, blood rushing in my ears. “There’s something I didn’t really tell you—a few things actually.”

Rhiannon folds up a couple of my nightshirts and tosses them my way, looking at me expectantly. “Go on.” She says the words carefully.

“Charlie and I—we never—I mean—I never, with anyone.”

“What are you saying?” She raises a perfectly arched eyebrow.

“I’m still a virgin. So, Liam and I are holding off. For now. I mean—I would—with him, right now.” I’m stuttering over my words, and they’re all rushing together in an idiotic jumble. “But I think he’s waiting for dramatic effect.”

“Wait a second—” Rhiannon’s face dropped. It’s the look of someone who’s trust has been broken. But for so many years, I was ashamed. Waiting, wanting. Thinking it would all happen on my wedding night with Charlie, like he’d always promised. “You’re a what now—and you’re waiting to do it with Liam Dougherty?”

“I’m sorry, Rhi. I didn’t tell you. I just—”

“Hey, it’s fine. But girl, maybe you should warm up with someone else. Liam is supposed to be fucking massive. I don’t want to take you to the hospital. And besides, he’s never really stuck around with any chick. That’s what his brother told me. Come to think of it, Finn told me that a few days ago—”

“I know. I don’t expect him to. I’m just helping him because…” There’s not much of a because. “Hey, you’re hanging out with Finn?”

She waves her hand at me. “No. You are not allowed to change the subject. Finn is an old friend from high school. It was never like that at all.”

“If you say so. He’s just as hot as Liam. And Liam is like—” I struggle to find the words.

“He’s like walking sex. Like if God had created sex and made it into a person. I know what you’re getting out of the deal. I’m just worried it’s not enough. It’s not what you deserve, you know? He’s getting his daughter back, and you’re getting sex? A pretend relationship?” She walks over to me and pulls me into her arms, hugging me tight. “I just hope you don’t end up with a broken heart.”

We go back to packing, both silent for a while. After a few minutes, a thought comes to me, and I turn to Rhiannon. “It’s better than nothing at all.”

“What’s better?”

“A broken heart. I mean, I hope that’s not where I’m headed. But it’s better than sitting around this place, waiting for nothing to happen.”

Rhiannon sighs. “Yeah, I know. I get it. I mean, the guy’s a fucking legend.” She shrugs. “Might be fun for your first time. I guess looking at it as an adventure is fine.” Her voice is flat. It’s clear she doesn’t quite believe what she’s saying.

My heart flutters in my chest. When I pause to think about any of it, it doesn’t make sense. So, I’m not pausing, I’m just packing. “He’s a legend now? I thought you only knew of him like, third-hand. And only because you know Finn. It’s not like he’s giving you stories about Liam’s giant cock.”

“So, it’s giant?” She laughs and sorts through some of the perfumes on the top of the dresser. They’ve gone unused the past week. Somehow, I like the scent of my own body better. Like it’s waking up, finally, after years of being silent.

“It’s impressive. Pretty fucking impressive.” I look at her and smile. The blush rises over my cheeks, but I’m getting more used to the idea of being with him. But then I have to remind myself—I might not be. Not for long. Or does he want to keep using me, keep me there so Marta’s people think we’re really married?

“So I’ve heard. From like six women who’ve slept with him. That’s why we got you to the bar to meet him. I didn’t know you were looking for a casual fling for your first time. I thought that was more of a relationship thing. But—like I said, I get it. He’s hot. He just might disappear and start fucking a bunch of other people.”

I nod, sadly. But it’s good to remember that’s who Liam is. He’s not just the single dad who’s putting together a plan to get his daughter back. There’s more to him—he’s also the guy who took me upstairs and introduced me to his mother as his girlfriend. The guy who told three people that we’re engaged, without even proposing. Without discussing any of it beforehand.

And I’m the one keeping it from my best friend. For days, I have. Shit.

“I know. He made that plenty clear. I’m not special. I just happened to walk into the bar on the right night. And I have that conservative look.” I pull a cardigan off my bed and hold it up over my chest. “The one that judges like.”

“Whoa wait. Did he say any of that to your face?” she asks. “Because that’s not cool—” I can tell she’s about to go off on one of her rants.

“No, no he didn’t. He told me it was a temporary arrangement. That it would all get sorted out in the next month. After we’re—”

Married. Say ‘married.’

“So, he told you you’re living together for a month? At least a month? Is he going to be sleeping with other people during that time?” Rhiannon throws a couple of plain white bras in my direction.

“No.” I look down. “I don’t think so. He’ll get bored of me after he gets custody of his daughter. It’s a short-lived thing.” I pick up the bras, exasperated. The bras seem boring and old-fashioned, even though I thought they were cute when I bought them. I shove them in my bag. They’re embarrassing. They’re not the bras of a sexually active twenty-three-year-old woman. They look more like something you’d find in my seventy-year old aunt’s closet. The one who grew old with only cats and cat figurines to keep her company.

I was only a few steps away from a life of cat figurines, I think.

A bra strap flops out of my bag like a limp noodle. I shove it back in. It’s disconcerting to feel yourself changing and then find evidence of it right in your hands.

Rhiannon keeps watching me, like she’s observing a species of a strange and rare bird.

“I hate to say it, but he’s playing you.” Rhiannon sits down in the overstuffed chair by my bedroom door, clicking her nails together as if in thought. “But you know that, right? You’re still my smart, witty best friend. The one who talks me out of bad decisions. She’s still in there, right? She hasn’t been replaced with a sex-crazed maniac.”

I shrug and bite my lip. I am a little bit sex-crazed, if I had to put a word on it. Maybe I won’t be after he actually fucks me. It could all fade away, just as quickly as it came. “Yeah, I’m still here.”

She puts her hands to her hips. “You paused.” Rhiannon sighs. “How do you know he won’t leave you with a mountain of debt with that apartment in Queens?”

“Because—he won’t. I’m going out on a limb for him, and he says he’s got me covered. We’re having his lawyer draw up an agreement when we—”

“When ‘we’ what?” Rhiannon looks at me, her eyes searching for a clue about what I’m saying. My stomach churns.

“Well, there are some complications to the hearing, and we need to make a kind of… commitment. Just for a little while.”

Rhiannon frowns and holds up her hand. “Alright. I’m going to stop you right there. I don’t like where this is going—”

“Do you have like, a navy-blue dress?” I purse my lips and look away from Rhiannon, shoving the rest of my clothes into the suitcase, willy-nilly. I didn’t even tell her about the renter we found for this place. It’s brash. It’s stupid. This whole relationship might leave me in a terribly, awfully, shitty situation. It’s not who I am. But I think of Liam, carrying me over the threshold of that apartment, spreading my legs, fucking me against the wall. Finally filling me up, after teasing me, making me wait. Like a game. A game with a very good ending.

Maybe I don’t need to be who I am. Not for right now, anyway.

And he needs his kid. That sweet girl. Something tugs deep at my heartstrings when I think of her.

“Why?” Rhiannon asks, standing up. “Why exactly do I need a dress?”

“A navy-blue dress. I think navy blue looks really good on you. And I like the color. It goes well with purple. Don’t you think?” I won’t meet her eyes.

“Purple what? What are we talking about that’s purple?” Rhiannon puts her hands on her hips.

“Flowers?” It comes out as a question, and I cringe when I say it.

Rhiannon’s face goes pale. Her freckles even turn a shade lighter. But at the same instant, there are footsteps on the stairs outside my apartment.

Good. It’s supposed to be the younger brother. What’s his name—Damian. I think. Helping me move out.

I walk briskly out of the bedroom and to the door, Rhiannon following close behind.

Tell Rhiannon. Their mother is getting the church booked this afternoon. It’ll all be fine, and then it’ll all be over quick. The contract with the lawyer takes care of it.

“I think that’s someone coming to help me move my—”

The doorknob jiggles, and I hear a familiar voice. “Damian couldn’t make it. But I got your back,” it says. When the door swings open, Liam is on the other side, wearing a grin a mile wide.

“I got a ring,” he says. “It’s not much of anything, but it’s nice, you know.” Liam barges in and whips a gold ring with a tiny diamond on it out of his pocket. “Going to look good for the next time Marta comes by. Gotta keep up appearances.”

With Rhiannon watching, mouth agape, Liam pulls me into his arms and deftly slips the ring onto my left hand. And then, he kisses me, draping me over his strong arm. Not a chaste kiss. But a kiss like he means it, like we’re actually doing this. It occurs to me, while his lips melt into mine and his hands work their way down to my ass, that we are actually doing this. In a few days.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Rhiannon looks between the two of us, and we both pull away, like we’re snapping back to reality.

“You’re Rhiannon,” Liam says, extending his hand to shake hers.

She shakes his hand warily, like she’s holding a snake that might bite. “I am.” She raises an eyebrow and glances over at me again. I hide my left hand behind my back. Like that’s going to help anything.

“You’re the maid of honor, right?” Liam asks. “You’ve got a dress, right? Blue or—” Liam looks over at me and snaps his fingers. “Navy blue.”

I groan, and put one hand to my face. Maybe if I stand here like this and don’t move, I’ll melt into the floor, and this will all go away.

“Wait a fucking minute, here, Skye.” Rhiannon steps over to me and pulls my hand away from my face. “You’re getting married? What the fuck? Have you even considered what this is going to do to your parents? To your fucking… life? I’ll say it again. He’s playing you. Using you.”

“She’s helping me out,” Liam says, trying to butt between the two of us. “We’ve got a solid plan.” I hold onto his arm and try to push him away from Rhiannon. I have the terrifying idea of her clawing Liam’s eyes out. Looking over at my friend, I realize it’s a definite possibility. She launches towards Liam, protective and fierce.

“Rhiannon, stop!” I shout at her.

She looks at me with a shocked expression, but she lets her hands drop to her sides. “If I’d thought it would come to this, I wouldn’t have taken you to the bar. Or yelled at you to come meet this girl here.” She says the last word with acid in her voice, looking directly at Liam. “Because she’s my best friend. She’s stood by me through all of my own bullshit, and here she is, making the biggest mistake of her life.”

Liam puts his hands up, as if he’s trying to soothe her. “But it’s temporary. It’s not a permanent decision.”

“That doesn’t change anything.” She looks between us. “It only makes it worse. You realize what you’ve got here, Liam? She’s the absolute best person I know. That’s why she’s doing this. And if I had to guess, she really, really likes you, too. Get what I’m saying?”

We’re all quiet, awkward tension in the air between the three of us.

“You’re coming to the wedding though, right?” Liam asks, breaking the silence. He grins, like none of this has had any effect on him.

Shame and anger burn together in the pit of my stomach. I put my hand over my face and slump back into the old recliner that sits in front of the T.V. “I understand if you don’t want to. I get it. I do,” I say. I look up at Rhiannon. Liam has made himself scarce, looking through a shoebox full of spices that are all probably three years past their expiration date.

Rhiannon sighs heavily. “Yeah, fine. I’ll be there. Of course, I will be. And I do have a dress. It’s like, royal blue. Is that okay?”

I look up at her and nod, smiling. It feels like an accomplishment—telling her, confessing to her. Maybe it’ll help me make sense of it all. “Yeah, that’ll be great.”

She puts her hand on my shoulder. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I hope so too,” I say. She walks out the door, and I can’t help thinking that she’s the one who should be having the adventure—redheaded, feisty, incredibly passionate. Not me, the little librarian, as Liam says.

When Liam walks back in the room, and I look into his eyes, those feelings fall away like petals.

He’s all mine, even if it’s only for right now.

Even if it doesn’t last.

Tonight, we’ll be alone in our own apartment, and I can keep playing pretend.

Chapter Eleven

Liam

When my brothers come and load up the U-Haul truck, I watch as Skye’s life is moved. It’s all being combined with mine.

The goal is good. It’s for my girl. My baby.

But that girl Rhiannon’s words stick with me. She’s right—Skye is a pawn in a complicated game. I’m the one who put her there, and I didn’t ask her. Didn’t stop to make sure it was all okay with her.

I watch her. Her eyes are tired from packing all day. But when she stands there on the sidewalk, the sun frames her body. Her curves are illuminated by the late afternoon light. There’s a faint sheen of perspiration on her breasts. The top she’s wearing is V-necked and low-cut. Her cut off jean shorts are just a bit too short, and I can see the tops of her thighs. It makes me think of her sweet pussy, the dark, metallic taste of her. Like pennies, sharp and forbidden. Virginal. I’m the only man who’s tasted that delicate, sweet wetness. My cock swells.

That’s the thing. Looking at her makes me forget that this is all a favor. That it’ll be over soon, and I’ll be in my own apartment in Queens. Skye’s name will be off the lease, the divorce will be rushed through, and we’ll make sure Marta is never getting shit for custody.

For a second, though, I almost forget all of that. Instead, my mind is rushing ahead to the pleasure of getting her alone inside our own place. Spreading her legs, making her scream. Fucking her for the first time, and on all the nights after that.

That stupid fucking guy who got rid of her. Didn’t show her what her body was for. Didn’t he see what he had? If she were mine, really mine, for years to come—I’d fuck her every morning. I’d make sure she was always begging for it. Always wanting it. Tell her not to wear her panties to work. Or—have her go without a bra to the market. Make sure she was feeling it, wanting it, always thinking of me. And only me.

I focus on that thought as I watch the guys load up the truck. And by the time we get back to the apartment in Queens, I’m thinking of only that—not Rhiannon’s reaction to me or all the other bad shit about this being temporary.

The guys are staying around far too long, moving furniture, loading up cabinets.

When they finally leave, Skye is asleep.

I’m roaming the apartment, still thinking of her. The things I could do to her, every day.

I like it here, this place. I won’t admit it, but I do. I think it’s because Skye is in it.

The air in the apartment is crisp. We’ve got the windows open. It’s one of those nights in early Spring that’s just warm enough to do that, after a long, desolate winter. The bed is just a mattress on the floor. Skye has been sleeping on and off, after our marathon move-in day, but she wakes when I walk in the room.

She yawns and rolls over, her breasts exposed as the sheet slips down to her waist. “I thought you were setting up the T.V.”

“Done,” I say. “An hour ago.” I walk over to her, and I feel myself growing hard already. That’s a theme with this woman. I never thought I’d be able to focus on just one girl, but this one makes me want her, bad. And pretty much all the fucking time.

It might be that I haven’t fucked her yet. In fact, it could be just that. It could be that I’ve been thinking about her for the entire day.

“I’m ready,” she says, her voice still sleepy. “I want it to be tonight.”

I smile and sit down on the bed next to her, pulling off my shirt. Her hands immediately find my hand, and she pulls my fingers to her sex.

“Slow down,” I groan. But she’s already put my fingers against her wetness, her pussy slick and hot. I think of that vice-like grip around my cock, the feeling of her clenching against me as she comes, shaking like she does.

“Please,” she says. “Two weeks. I’ve been waiting two weeks. Two weeks too long. Please.”

I slip a finger inside of her, and I press my thumb to her clit, but only lightly. “Please what? Waiting for what, exactly? What do you want me to do?”

I withdraw my finger, pulling the slickness down to the tight entrance to her ass, resting my finger there, then circling it gently. I want that, too. Her sweet, tight little hole. She shudders. “What—what are you doing?”

My thumb goes back to her clit, trailing over it. My fingertips feel every shiver of her body. “Whatever I want. When you’re mine, you’re mine to do with as I please. For the rest of our time together.”

“I don’t think I—” I slip two fingers inside of her again. I bring her own wetness up around her clit and back down to her ass. I think of taking that, too. Her mouth, her pussy, her ass. All mine.

“So, little librarian. What do you want?” I keep my fingers moving in deft circles. Her legs spread open wider, and she arches her back as I bring her closer to the edge.

“I want you to fuck me—I’m ready. Please.” Her breath hitches in her throat. “Oh God, please. Please, tonight.”

“We get married tomorrow,” I say, unbuttoning my jeans, and pulling my waistband down. My cock springs free, and I groan. “I think we should wait until then. Make it more traditional.”

“No—please. Please, tonight.” She closes her eyes, bringing her hips upward to meet my hand, covering me with her wetness. She’s close. So close that I can feel her body start to tighten, begging for release.

I pull my hand away and bring it to my aching cock, kicking my jeans away from my body. I stroke myself with the slickness from Skye’s pussy. “You want to come on my cock,” I say.

I keep stroking myself. Skye pulls herself up on one elbow and hits my arm. “Come on,” she moans. “Don’t you want to fuck me?”

“What do you think?” I’m so hard now that there’s precum at the tip of my cock, a pearlescent bead. I think of how it would feel to release inside of Skye’s sweet, virgin pussy. Tight, fucking hot. God. I stop when I feel the shiver at the base of my spine, the tightening in my balls.

She’s looking at me with hunger in her eyes. Her hair falls over one eye, and she brushes it away. “I don’t know. You say you do—but we haven’t—we haven’t slept together yet.” Her cheeks color pink, and a flush creeps over her breasts. Gooseflesh rises on her skin. When she blinks, I think I might see tears. But it could be my mind playing tricks on me.

“I do. I want you,” I say. “I think about it every time I’m near you. Whenever I taste your skin. But I like the build up, librarian.”

I look at Skye. Her body is pale and luminescent in the moonlight that filters in through the window. Her breasts are round and heavy, nipples pink and stiff. She’s no longer shy about her body since I’ve taught her the things it can do. And fuck, I’m not even done showing her yet. I haven’t wanted a drink since I met her, and I haven’t even looked in the direction of another woman.

I move to Skye and push her down on the bed. She draws her breath in sharply and lets out a little moan. Her eyes widen, and I lower myself down on one elbow, kissing her hard and putting my hand to her sweet, delicate neck. When my fingers press down ever so slightly, she sighs, and she brings her legs around my waist, trying to pull me into her.

“Not yet,” I say. I keep my body positioned above hers, letting my hand wander over her breasts, cupping them, rolling the nipples until she groans in frustration. “But soon. Very soon.”

“When?” The word comes out as a whimper.

I slide my body down on top of hers and place my cock at her entrance. Instead of slipping it inside, I rest it against her folds, covering it in slickness, stroking myself as she moans and pushes her body up to meet mine. I bring myself to the edge again and stop, moving my fingers instead to Skye’s pussy, this time slipping three inside. She cries out, but I stop again before she comes.

Bringing my lips to her collarbone, I kiss her there. My tongue finds one nipple and circles it. I bite down gently, and I listen to that wanting sound that Skye makes, the sound that makes me know I can do whatever I want to her. Any time I want to.

“Tomorrow. After we’re married,” I say. I pull away from her body and stroke my cock, watching her, thinking of her coming for me. All the times she has, all the times we still have together—before she leaves for good. “I want you to walk around in that white dress, knowing that it’s your last day as a virgin. After you say, ‘I do,’ I’m going to take you wherever I can get you alone, lift up your dress, and fuck you until your legs are shaking.” I take her hand in mine and kiss it, and I place it against her slippery sex.

“Oh God,” she whispers, hips lifting in pleasure.

“After you come tonight, you’re going to shave your pussy for me. I want you completely bare, nothing underneath that dress. I want you to feel every step you take tomorrow. You’ll be so wet when I fuck you.”

“I can’t,” she whispers. “I’ve never shaved before.”

“You will tonight. For your wedding. Tonight, I want to watch you make yourself come, thinking about how I’m going to take your virginity. How it’s going to hurt to take my cock—” I start stroking myself again, closing my eyes for a split second to imagine it. “And then it’s going to feel so fucking good that you’ll be begging for it. Begging me to come inside of you.”

Skye’s breath catches in her chest again, and she slides her fingers inside of her pussy, fucking herself, her ass lifting in the air.

“You want me to come inside of you, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” she says, looking at me with those deep, dark eyes. Her pupils are dilated, her eyelids flickering up and down. “I want to feel you come—” She closes her eyes, and she lifts her fingers to her clit, bringing herself higher, closer.

“In your mouth. Your pussy.” I pause, stroking myself until I feel like I’m going to burst. I pull her into me and bite down gently on her ear lobe. “Your ass. All of it’s mine.”

Skye groans, her body tensing and releasing. “Fuck,” she moans. “Oh fuck.” Her eyes open. “Yes, yes—I want it all.” She cries out and comes for me, hard. Her body shakes, hips arching skyward.

Finally, I let go, my balls growing tight and releasing. I lose all control, unable to suppress the sudden urge to show her that I own that perfect, fuckable little body of hers. I come hard, on her pale body, covering her with my hot cum. On her pussy, between her legs. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen—and I’ve marked her. Showed her exactly who she is.

“All mine,” I say again. “Tomorrow. Whatever I decide to do.”

Skye nods. Her lips purse together. It looks like she’s about to say something, but instead, she takes my hand and pulls me up. We go to the shower together, letting the hot water roll over our bodies.

Skye is the first woman I didn’t fuck on the first night I met her, all because of a hunch. I touch her body, let the soap bubbles roll over her supple curves, kiss her as the water streams over us.

If I was anyone else, this would be a beginning—the first night in my new apartment with my fiancée.

Instead, it feels like it could be an ending.

The future presses down on us like a ghost. There’s so much I want to tell her, but I keep my mouth closed. Instead, I use it for other things, tasting her, bringing her to the edge again and again beneath the hot waterfall of the shower.

And tomorrow, we have our very own, very fake, and according to my mother, very big—wedding.

Chapter Twelve

Skye

The church in Queens is big, old, and fully intimidating. Because everything happened so fast, I never stepped inside of it until the morning of the wedding.

“You’ll go down the aisle starting right here.” The woman, some aunt of Liam’s, gives me a bored look and points down the center aisle of the church. “And you’ve got how many bridesmaids?”

“Just one,” I say. “She’s back in the gathering hall in one of the rooms.” I shift uncomfortably. Even though Rhiannon put makeup on me in a tasteful, measured way, I still feel weird. I’m wearing one of Liam’s old t-shirts and his gym shorts, and my hair is pulled back into a bun with tendrils framing my face on either side. The hairspray Liam’s cadre of aunts used on me feels like it’s stuck on my skin as well as in my hair. The whole look is completely uncomfortable, and I keep wondering what Liam’s aunt thinks of me.

“That’s fine. Not everyone has as many brothers as Liam does.”

“How many exactly?” I clamp my mouth closed when I say this. I’m supposed to know everything about the man I’m marrying, right?

“How many what?” She raises an eyebrow.

“Brothers? I keep forgetting how many brothers Liam has.”

His aunt gives me a pained look. “Tell me honestly. Is this a shotgun wedding?”

I blush. “Oh, um. No, it’s not. I just… forgot what Liam said about his brothers.”

“Three. Damian, Finn, and Malachy.” The aunt sighs. I’ve already forgotten her name. She checks her watch. “You need to get going. The ceremony is going to start in an hour.”

“I didn’t realize it was that late.” My heart starts pounding hard, blood rushing in my ears.

The aunt ushers me back to the gathering hall, where Rhiannon waits for me in one room. Liam is somewhere else. With his brothers, his father.

I think of what he told me last night, and I’m suddenly terrified.

Liam’s aunt turns to me. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” she says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Back in my day, we didn’t get to try on the shoes before we bought them.” She gives me a wink. “But you know what you’re getting into. You’re living in the same apartment! Your wedding night won’t be a surprise like mine was. The size of these men in this family! My sister-in-law—she married Padraic, Liam’s uncle—and she ended up in the emergency room the day before she was supposed to go on her honeymoon. Couldn’t walk straight for a week.”

She looks at me knowingly, and I turn as pale as the white dress I’m supposed to be wearing. The one Liam told me to put on without panties underneath.

I still have my panties on right now, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that I’ll obey him—my soon to be husband.

I think about that poor woman, in the emergency room, some thirty years ago—maybe she had one of Liam’s uncles sitting next to her. I wonder if he was hanging his head in embarrassment—or worse, if he was proud.

“I, um. I ought to go get dressed.” I hurry off, avoiding the aunt’s stare. There’s a burning warmth between my legs when I think of Liam. The fear that it might hurt—that he could be too much—only makes my desire for him more intense.

“Good luck, honey! You’ll do fine!” The aunt’s voice follows me down the hall, where I find Rhiannon waiting for me outside of one of the choir dressing rooms, just beside the big hall that’s been done up with a dance floor and a stage.

I guess that Liam’s mom had no problem buying the idea that we were getting married after only knowing each other for a couple of weeks. In fact, I’d wager she was actually glad one of her sons was finally getting married, whether or not it was for real.

Maybe she hopes it is.

“Get in here!” Rhiannon pulls me in the room and straightaway starts stripping me out of my clothes. Before I can even respond, she has me strapped into the corset-like strapless bra I’m supposed to be wearing with my dress. I have to contort my body to even fit into it—but the result is splendid. I turn to a mirror that leans against one wall, and I see a different person when I turn to look at myself.

My breasts are prominently on display, and my waist looks tiny. My hips jut out just like they always have, but today they look even more beautiful. I see myself how Liam sees me. I touch the curve of my hip, appreciating it.

“Here, put these on, too.” Rhiannon puts a pair of high heels—higher than I’ve ever worn—into my hand. I step into them, and my red toenails peek through.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to walk in these.”

She shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. You can take them off after you walk down the aisle.”

I wonder as I stand there if Liam will want me to keep them on while he’s fucking me, and a thrill runs through my body. Signing the wedding certificate, lying to every guest here, faking what I always thought was a holy sacrament—it might be worth it if I get to lose my virginity with Liam fucking me in my wedding dress.

Rhiannon interrupts my reverie and brings the dress over to me, helping me pull it over my head. I close my eyes while she zips the dress to the top, and my breath catches in my throat. The bodice is tight and restrictive, but the full skirt feels like velvet against my legs.

“Wow,” Rhiannon breathes. “You look incredible. I mean, I know this isn’t like, the real thing. But still, you pulled it off. Where’d you even find this dress?”

“It was vintage. Found it on Etsy. It was like thirty bucks. Good deal huh? I was going to look at the thrift store near the apartment, but I didn’t have time. We had to set up the apartment and get it ready for Brie.”

“The apartment? You mean the one you’ve lived in for three years—the one in Brooklyn? Or the new one, with the tattooed boy with the dreamy eyes?”

I blush. “The new one.”

Rhiannon sighs. “This all worries me a fucking lot, for your information. Like, FYI, you shouldn’t do any of this.” She hands me a lipstick—bright red to match my toenails. “But you will look super fabulous doing it. I hate you for roping me into this, but I truly can’t resist weddings. Fucking hell.” She sighs dramatically.

Outside the door, there’s a voice. “You ready, little librarian?”

Rhiannon rolls her eyes. “You can’t see her! It’s bad luck—even though everyone knows this is a damn fake-ass shenanigan!” She says it loudly enough that I’m sure Liam hears her through the door.

“Don’t say that too loud. There are certain people here today that are counting on it being fake as fuck. So, we need to make it seem real.”

“I know,” I say, walking up to the door. I put my hand against it, like I can feel him on the other side, waiting for me. Waiting to marry me. Take my virginity. Maybe break my heart. “It’s going to look real.”

“I’m not worried about you, Skye. It’s your friend in there. Tell her to keep it cool. Marta is here with the kid—and she’ll be taking notes while she’s in the pews, no doubt.”

I gulp. I don’t want to be the one who ruins this custody battle for him.

“I’ll keep extremely cool,” Rhiannon says. I know she will.

“See you out there,” Liam says.

I don’t hear him walk away, and my hand is still pressed against the wooden door. “See you out there,” I repeat.

He walks away, and I’m left to do touchups on my makeup and put on the bright red lipstick. When I look in the mirror, I see a different person—one more confident and capable than the girl I knew only two weeks ago. Liam, for better or worse, has changed me. And surprisingly, I like what I see.

When Rhiannon walks out to the church, she squeezes me tight. “I’ll see you in five, babe.”

Before leaving the room, I shimmy out of my panties, shoving them in the bag I brought with me. I’m smooth, and I’m already wet for him, waiting. Wanting. The garter is the only thing I have on beneath my dress. Like Liam said, I feel every step. I anticipate every move, every touch of his skin against mine. I’ll change forever today, no matter what.

I wobble slightly on the heels as I walk out the door and down the hallway, passing through the empty halls to find my father, waiting for me. He hugs me awkwardly and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

“I’ll never understand why you decided to do things so quickly,” he whispers, as we walk to the foyer that leads to the aisle. My stomach is full of butterflies.

“We’re in love,” I say automatically, though I’m not sure if the words mean anything. “We knew it was meant to be. We don’t want to wait anymore.”

These all sound like things a bride would say, if I were a real bride.

And I want him to fuck me. Be his for a little while. Do what he tells me, make him want me every day while I have him.

My dad takes my hands in his. “You do look sensational, honey. But tell me again. Just assure me—you’re not pregnant, are you?”

“Not a chance,” I say. “There’s definitely no chance of that at all.” I smile, and my blood starts to buzz like it did when I used to get high with my friends in college. It could be the bra cutting off circulation to my brain, extreme anxiety, or a combination of the two, but I sort of feel like I’m tumbling forward. The music starts up, and just like that, my father is walking me down the aisle on my wedding day.

The side of the church that’s supposed to seat my guests is mostly empty. There are a few cousins who came on short notice, and my mother is there, looking shocked—but pleased. After Charlie and my withdrawal into myself, I think she decided she’d given birth to a spinster, dried up at the age of twenty-four. There’s a few girls from my dorm, and Mariella, my boss. Since she’s a romance writer, she thinks the whole thing is wickedly romantic—and she gave me the week off work. When I pass her by, she gives me a thumbs-up.

The Dougherty side is filled with perfectly made up women and their husbands, each of them prepared to come to a wedding on short notice—kind of like this stuff happens all the time around here. My stomach drops at the thought.

A pawn in a game. That’s what I am. Maybe. But maybe that’s not a bad thing.

Liam turns and sees me for the first time since this morning. When his eyes meet mine, I feel every movement of my body, all working together in tandem, building to the moment when he takes me into his arms tonight.

My father kisses my cheek again and goes to sit in the pew with my mother, who has tears in her eyes. Tears of shock or sadness, or maybe relief that her daughter finally got over the boy who broke her heart. I think that’s the real reason my parents are here—they were both so disappointed when I split with Charlie. And when I announced to them just days ago that I was getting married, they seemed surprised—but their voices sounded lighter the next day, like they had been wanting this. A real, true, religious wedding in a church. They didn’t even seem to mind that Liam is Irish Catholic. He’s a man for their daughter to have and hold—a real man for their pure, innocent daughter.

Little do they know.

As I walk, there’s a searing sensation like lightning striking through my core. My virgin sex is bare for him, and ready for the night I’ve been waiting for.

My father and mother look at me with pleased, if somewhat shell-shocked, expressions on their faces.

And then I turn to him. He’s standing next to his brothers, each tall and broad shouldered, wearing gray suits in slightly different shades. Liam’s tux makes him stand out, and he looks even bigger than each of them. His smile is broader, and his muscular frame more prominent.

Even if it’s all a ruse, it’s worth it for today.

This wedding can be practice. And I’ll lose my virginity on my wedding night, just like I had wanted. Just like I’d dreamed. But instead of the fear and pain I imagined in my younger years, Liam will give me pleasure—even if he can’t give me love.

I step up to Liam, and he takes my hand in his, and brings it to his mouth, kissing it gently. I’m wearing the tiny diamond he gave me. It occurs to me, when the priest starts speaking, that I’m not sure if he has a ring. For some reason, my heart beats hard when I think of this, like it will make it more real, one way or another.

One of his brothers reads from Corinthians, a passage I’ve heard a thousand times at all the Protestant weddings I went to with my parents. It’s sweet and simple, but the words say nothing about me and Liam. When he looks at me, I don’t feel pure love. Instead, I feel his eyes roaming over the swelling orbs of my breasts, down to my skirt that hides the treasure waiting just for him.

There’s nothing pure about what I want right now, even though he’s made me live by the letter of the law.

It’s not what I would have chosen.

But it’s what Liam wants, what he’s told me I’m going to do. Give myself to him fully, tonight.

Another brother reads the passage about a woman being a helpmeet to her husband. And then, the priest is talking again, and we repeat our vows. They’re just empty words here, not holy ones.

“Through sickness and health,” I repeat. “Until death do us part.” My face feels numb when I speak, and I can feel myself growing pale, my hands cold. But Liam grabs my fingers, and the warmth returns to them.

“I will stand by this woman,” he says. “I will be next to her in sickness and in health. In rich times and in poor. Until death do us part.”

“Do you have the rings?” The priest asks, his voice creaky.

One of his brothers—Damian with the dark hair and crystal blue eyes—hands two small gold rings to Liam. I know better than to ask where they come from. It’s an answer I’m sure I don’t want to know when it comes to the Dougherty family.

Before I can blink, Liam is slipping a ring onto my finger.

I look into his changeable, hazel eyes and swallow hard. Yellow and green and brown all at once. Like the mountains in the autumn.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” he says, like he knows the line by heart. I guess he’s said it before—or I’m not sure. I don’t know if he and Tabitha were ever married. My heart leaps. How can I marry a man that I know barely anything about?

Before the thought takes hold, I find myself placing the ring on Liam’s finger. “With this ring, I thee wed.”

We turn to the small crowd in the church.

“Is there anyone here who objects to this marriage? If so, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

My blood buzzes with nervousness. I look over to my parents, and back to Liam’s brothers. Everyone is silent, for now. Even Marta sits quietly, hands in her lap. Brie beams at us, even though Marta refused to let her be the flower girl. That awful woman gives me a sour feeling in the pit of my stomach. I resist the urge to sneer at her. After all, this is partly for her.

It feels like forever, but there are no objections. I start to step down from the altar, nearly stumbling over my heels. But there’s more—I forgot. We never rehearsed, anyway.

“You may now kiss the bride,” the priest adds, as if it’s an afterthought.

Liam takes me by the waist and dips me down, his hand traveling over the nape of my neck. When he kisses me, I sense his deep, waiting hunger. His tongue finds mine, a welcome invasion. And I let myself melt into him, my body relaxed and calm as he kisses me in front of our family and friends.

Liam and I walk back down the aisle, music surrounding us, rose petals falling over us like spring rain.

We’ve gotten away with it.

And we’re man and wife.

Chapter Thirteen

Liam

Skye is holding onto my hand, knuckles white, when we walk into the gathering hall behind the church. Her friend, Rhiannon, is glaring at me, just like she was the other night. But she gives Skye a huge thumbs up when she sees her, and something tells me Rhiannon can’t resist a big event. I can see why Finn is looking at her, too. She’s a firecracker, exactly his type.

Still holding Skye’s hand, I gesture to my brother, Finn. “Get her a drink,” I mouth to him, gesturing to Rhiannon. “And keep her happy.”

The last thing I need is that redheaded girl to remind me that this wedding is the last thing she wants for her friend. I get it—I do. And I respect a person who’s loyal like that.

But the truth is, I’m not planning on hurting this woman. Not today—unless she wants it. I look down at Skye. Her curves fill out that sweet little dress perfectly. She looks sweet and innocent, while still giving off that vibe. The one that makes me know for sure that she wants me—and she wants me badly.

But she’ll have to wait longer.

As we head into the heart of the hall, we’re greeted by our families, staring at us. A great whoop of cheering and yells comes from my relatives and the few friends who could make it on short notice. I look to Skye’s parents and the conservative girls who roomed with her at Columbia University. Two of them are wearing white cardigans, and three others look like they might die of embarrassment from being in the same room as my boisterous, tattooed brothers and cousins.

I watch as my brother Malachy walks over to them, balancing four drinks on his massive arms, carrying a fifth in his mouth. He’s got his eyes on at least two of them—the man likes a challenge, just like me.

“This is weird,” Skye whispers. “I didn’t think we’d actually go through with it.”

I shrug. “We’re married. It’s no big deal. Not with the contract we signed.”

“That’s not exactly what I need to hear right now, Liam.” She croaks the words out, like the very thought of it all terrifies her.

“Hey, no.” I take her hands and lead her over to get a drink. The crowd parts for us. “Give the bride here a drink, man. Something strong. She needs a bit of loosening up.”

The bartender obliges, and I lead Skye around to the members of my family, while she clutches her drink and tries to take graceful sips occasionally. As the drink starts to disappear, I feel her grip grow lighter. She wobbles slightly on her heels, and I catch her by the waist, letting my hand roam a little lower and cup her juicy ass. I don’t feel any panty lines, and I look to her with a raised eyebrow as I lead her on the dance floor.

“It’s time for the bride and groom to share their first dance,” my cousin Josh shouts to the audience, and I gesture for Skye to finish the rest of her drink.

“This wasn’t part of the plan,” she hisses at me. She’s trying to sound angry, but I can tell that she’s nervous instead. “We didn’t practice a dance. We didn’t have time.”

Her voice is panicked, but I take her into my arms and feel her calm. The lights go down, and the music begins.

“We use the same wedding song for every Dougherty first dance. It’s tradition. No big deal.”

Etta James’ rich voice comes to life, filling the dance hall. Skye’s drink has worked enough on her that I’m able to pull her from her motionless stance into something that resembles dancing.

At last, my love has come along. The notes float through the dance hall. I might be the only Dougherty brother to ever get married. And this might not last. But with the beer I had earlier, I have the thought that it might not be all bad if it did last.

I look down at her. She’s a good half a foot shorter than I am, even in heels. Her eyes are dark and searching in the dim light.

“It’s easy to dance to,” I whisper. “Just move your body with mine. Like you’re going to do later.” I lean in closer, my voice even lower when I speak. “When I fuck you for the first time.”

Skye cracks a smile for the first time since she saw me at the altar. “Thought you’d forgotten about that with all the excitement around here.”

“Not a chance in hell I’d forget.” I tangle my fingers in her hair and kiss her hard again, like I did in front of everyone in the church. When my lips meet hers, it’s like there’s no one else in the room. The cheers of everyone around us, the sultry love song in the background—it all fades out. There’s nothing but the sweet taste of her, the soft touch of her fingertips at the back of my neck, the swell of my cock pressing against her thigh. I break away and speak low into her ear. “You’re not wearing panties, are you? I’ll be disappointed if you are. When I grabbed that fine ass before, I didn’t think I felt anything underneath.”

She blushes deep red, contrasting against her wedding dress. Like a rose against snow. A rose that I’m about to pluck.

“No, there’s nothing under there. Just the garter.”

I twirl her out and back into my arms. It comes naturally, like we’ve been practicing this for weeks—like we meant every word of the ceremony. Like this reception celebrates something true. For now, maybe it does.

The song ends. The dance is done—the dance that our relatives can witness is, anyway.

We stand in the middle of the floor, fingertips linked together, touching. There’s a low hum of anticipation in my body, but it’s not just the idea of finally knowing Skye’s body fully. It’s something else altogether, and I don’t know if I could put a name on it. There’s something blocking it, deep inside. I push it down and let Skye’s fingertips go. She’s immediately surrounded by a group of her friends and a few of my cousins, all chatting about her dress and her hair, and why exactly the wedding was on such short notice. Skye is a champ, and doesn’t mention a thing about the hearing. Instead, she gives our story about a secret courtship and true love that sprang up after only a couple of months.

More like two weeks. Or has it been three? I’ve lost track of the time.

I watch Skye for a second. She’s absorbed into the small crowd of women. I can’t help wishing it were just the two of us, right here. Right now. But we promised everyone here a wedding—or a scandal—whatever they think this is.

I turn and scan the crowd for Brie. She’s standing stiffly at Marta’s side, holding onto her skirt, but when she sees me looking at her, she comes running across the floor. She does it before Marta can catch her and hold her back. That woman is always pulling that shit, keeping Brie from hugging me. From seeing me. Making excuses for her not to come on her supervised visits. Sick days, dentist appointments. All for control, or revenge, or some sick possessiveness that I don’t even understand. When I see them interact, it’s like she doesn’t even like Brie.

And when my little girl comes rushing into my arms, there’s no way I can imagine a person treating her that way.

Don’t worry baby girl. Daddy’s going to make everything okay.

I lift her into my arms and spin her around the dance floor when another song comes on. Marta scowls at us, but my brothers come in and join us, and we dance together until the song is done. Maybe it will make up for Marta not letting Brie be in the wedding because it was ‘too soon,’ and she ‘didn’t know Skye well enough.’

“Hey Princess,” I say to Brie. “What do you think about all of this?”

“I like Skye,” she says simply. “She’s got a really pretty dress. And she’s nice to me when I see her. She got me a donut after we went to the park. She’s nicer than Marta.”

I laugh. “Are you calling her Marta now? That’s not respectful.” I walk Brie to the other side of the dance floor, away from her grandmother, who is probably itching to take her home. If her lawyer hadn’t told her to be here, I doubt she would have even come.

“She sucks.” Brie looks up at me with her wide, sweet eyes.

I try to stifle my laughter, but it comes anyway. I kneel to her level. “Let’s not use that word, okay?”

“Okay.” Brie shuffles her feet and looks afraid for a second, but when she sees my face, it’s like she remembers it’s me.

“But between you and me, she absolutely sucks.”

“Can I come live with you?” Tears form in her eyes as she speaks, and it’s like there’s a dagger going through my heart. “I think I’d be a really good part of your new family. Marta says—” She stops.

I balk at that. It sounds like Marta has gotten in her head. “Skye and I got that place in Queens so that you could be there with us. Did Marta tell you something different?”

She nods. “She said you were getting married so you could start a new family without me.” She takes my hand. “But I didn’t believe her. Skye was nice to me, and she gave me a hug when she saw me today. And you’ve always said I’m number one.”

“You are, baby. And yes, Skye and I—we’re trying our hardest to make sure everything is in place so that the judge will let you come stay with us. And then maybe live with us, too.” I realize I’m saying ‘us’ when I talk about Skye. Like that’s the natural way to think of her. She’s a part of me, a part of ‘us.’

“Why can’t a judge make it happen right away? You’re my dad. I’ve been waiting forever.”

“It’s only been a year since the judge said you had to live with Marta. Since then, I’ve been saving all sorts of money and planning so that I can be the best dad possible.” I try to remind myself not to insult the courts or the judges or even Marta. Rise above. That’s what my lawyer tells me. “They were just giving me some time. Making sure I could do all those things. And Skye is helping me even more.”

“And she’ll be with us forever? I think I’d like that.”

I pause for a second. Always be honest. “I don’t know, Brie. I know she’s with us right now, and she wants me to be with you.”

“Because it makes her happy?”

I cock my head to the side and look at my daughter. She’s so much taller than she was when she was five, and she seems so much more like a big kid. “What do you mean by that?”

“Teacher Andrea said at school that when you love someone, you want them to be happy. So, if she loves you, she wants you to be happy. And you’ve always said that I’m the thing that makes you happy, even when everything else sucks.”

I crack another smile. “When did you get so smart?” I kiss her on the head, tamping down that same feeling that sparked inside of me before, after the dance with Skye. “And don’t say ‘sucks,’ please. I don’t care if Marta doesn’t like it, but Ma isn’t going to like it. Best to get out of the habit, especially around Gramma.”

“Okay,” she says, giving me a kiss on my nose.

I pull her up onto my hip and take her over to Skye, acting more on instinct than anything else. “I thought you might want to see Skye again tonight.”

Shy, Brie buries her face against my neck, but then she looks at Skye. “I think your dress looks pretty.”

“Thank you. You look beautiful too. Like the princess in Beauty and the Beast. What’s her name again?” Skye’s eyes sparkle when she speaks, and she runs her fingers through Brie’s hair.

“Belle.” Brie smiles big, and I put her down between the two of us. Skye kneels, taking off her heels in the process, and I watch as the two of them talk together. I have the sudden sensation of deja vu, like I’ve seen all of this before, witnessed it happening. But that’s insane—it’s probably the chill in the room, or the feeling of the song that’s playing now.

When I turn around, the sensation breaks. Marta is standing in front of me, and she’s looking at the three of us with her permanent expression—a nasty sneer. “The girl and I have to leave. She’s going to get confused about where she belongs if she stays too much longer.”

I look at the time, and it is Brie’s bed time. Rise above, I think. I can’t help but get one solid dig in. “The only one confused about where Brie belongs is you. Wait until the twenty-eighth. We’ll make sure Brie is with us from then on.”

“I’ll be interested to see you try.” She steps closer to me and whispers harshly. “This whole fucking thing is a total sham. It’s as scammy and trashy as you are.” She makes a scoffing sound, looking over at Skye. “And what girl would marry you? Certainly no one fit enough to raise my grandchild. Like she’ll stay, anyway. You using your savings to pay her off?”

“Those savings are for Brie. And you won’t get your hands on any of it,” I say. I try not to snarl in front of my child, but it’s hard to prevent when it comes to Marta.

“Come on. We’re going,” Marta says, snatching at Brie’s hand.

“Do we have to go?” Brie looks up at us.

“Yes, child. We’ll be going shortly.” Marta snatches Brie’s hand. Before she goes, she gives me one last look. “I’ll find out what it is—whatever you’re hiding. Whatever ridiculous history you have with this girl. And where you’ve got that damn money. And I’ll have evidence of it by the time we go to court.”

The old bitch has plenty of cash to hire private investigators and get everyone in Queens on her side. But she wants my hard earned cash too. Just so I don’t have it. And somehow, she’s gotten everyone to believe this frail old lady act.

Brie pulls away to hug me one last time, and she rushes over to Skye and embraces her like she’s a life raft in the midst of a stormy sea. “I’ll see you soon,” Skye says, smoothing Brie’s hair again.

Marta pulls her away, traipsing through the small crowd of people like she owns the place. I crack my knuckles in anger. Skye stands up next to me, holding her heels in her hand. When I look down, her red toenails glint in the light.

I want to growl, to scream. To tear this whole place down. But when she touches me, the feeling starts to fade. I turn to her, and I have that feeling again. The feeling like I’ve been here before, or like I imagined this a long time ago.

Maybe we could be a family. Maybe.

I kiss her lightly on the lips and look at the shoes in her hand. For an instant, I think of her bare feet, wrapped around my back as I thrust inside of her. When I look at her, taking her all in, it feels like years that I’ve been waiting. She’s still pure, still a sweet virgin. And with all the pent-up rage and frustration circling through my body, wild and ominous, I’ll take her this night and make her mine.

I grab my wife and dance with her again, speaking to our guests, reassuring every third person that this isn’t a shotgun wedding. I tell an uncle that she didn’t blackmail me into it, and I’m not sure he believes me. With each movement, each step, her body presses against mine. Now, her hip. Next, a soft brush of her breast. The faint outline of a stiffened nipple beneath her dress. My cock throbs. Her mouth, her pussy. Her sweet ass.

As people start to file out of the hall, I’m met with the overwhelming urge to make this woman come. On my cock, on my tongue. However I can, all fucking night long.

There are only a few people left, and they’re all drunk.

I catch her hand and pull her to the side.

“You’re coming with me, now,” I growl. “I need you, now.”

She looks at me, eyes wide. “But the wedding’s not over.”

“Close enough, my little librarian. And our apartment is just a block away. We could sneak off without anyone knowing.”

“It’s our apartment now, is it?” She gives me a coquettish look.

I put my hand around her waist and start moving her towards the door. “It is. And I’m taking my wife there.” I pull her by the hand and she laughs. We start running before anyone else can catch us and make us listen to their wedding stories or their questions about Brie’s school. We’re sprinting by the time we hit the street.

A light spring rain has started by the time we reach the door, and I hold Skye by the waist and kiss her as the rain drizzles over us, wetting our skin. I pick Skye up off the ground and throw her over my shoulder.

“Oh, my God! What are you doing?”

“Carrying you over the threshold,” I say, balancing her over one shoulder as I shove my way in the door. “And then I’m going to fuck you. All night long.”

I pull her into my arms and carry her over the threshold like a proper bride.

It might have all been a fake, but this part sure as fuck feels real.

Chapter Fourteen

Skye

The rain falls heavy now against the windows. The cherry blossoms have just started to bloom in New York, and the petals are everywhere, including the front courtyard of this tiny townhouse in Queens. I look over my shoulder and see that some of the crushed petals are clinging to the window outside.

It’s everything I had imagined for a wedding day—and yet, none of it was how it should be. It wasn’t real. It’s not like I cling to scripture or the Bible or any of that anymore, but I’d imagined true love. And I’d wondered what it would feel like to walk down the aisle with someone who wanted to be with me forever, someone who would put me first above everything.

But I look into Liam’s changeable eyes and realize that maybe this is better. Lust. Aching, sweet desire pooling in my sex, my mouth watering for his cock. My body desperate and hungry for his touch.

Because I’d waited so long for Charlie, I had no concept of desire like this.

This man—with his dark eyes, his traditional tattoo that ties him to his family, his impeccable physique—he’s the Harlequin romance pirate. He’s the one who takes the virgin down to the hold and tastes her for the first time, the one who rips her bodice and ravishes her until she’s screaming his name.

I always wanted that to be me. And now it is.

Liam sets me down gently after we cross the threshold. I’m not entirely sure where my shoes went, but my feet are bare and wet from running down the sidewalk from the Catholic church in Queens.

“You were supposed to keep your heels on.” His voice is gruff, but his eyes spark when he speaks, like he’s amused. “I have to punish girls who don’t do exactly as I say.”

“I knew you liked the heels,” I reply. “But you didn’t tell me explicitly to wear them here. I don’t think they’re essential here.”

“Don’t be saucy with me,” he says, kissing my neck. He nips me there.

“I’ll be however I please, husband.”

Liam brings a strong hand to my neck and grasps me there like he did last night. Flames lick over my thighs and through my core.

“No. You’ll do what I please. What I want. Are you ready for this, librarian?”

“I am. I think.” The blush rises from deep within my body. There’s a sensation deep inside of me—one of fire and rain and earth. Something deeply elemental. As if in response, the rain picks up, beating hard against the windows.

He kisses me hard, pulling me into his body.

I go to unhook the back of my wedding dress, hands shaking. “I need you to help me.”

“I said you were going to keep it on. And I’m a man of my word.” He cups one of my breasts, roughly, his hand kneading the fabric. The pressure, almost at the tipping point of pain, makes me gasp. I groan slightly, throwing my head back. “But I am going to do something about this hair of yours.”

His hands go to the bun, pulling out the long pins that hold it in place. My hair, always too straight to stay up for long, falls loose and messy around my face. I bring a hand to it. “It doesn’t look right like this—”

“Looks perfect to me.” His eyes bore into me, like he’s gazing into my soul. Like he’s undressing me and making me his all at once. Liam tangles his fingers in my hair, shaking it free. It brushes the tops of my shoulder, and I shiver.

I gulp. “Are we going to the bedroom or—” I glance around. The apartment is still mostly bare. We brought in one of my overstuffed chairs and an old couch his mother had in her house. Beyond that, there’s only a coffee table.

He laughs, and he brings his hand to my collarbone, tracing his fingers over it. “We’ll go wherever the fuck I want to take you.” His eyes are animal then—wanting, searching.

Liam grabs me by the waist and lifts my dress with his free hand, bringing his fingers to the folds of my sex.

“Oh—” I barely get out the sound before he slips a finger inside of me, exploring me. He carefully avoids my clit, instead slipping his fingers over my wetness and then inside me, tapping the ridged spot inside. The heat that’s been burning in my body all day starts to build to a crescendo of intensity. That’s when he stops, pulling his hand away.

He grins. “Thought I’d let you come that easily? I need you warmed up. Very warmed up for this.” He brings a hand to the pants of his tuxedo, stroking the outline of his hard cock. His fingers find the zipper and unleash its length.

I’ve seen it before, tasted it. But now, it’s supposed to fit somewhere else, and it’s like I’m seeing it for the first time ever.

I expect him to force me to my knees, take it to the back of my throat—like he did before. My mouth even waters for it. I want his taste in me, to be part of me.

Instead, he kneels before me and lifts my dress, bringing his fingers to the lace of my pink and white garter.

“Fuck, that looks beautiful.” His fingertips travel higher, touching the bare mound of my sex.

He brings his lips to my legs, kissing me on bare skin. He takes the garter in his teeth and pulls it down my leg, tossing it to the side of the room.

I shudder. I want him buried inside of me, his tongue on my skin, tasting me. He kisses up to the tops of my thighs, and I feel myself growing wet, slippery, ready for him even though he hasn’t touched me yet. The gauzy tulle of the wedding dress grazes the tops of my hips, and the corset-like bra holds me, tense and straight. Beneath the garment, my nipples stiffen, hard as pebbles. I moan—the need rising within me is something akin to pain. But I might like the pain. I might need it.

When his mouth is poised just before my bare sex, he breathes me in, looking up at me with hungry eyes.

“I need you ready, Skye. It’s your first time, for real. Isn’t it?”

I nod weakly, my legs trembling with desire. “Yes.”

“You’re my sweet virgin, and I’m going to teach you exactly what it takes to please me. Are you ready for that? For my cock?” His fingers find the entrance of my sex, teasing it, his thumb tapping lightly on my clit. A lightning bolt of need sears straight through me, to my very core.

That’s what he does to me. He shakes me to my core. Makes me someone different. A person I don’t recognize, standing in an apartment in Queens in a damn wedding dress. Married to a man I barely know.

Liam’s breath is hot against my sex. “Tell me what you want,” he says, panting.

“I want—” I still blush when I try to tell him these things, but my need is overwhelming, pulsing through me like waves crashing against the shore. “I want your tongue on my clit. I want it.” I shudder when I say the words, and I hike the billowing skirt of the wedding dress higher.

Liam doesn’t hesitate, nearly growling with his own need as his mouth finds me. Before, he was slow and methodical when his tongue met my sex—but now, he devours me, thrusting his tongue inside of me, grabbing my hips with his hands. His fingers dig into my skin as his tongue circles my clit, his lips pulling against it. I’m shaking with need, hips bucking against his face. If it weren’t for his hands gripping my ass, I’m sure I’d fall in an embarrassing heap of lace and crinoline. But he holds me up, eating me, tongue thrusting inside of me like a man starving.

I come, shaking against him, closing my eyes, transported. My consciousness seems to flicker out for a moment, and from a distance, I hear myself moaning, crying out. The orgasm is so intense that I feel disembodied, absent from myself. The pulsing, throbbing intensity of it takes over every pore in my body, every cell.

And strangely, it leaves me unsatisfied, longing for more, even as I pant and writhe with his mouth against my bare sex.

I was always told wedding nights were reserved for love. But I never imagined it quite like this. Then again, this isn’t an ordinary wedding night.

I nearly collapse against him, but he brings me down to the floor with him, pulling me into his arms and kissing me hard. “You taste so fucking good, baby. I could live on that taste. Goddamn.”

Liam stands and lifts me again, like I weigh nothing, carrying me to the bedroom and placing me on the bed. When he undresses, I can see the bulge, pressing against the fabric of his tux, straining to be let free. I’ve tasted him, taken him all the way back to my throat, let him come. But this—this makes me nervous.

His cock is huge and thick, and he strokes himself. There’s a bead of precum at the tip, and he groans slightly as he brings his hand over the head of it.

“Sit on the edge of the bed,” he says, staring at me intently. “Spread your legs, and show me your pussy.”

“Do you want the dress on—”

“Yes. Keep it on. And just do as I say. No talking back.”

I bring myself forward, heart pounding, spreading my legs, feet planted on the floor.

“Now touch yourself for me.”

I do as he says, spreading my lips apart, finding my clit. I slip one finger inside.

And then he comes to me, pulling my dress away from my shoulders while I’m still touching myself. The bra falls, and my breasts are exposed above the white lace. He roughly cups them and pinches my nipple, sending yet another wave of arousal to pool between my legs.

And then he tears at my dress, ripping it across one shoulder. He falls in bed next to me, palming my thigh and sliding his fingers up to my sex. Two fingers slip roughly inside of me, palm pressing against my clit, kneading it over and over until I’m breathless, panting, simmering close to the edge again.

He covers my mouth with his, his tongue meeting mine, rough and searching. Taking my wrists in his hand, he pulls my arms above my head, pushing me down into the bed. It’s just a mattress on the floor of a run-down old townhouse in Queens, but it feels transformed now.

“You want me inside of you, don’t you?” He kisses me again, nearly bruising me with his animal strength.

“Yeah,” I say with a moan in my voice. “I want you inside of me. Now.”

His fingers find me again, pulling circles of wetness over my clit. “Are you wet enough for me?” He gives my pussy a little smack, sending vibrations through my clit, bringing me closer to the edge of insanity. I’ve already tipped over the edge once tonight, but it feels like I might be close to losing my damn mind.

Just when I think I can’t bear it anymore, Liam pulls my body to his and places the head of his cock at the entrance of my pussy. He presses against my slick folds.

The head of his cock slips inside of me. He’s huge—thick—and even this small intrusion hurts more than I had imagined, stretching me beyond the point that his fingers or mine had ever taken me before.

“Liam—be—slow—” I whisper the words, arching my back against the bed, hips rising to meet his. All at once, I want him inside of me, and yet, my body wants to draw away from him at the same time, to make the pain and discomfort end.

His hand finds my neck, warm, firm fingers against my skin. My breath hitches in my throat—the power of his body is apparent in his movements, even in the flick of his tongue over my exposed nipple. He holds the head of his cock inside of me, moaning slightly as he begins to thrust, ever so gently, pushing himself further inside.

“Don’t resist,” he says, groaning. “God, you’re tight. You’re so fucking tight.” He slips himself in a tiny bit further, and I feel myself opening for him. I shiver, goosebumps rising over my flesh from the tops of my shoulders, down to my curling toes.

“Oh God,” I moan. “I didn’t think it would be this—this thick.”

As he pushes in further, the pain starts to give way to pleasure, and the two sensations mix. I whimper, and Liam grunts, obviously holding himself back. “I’m not going to stop, little wife. You’re going to take my cock tonight. I’m going to claim you, make you mine.” He brings his hand to my hair and pulls it, making my neck arch back as he thrusts further inside, filling me nearly to the hilt.

I gasp. The feeling of his cock takes my breath away, and my vision goes blurry, nearly black. He pulls back and pushes himself inside of me again, filling me up entirely this time. The base of his hips meets my clit, and he grinds against me, bringing that pleasure back. The intensity rises, flames licking over my thighs, heat rising in my core to that tight coil at the center.

There’s been a place inside of me, dormant for years—a place no one else ever accessed. Bit by bit, Liam has been wearing it down, peeling away its edges. Perhaps that’s why I’m here right now—why I’ve stayed, why I found this place for him, why I moved in here with no questions asked.

“You like this, don’t you? You wanted this. A walk on the wild side with a bad boy. Someone you wouldn’t take home. Your thrill ride.”

He thrusts inside me, falling into a steady rhythm and bringing my legs to wrap around his waist. Each movement brings me higher and higher, and I know I’m reaching that point again, the place where my brain tips into oblivion.

“Yeah, I like it,” I whimper.

“What did you want when you first saw me?” His thrusts are even faster, meeting my clit each time, filling me like I’ve never been filled before.

“I wanted—”

“Say it. Tell me what you wanted.”

“I wanted you to fuck me.” I cry out, and he grunts, filling me repeatedly. My legs start to shake, and my toes curl in response. “I wanted you to make me—make me yours—”

“You are.”

“Yes. I am. Fuck me,” I whisper.

His body tenses, meeting mine over and over. I dig my nails into his back, and he growls. “You’re going to come for me. Come on my cock. I want to feel you do it.”

He whispers in my ear, the sound harsh. The vibrations of his voice seem to echo through my blood, and I’m a whimpering, babbling mess. The heat builds to overwhelming heights, and I come again, legs wrapped around him, welcoming him inside of me. I let out a long, low, animal moan, pussy swollen and pulsing, aching with pain and desire, all wrapped together in one.

“I own you, little girl,” he says, slowing for a moment before flipping me onto all fours. “You’re all mine. Every part of you.”

My voice fails me, and I can’t respond. Liam takes my hips in his strong hands and fucks me harder, riding me through the tail end of my orgasm. Another climax builds inside of me, and I close my eyes and let it come. Light and sound and energy swell into one powerful moment, centered between my legs. His cock invades me, impales me—it opens me like I’ve never been before.

My body shakes with the pleasure of it, and Liam picks up his pace. My pussy throbs and clenches around him, and I cry out, my voice echoing through the apartment.

“So fucking wet—my God—” He grunts and thrusts one final time, coming deep inside of me and filling me with his hot essence. I vaguely think that we should have used a condom, but I know as he falls against me, pulling me down to the bed, that I wouldn’t want anything between us.

We face each other on the bed, and Liam brings his lips to mine, kissing me long and slow. “Fuck, that was good.”

I feel his cock start to stiffen again against my leg, and I smile. “So soon? I thought that wasn’t possible—”

“You’re a special case, Skye Williams.” He kisses along my jawline. “Skye Dougherty when you change your name.”

When. Not if.

Before I can say anything, he lifts the skirt of my dress and pushes his cock inside of me again, shuddering. “You’re already so wet from my cum, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” I say, the word a desperate whimper.

He fucks me hard and fast, with abandon this time. I’m sore, and I know I’ll be unsteady tomorrow, but I want him again—I want him inside of me, to come inside of me.

“I’m going to fill you up again,” he says. He holds me tight to his chest, thrusting into me and grunting hard. He comes again in one final motion, and I sigh. The waves of my own pleasure take me over, and my heart beats hard in my ears. I shake against him, legs wrapped around him. When he kisses me, my heart pounds.

Perhaps it shouldn’t.

I know I never should have fallen into any of this.

But after I’ve tasted it this once, I know I’ll want it again—and I’m not sure I’ll ever stop wanting it.

He helps me peel out of the dress, and we fall to bed, laughing and tired.

Once my part of the deal is filled and his daughter is his again—where does that leave me?

I don’t linger on the thought. Instead, I opt for sleep. The next week will bring our visit with Brie.

Maybe I’ll know my own heart better by then—but as I rest in his arms, I’m not sure if that’s true or if I’m fooling myself like the little girl that I am.

Chapter Fifteen

Liam

Our days pass by in a haze, in a bubble of exploring each other’s bodies. It’s our honeymoon, such as it is. With Skye working at home and Finn giving me time off from the bar, we’ve built a little life that almost feels real.

And Brie is about to enter that life—for her first overnight stay.

I’ve been awake for an hour already, just watching Skye sleep. Her chest rises and falls, and her eyes flutter open.

“It’s today,” Skye says with a frantic breath, sitting bolt upright in bed, holding the sheet to her breasts like a woman in a movie. “Is everything where it’s supposed to be? The twin bed in her room? Do you have the nightstand?”

“I’m putting it together this morning.”

“You should have done it last night.” She pales. “I’m sorry I said that. You were putting the bookcase together last night, right?”

I put my hand to her shoulder. “It’s okay, Skye. Everything is okay.” I’m quiet for a second. It occurs to me that she’s taken this crusade on as her own. And, why wouldn’t she? It’s become her life. She wakes up here each day, works here, and she falls into bed with me at night. She’s been doing it for two weeks now—and finally, Marta has granted us an extended visit with Skye. More than our outing at the park—and more time than I’ve had in years. It’s probably more for fact-gathering, probably to bring us down.

It doesn’t matter.

There’s no way I’m letting this opportunity escape. I want, more than anything, to have Brie here. And Skye feels like a part of that. Something tightens deep in my center when I think that she’ll decide to leave after all of this—after the documents are signed and Brie is officially in my custody.

I won’t let it on, not now, not after all she’s done for me.

I’ll stay silent.

I don’t know, sitting here next to her, if I can bear another loss. But when I think of the years I invested with Tabitha, I know I’d go insane if she stayed any longer than she’s planning to. If she does—if I invest the years into the two of us, hell, the three of us as a family—it’ll be that much worse when she does leave.

These past weeks have made me realize who I really am. With Skye, I’m sober—truly sober for the first time. It leaves me to think too much, and I’ve started to understand that I’m a fuckup of the highest order. She’s not one of the girls I bring home after the bar closes. She’s more than that, and I won’t hold her here with any stupid confessions.

She leaps out of bed, her curvy frame illuminated against the light of the window for a second. She’s far more comfortable with her body now, like she’s become accustomed to her own skin. “I need to get the kitchen cleaned. You do the nightstand. And I’ll make sure the bathroom is how it’s supposed to be—”

She starts pulling on clothes from the pile in the center of the floor. Without thinking, she picks up one of my t-shirts and pulls it on over her naked frame. It covers her body down to her hips, and her nipples are still stiff beneath the fabric.

“You should get back in bed,” I say. My cock has already started to swell, and I bring my hand to it, watching her. I stroke myself, and her eyes are drawn to it. She’s come to crave my cock—like a drug. An addiction.

She smiles, but her eyes don’t move. “We can’t. We don’t have time.”

I look over at the clock. It’s still on the floor next to our mattress.

There’s time. I’ll make time for this.

She steps closer to the bed, and I catch her hand, pulling her down onto the bed with me. I cup her breasts through my shirt. Roughly, I pull her on top of me. I grab the flesh of her thighs, maybe too hard. I like to see my bruises there each morning. I grunt, pressing my cock against the hot folds of her pussy.

“You’re wet. You want it. Give in.”

“There’s so much to do,” she says. But she’s already brought her hand to her clit, fingers circling it. Her eyes roll back in her head, and she starts to move against me. Using me for her pleasure.

“You want to please me, don’t you?”

“Mm hm,” she moans. Slowly, she moves forward and lets my cock enter her. She’s just as slick and hot as the first time.

Her legs straddle mine, knees on the mattress. My cock is buried inside of her, filling her to the hilt. She moans softly and starts moving on top of me, and I can barely stand the pressure, the feeling of fitting with her body so perfectly, so fully.

“Lean forward, baby,” I say, my voice coming out in a low growl. When she does, I take her breasts in my hands and push the shirt up further, rolling her nipples between my thumbs and forefingers. She cries out, a little strangled sound from her throat.

She likes it like this. Impaled on my huge cock, her clit grinding against my skin. Skye starts to ride me, finding her rhythm, and she pushes her body against mine, hitting me hard each time. I bring one hand down to her sex, my fingers finding her clit and pushing on either side of it as she slams down on my cock, riding me faster and faster.

Her pussy swells and tightens against me, and I can see the ridges of muscle in her abdomen growing tight. As much as she doesn’t want to admit it, she’s needs this cock, and I never fail to make her come right away. All her words are mere teasing. I know how to play this woman like an instrument.

“Oh fuck, baby, I’m going to come,” she sighs, bringing one hand to her exposed breast and gripping my arm with the other.

“Good,” I whisper. “I’m not going to wait much longer.” I feel the familiar tightening in my balls, the feeling before release. I’ve felt it thousands of times, with plenty of other women—but nothing compares to this. Skye is the first girl since Tabitha that I’ve fucked bare, and the first in years that I’ve been with fully sober.

“Fill me up,” she cries. “Come inside of me.” She opens her eyes and looks down at me. “Please.”

“You want to come with me, don’t you?”

“Yeah, baby, I do.” Her voice is raspy with need. She’s desperate for it. “I want to feel you come when I do.”

The feeling rips through me like a tidal wave, bold and unstoppable. “Unngh,” I moan, pushing up inside of her, filling her with my hot essence.

She’s fucking me in a frenzy now, her clit hitting my fingers with each movement. She cries out, her body tensing and releasing, shaking as she comes with my cock deep inside of her. Skye rides me through wave after wave of her orgasm. Each time another peak hits her, it seems like she’s reaching greater and greater heights.

“Oh God. Oh God,” she moans, though the sensations in her body have nothing to do with the Lord. Her pleasure has everything to do with how I work her body, and she knows it. I release one final jet inside of her, and she falls against me, finally satisfied.

We stay that way for a while. The seconds bleed into minutes, and our bodies are a tangled mass, like we’re one person, made whole. That’s how it has been since our wedding night. I’ve thought, again and again, that maybe this is how it should be—this feeling of wholeness.

But that’s a dangerous thought to have.

Even so, I kiss her on her forehead, tasting the salt of her perspiration. I run my fingers through her hair and shift in the bed so we’re eye to eye.

“We need to get moving,” she says. She yawns. I know she hasn’t been sleeping well since Marta told us we could have Brie for a night. Like me, she knows that this could mean failure for us—for me. We’re like a green card couple, waiting for the interview, hoping we answer the questions right. “You need to put together—”

“The night stand.” I smile. “I’ve put together a fucking hundred pieces of Ikea shit like that before. I won’t have a problem. I’m always the one that my brothers call when they need stuff like that done. I’m a master with the Allen wrench.”

She laughs, snorting slightly and then drawing in closer to me. “And I’ll get the Moana DVD from RedBox. Has she seen it?”

I shake my head. “Probably not. Marta doesn’t let her do much except for homework. All the cute, happy pictures she posts of Brie on Facebook—that’s all fake. It’s like Brie’s some kind of prize that she won, something she’s showing off so her friends will think she’s something more than an angry old woman.”

“Isn’t she friends with a bunch of other angry old women?”

I shrug, still holding Skye close. “I don’t know. I know that she’s told me she loves to post pictures of Brie because she’s so beautiful, and everyone loves her girl.”

Skye scrunches up her nose. “That’s sick.”

“She’s a sick person. A narcissist. She shouldn’t be allowed around any child. Not after what she did to Tabitha and her brother.” A cold weight sits in the bottom of my stomach when I mention Tabby and Michael.

“What—what did happen?” Skye pulls the covers tight around her. “You don’t talk about it.”

The weight grows heavier. “She overdosed.” My voice is more clipped than it should be, but that’s how it happens when I talk about Brie’s mother. “And Michael—Tabitha’s brother—he killed himself a long time ago. Before I knew Tabby.”

“And you think it was Marta—”

“She wasn’t the one who killed them. They took care of that part.” My throat threatens to close. I can almost taste the tears coming, but they remain dormant for now. It’s been that way for years—the memory of Tabitha sits knotted inside my body, angry and awful. “But she put them down at every turn. She made sure they feared her, that they feared the world.”

“You were married to her, right? Tabitha?” Her voice is quiet, but searching. A question she’s been too afraid to ask. I told her I never talk about Tabby, and I don’t. But the words spill out now.

“We were. She was pregnant with Brie, and she’d gotten clean for the hundredth time at the beginning of her pregnancy. We thought we’d give it ago, make it happen for the kid. We both wanted her. And she was beautiful from the day she was born. Smart. Smarter than either of us.” I stop. The lump in my throat grows, but I swallow the pain. “We weren’t meant to be a pair. I doubt I was meant to be a pair with anyone.”

I don’t meet Skye’s gaze after this. Instead, I’m silent. I roll away from her, and her arms let me go reflexively. I walk into the bathroom without a pause. I know I should stay, explain myself. But I had to take my four-year-old girl to her own mother’s funeral, and then I proceeded to fuck up my life for the next two years.

I step into the shower and let the water run over me. I let it get as hot as I can stand, and I just stay there. The steam fills the bathroom. I barely hear her enter, but there’s a slight change in the water pressure when she goes to brush her teeth.

“I wish it had all been different, Skye.” I say it halfheartedly, hoping she can’t hear me clearly. I hear the water turn off, and a shadow approaches the clear shower door.

She pulls the door open and steps inside, wrapping her arms around my body. The shirt is gone, and there’s nothing between us. She doesn’t speak, and we stay together, bound by our arms, for a long time. When we get out and dry off, we don’t spend any more words on the past. My brother Finn—he might say that we should keep talking. But Skye doesn’t push. I almost wish she would.

Instead, I hear her scrubbing in the kitchen while I put the nightstand together. In Brie’s room, we have a twin bed with some expensive sheets and a quilt my mom ordered from Pottery Barn Kids. There’s a lamp, too, that matches everything else. I get this nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach, hoping she’ll like it, hoping it’ll make the kindergarten year from Hell way better than it has been. And hoping that it’ll be in use—expensive sheets washed every week, for years to come.

I smooth out the quilt and look around the room. It’s small, and the walls are bare, but when I turn on the light, it looks warm and pleasant, like it’s a nice room that a little girl could make her own. I sit down on the bed and sigh.

When I look up, Skye is standing in front of me, dressed in a conservative green dress with little sleeves and a full skirt. She absolutely looks like she’s ready to go sort through books at the local library, and I give her a grin.

“Don’t say anything. It’s for show.” She smiles back. “But it is one of my favorite dresses for work.” She’s holding something behind her back.

“What do you have there?”

“It’s nothing much. But she told me she liked fairy tales, like the old-fashioned kind. So, I got her some stickers for the walls in here.” She shows me the rolled-up mailing tube she has behind her back.

“It’s like beech trees and some fairies and a castle. So, it’ll be like a little dream world in here.” She blushes. “It’s what I would have wanted when I was little. But my parents wouldn’t let me put anything on the walls. It always felt kind of bare to me. I thought she might want to put the stickers up with you. You know, something fun to do.”

“Yeah, she’d like that,” I say. Skye is standing in front of me. I’d say it’s like I’m seeing her for the first time, but I think I’ve seen her all along. It’s just that all the pieces are fitting together now, like a puzzle I’ve only just figured out. The light from the kitchen windows filters in behind her, showing off her silhouette. But she’s more than that. Tabitha was too busy getting high for most of Brie’s life that Brie doesn’t even have a memory of her—I was the parent she knew. And Marta ain’t exactly a mother figure. It might be nice if there was someone real. “You know, Skye. I’ve been thinking—”

“Yeah?”

I swallow hard. “It’s nice—” Nice. That’s not the right word. “It’s good, I think, having you here—”

She puts up a hand. “I got what I came for, right? An adventure and a good fuck. I mean, a really good one. Excellent, even. The best.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Stop. Don’t get weird about this. I really like your little girl. I know what it is to have a shitty childhood. My parents were fine—but restrictive. No boyfriends, no sleepovers, bedtime at seven. No books besides the Bible in the house. I get it.

“I want her here with you. I’m happy to do it. It’s an adventure. And my boss likes the gossip. She might make it into a story. Says there could be an option for a movie. Who do you think would play me?” She flips her hair to one side. “Maybe Jennifer Lawrence. With dark hair.”

“She might be able to pull it off,” I say. “But Skye—”

There’s a knock at the door, and we both look at each other for a second, totally silent. Maybe she’s waiting for me to say something else, but I’m not entirely sure what it is that I want to say.

We can table that talk for now, but as it is, we’ve got a little girl who needs to see both of our smiling faces at the door.

Chapter Sixteen

Skye

I walk to the door with a flustered feeling. All the shit that Liam just told me—and the shit he implied on top of what he said—is making my head spin. We'll need to talk about all of that later. It gives me a growing pit of anxiety in my stomach, but I know I need a proper, prim face for Brie. Or at least for Marta.

My hand goes to the knob, and I freeze. Liam comes up behind me and puts his hand on mine. It calms me—and I hate that it does. It means that he’s getting to me, that he’s already in my head. He owns my body—I can’t consider giving him anything else. Not with the way things stand between us.

I force a smile as Liam pulls open the door. Marta is standing there, her hand on Brie’s shoulder. The child’s hair is pulled tight into two dark braids—so tight that it looks like it hurts. And she’s dressed in her Catholic school attire, even though it’s Saturday.

“Brie didn’t do her own laundry, so she got to wear her school clothes today.” Marta gives a sly smile. I admit I don’t know the woman well—but I’m guessing she’s trying to get a rise out of Liam. If I looked hard at the cars parked along the sidewalk, I’m sure I’d see someone from the law firm she’s hired or some creepy guy with a camera. Just waiting to watch Liam blow up.

I take his hand in mine. “That’s just fine. As long as we’ve got pajamas for movie time. We do, don’t we?”

Brie gives me a big grin, her face lighting up. “We get to watch a movie?”

“I don’t think that’s appropriate for Brie. She’s not ahead of her grade level in reading, like she ought to be. That’s where Tabitha always excelled, you know.”

Liam grips my hand hard. I can feel that he wants to say something. Instead, he takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly. “We’ll make sure she reads with us tonight and tomorrow morning.” He glances over at me. “Skye got her some books from the library. Magic Treehouse and—”

“The Princess in Black,” I say. “It’s about a little girl who fights monsters.” I let go of Liam’s hand and bend down to Brie’s level. “She’s a princess, too. What do you think about that?”

Brie reaches her arms and wraps me in a hug. A tight lump forms in my throat. It might have been my sense of curiosity—or adventure, or pure lust—that drew me into all of this. But when I look up at Marta and see her nasty, hateful expression, I know it’s my sense of justice that’s making me stay.

When we walk inside the house and close the door behind us, I wonder if that’s all it is. Brie runs to her room, tugging Liam behind her. When she’s with him, I see his entire body change. Instead of tight and aggressive, he’s open and calm. When he’s with Brie, he’s the type of man a woman might fall in love with.

Another woman. Not me.

I listen to them in the back bedroom—Brie’s room—as they put the vinyl decals up on the wall. When I walk back there to go check on them, the trees are up, and they’re working on the castle sticker, putting it up beside the bed. I watch as Liam smooths the pieces out, making sure there are no bubbles that might destroy the picture they’re working together to create.

Placing my hand gently against the door frame, I open my mouth to say something, but I think better of it. There’s something sweeter about just watching—seeing Liam in what I imagine is his normal state. With women—grown ones—he’s always on guard, not able to say what’s truly on his mind. Or perhaps he’s just that way with me.

Brie turns back to me and smiles. “Thank you for the stickers, Skye.”

I smile, and my heart beats a little faster. I can’t help but be enchanted by this kid. She talks to adults like they’re her peers, and she’s spent the past two years in such a miserable place. When they’re done with the castle, she clings to her father, not wanting to let him go. Liam turns and looks at me, an unreadable expression on his face. They sit together on the floor, father and daughter, an impenetrable tribe, facing the world together.

I know Brie might welcome someone like me in her life—but would Liam? Would he start over? Where will I be after he decides it’s all over?

“Dad said we can stay up late and watch Moana.” Brie looks over at her dad and puts her arm around his neck. Liam turns his head and gently kisses Brie’s hand. “Is that okay?” Brie asks, looking over at me. “Staying up late?”

“I don’t see why not. I was planning to make popcorn. Did you already have dinner?”

“I had some bread,” Brie says. “That’s all.”

Liam’s face grows slightly red. It’s hard not to read too much into everything she says, but it’s seven in the evening now, and she should have eaten more than that.

“Sweetie,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Is that what you asked for? Or is that what your grandmother gave you?”

“That’s what she gave me. I get bread and water when I’ve asked for snacks too many times that week.” She says it simply like it’s an aspect of her reality that she’s come to expect.

Liam looks like he’s about to explode, but I catch his eye and shake my head. We don’t need a single word coming out about Liam losing his cool. Not that Brie would tattle on us—but six year olds have a way of letting things slip.

“Well, I’m not too great of a cook, but I think we can whip up some tacos from the things we have in the fridge. Do you like tacos?”

Brie nods, and she stands up slowly. When she does, I see that she’s all knees and elbows. Somehow, she seems skinnier and more fragile than I remember her from the wedding. I could just be imagining it.

“Come on,” I say. “We’ll make a big batch of chicken for the tacos. With tomatoes and lettuce and all sorts of healthy stuff. And then we can pig out on popcorn.”

“Yeah,” she says, giggling and taking my hand. “We’ll make like a thousand pounds of popcorn. Or a hundred.”

“The most popcorn ever.” I start walking with her to the kitchen, and I can feel Liam’s eyes on my back as we go. “I like to put M&Ms in my popcorn. And put a little extra salt, so it’s super sweet and super salty all at once.”

“Whoa. I’m not allowed to have chocolate,” she says, her voice rising in amazement. I brush aside the feeling of anger that rises quickly. Mr. Donnelly, Liam’s lawyer, keeps telling us we need to assume goodwill and not put ideas in the kid’s head. After all, lots of parents don’t allow tons of sweets. Maybe it’s normal. But the bread thing—that’s definitely not.

“Well, we will. For tonight. It’ll be a fun secret, right?”

Brie nods, and I pull a stool from a corner of the kitchen, setting it up at the counter so she can help me. She cuts lettuce with a butter knife, and pulls apart cooked chicken while I search the cabinets for tortillas and salsa. When we’ve spread our feast out on the kitchen table, Liam finally joins us. He looks tired, more tired than I’ve seen him.

I remind myself again that I might be doing too much. But it’s too late to stop any of it now.

But there’s no room for thinking like that when you’re already so far in.

After dinner, we crowd into the living room together and set up in front of the TV. It’s after eight now, and I can see that Brie’s eyes are tired. But she’s so happy, stuffing her hand into the bag of popcorn mixed with M&Ms and shoving fistfuls of it into her mouth.

“I think this is my favorite movie,” she says, snuggling between me and Liam. The three of us are leaning against the couch. He puts his arm around both of us, his hand resting on my shoulder. I almost flinch away, with everything we’ve been talking about. With the uncertainty that rests over us like a dark cloud.

“I thought Tangled was your favorite movie,” Liam says.

“I like this one better,” Brie replies. “The princess gets to live on an island and swim all the time. I’d like that. And she has her mom and dad and grandmother, and they’re all nice to her. Even Maui is her friend.”

I glance at Liam, but he’s watching the movie and eating popcorn.

The movie ends, and Brie is asleep against her father’s broad chest. Her features are so like his. There’s no mistaking them for part of the same family, the same blood running through their veins. I can’t quite define the feeling I have when I see them together because one word doesn’t sum it up. Rhiannon would say—in fact, she has said—that this is all way too heavy for a fake bride. Someone who was supposed to be temporary.

But like she said, too, he never put a time limit on it. The expiration date isn’t set. I’ll just be sitting here in this house, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’ll happen suddenly.

Maybe that’s best, like pulling off a Band-Aid.

Later, when he carries Brie to bed, I stand back and watch him again. His strong arms lift her like she barely weighs a thing. He’s gone for a while, and I think I hear him singing softly. Something I’ve never heard from him before, even though I’ve known him for the better part of a month.

When he walks back into the living room, his face is heavy again. “I can’t believe she has to leave after lunch tomorrow. She’s going to cry. She hasn’t stayed over at my house since I got out of prison, but she’s kept up this crazy hope that we’d be a family again.”

“You will.” I say it with certainty. “There’s no doubt in my mind that Marta doesn’t take good care of Brie. Someone has to see that.”

Liam runs his fingers through his hair and sits down in the chair. “Yeah, and her family is connected as fuck. That’s how it is with old New York families. Her mother grew up with the family court judge who helped train the judge who’s working there now. And so on. You get the picture.”

“Yeah. That doesn’t mean there’s no evidence that you’re a better parent than that woman.”

“We need solid evidence. None of this bread for dinner stuff. That’s… shitty. But I can’t prove it’s abuse.” He sighs, letting out a quick, harsh breath all at once.

“We’ve got the stable household. You’re the biological parent. You’re gainfully employed. You’ve got a good place for her to live. It’s even closer to school than Marta’s place, right? That stuff is in our corner.”

Liam laughs. “Our corner? You’re invested in this too, huh?” His voice is clipped when he says it, and it stirs up that anxious, helpless feeling inside of me—the one I get when I think about him and Brie.

I don’t know if he’s looking for a response or not, but I don’t give him one.

My heart drops to the pit of my stomach, and I walk back to the bedroom, stripping out of my green dress. Even though it’s made of soft cotton, it feels tight and uncomfortable after all of this.

Liam comes in after me, even though I’m not sure I want him to. I’m turned to the window, and he’s watching me as I undress.

“I thought I was a part of this,” I say. “I’m not just a tourist in Hell’s Kitchen. I’m not one of those women.”

“No, you’re not,” he responds. “You wouldn’t be here if you were. None of them would have agreed to this. None of them would have been like you are with Brie. And none of them could get me to move to fucking Queens.”

“That was sort of a stretch for you.” I can’t help but smile. I turn to him, and I realize he’s lured me in again. “You’ve got to admit that it’s not that bad here.”

“It’s not that bad because you’re here,” he says, stepping closer to me.

I raise my hand, even though I can almost feel the heat of his body against mine. I want him to fill that gap between us. But he needs to hear this first. “I think we might be confusing things for Brie.”

“We’re not,” he says. “You’re my ace in the hole. Two incomes, two parents. A woman to do all the mom shit the judge thinks you’re doing. When we actually know I’d be packing the lunches and making the beds. Brie will understand when you—when we decide—” He stops.

“When we decide what?” My heart beats faster. “You just asked if I was invested. Like you thought I wasn’t.”

“I can’t tell what you are or not. I’m saying if you want in, it makes our case stronger.”

“I am in, Liam. I’m as far in as I can be. I want that little girl to be with you, but the deal was that we had an end date. And now it doesn’t seem like there is one in sight.”

“What? You want there to be some kind of end?”

“Yes. There should be. For Brie. For you and me—for use to move on after this. I’m not your real wife.”

“Documents are all signed and file. You’re as real as they come.” Liam walks over to me and puts his hands on my shoulders. “It’s more than most marriages are based on. A lot of them, anyway.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that—” He purses his lips together. “That you can stay as long as you want. I like having you around.”

As always, my body feels lit on fire from the inside when this man is close to me. But his words don’t match the moment. Even if I don’t know what I want to hear, it’s probably not that. I try to pull away, but Liam puts his arms around my waist and draws me into his body, my skin pressed against his shirt, a thin layer between us. I can feel the heat rising off his skin.

“Come on, Liam. Let me go.”

“That was hard for me to say,” he whispers. “I don’t do commitment. You know that. This is as close as I’ve gotten. Do you think I would have taken a chance on just anyone? Moved out of my apartment?”

“You did all of this for Brie. It’s pretty clear when I look at the two of you together that you’re a family.”

He brings a hand to my hair and pushes a lock behind my ear. It falls back over my face. “I haven’t been much of a family guy in the past two years. For Brie, yeah, I am. But she hasn’t been living with me, and she and the bar have been my only concerns. Now, maybe, there’s room for something else.”

My heart rate increases. Liam Dougherty is a man I shouldn’t get my hopes up for, but here I am. In this apartment, living with him. Married to him. Making popcorn for his kid. “Like what?”

“Like us. Maybe this is something that can work. For longer than a few weeks.” He doesn’t give me a chance to respond. Instead, he kisses me hard and pulls me down to the bed.

When he touches me, my thoughts become unclear. Everything is foggy, lost in a haze of lust.

I don’t realize that I’ve fallen asleep, only that I’ve awaken, and it’s day. Liam isn’t in bed, but I can hear him in the kitchen.

I go to the window.

The sun is shining, and green is starting to come in on the trees.

And two women who look like they shouldn’t be working on a Sunday—they’re headed right for our front door.

“Liam!” I shout. Suddenly, last night’s conversation seems to fade into the background.

I can say with certainty who sent them, but I have no way to predict what’s coming next.

Chapter Seventeen

Liam

I speed over to the front door, trying not to scream curse words at the top of my lungs.

Whoever Marta sent probably doesn’t think a steady stream of “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” is good for a little girl’s ears. I look over my shoulder to the little girl in question. Her hair is undone, and the braids have made her hair into a mass of crimped-looking curls. It’s all tangled in the back from how she’s been sleeping. In front of her, I have a giant plate of waffles with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top.

“Shit,” I mutter. I look over my shoulder to see Skye frantically pulling on the dress she was wearing last night. No panties, no bra—normally I’d like that kind of thing. And her hair—it looks like sex hair. There’s a wild piece of it sticking up in the back. “Skye—” I hiss. “Get into the bathroom—put on a bra—and brush your hair—”

Her mouth hardens into a straight line. My stomach tightens into a knot, but there’s not much I can do about Skye right now. After dodging every question last night and throwing her into bed to get out of actual conversation, yelling at her to look proper is probably the last thing I should be doing this morning. But I have a sneaking suspicion I know who’s at the door.

When I open it, my worst fears are confirmed. I hear the door to the bedroom shut, and the shower turns on. They can’t fault my wife for taking a shower—can they?

“Good morning,” I say. I try to make my voice sound cheerful, and I plaster a fake grin on my face. I’d wager it looks more like a grimace, but it’s the best I’ve got at eight on a Sunday morning. Two women stand in front of me, both of them wearing black pantsuits with white button-down shirts. The older one has dyed red hair and holds a coffee in her hand like it’s a lifeline. The other one looks like she’s maybe twenty years old—and she has no idea what the fuck she’s doing here.

“We’re here to speak with Mr. Liam Dougherty, and his wife, Skye Williams.” The older one digs in her bag and pulls out several sheets of paper, looking through them frantically like she’s searching for something she can’t seem to find. “Looks like Ms. Williams hasn’t gone through the process of changing her name yet.”

“We’ve already found Jesus, if that’s what you’re here for,” I say. I hope for a smile from either one of them, but none is forthcoming.

“Is Ms. Williams planning on changing her name, or is she not?” The older woman is still looking down at her papers. When she looks up at me, her rheumy blue eyes are blank and emotionless.

“It’s up to her,” I say through gritted teeth. “Now, I’m not sure I caught either of your names. Or what you’re doing at my place of residence on a Sunday morning.”

“I’m Donna Gunnis, and this is Amber Peterson. We’re from Child Protective Services, and we’re just here to see how you’re doing with Brie.”

“And you’re working on Sundays now? I didn’t think the state government paid enough for that.” They certainly don’t, I think. But Marta might have found a way.

“Yes, we work on Sundays when a little girl is having a first overnight with a known criminal and his brand-new wife who apparently appeared from nowhere several weeks ago.”

“We’ve been together for months,” I say, even though my heart is beating slightly faster. It’s a lie, but it’s the best I’ve got, and I’m fairly sure they can’t prove much of anything in that department. “And I’m an honest business proprietor. No longer involved with any criminal activities. My former parole officer can tell you all about it. He’s actually a friend of mine now—and he’s helping me get the record expunged. Felony knocked down to a misdemeanor.”

“That’s all good and well,” Donna says, trying to peer into the house over my shoulder. I see her make note of the tattoo beneath my sleeve. She takes out a small notepad filled with pencil markings and jots something down before looking back up at me with a strained smile. “But we’re going to need to come in and take a look around. Just to make sure that Brie is in an appropriate environment. Safe. Tidy. Nurturing. Healthy.”

I nod quickly and step to the side. I know from experience that trying to get these people to go away always fucking backfires. “We’ve just moved in. It’s not perfect—”

Donna and Amber push past me. It seems like Donna almost tries to bump into me with her shoulder, but I step to the side. Fists clenched, I watch as they start walking around and looking through the apartment. Donna keeps her notebook out and jots in it every few seconds. Her expression looks generally displeased, but I’d bet that’s just how her face is.

The younger woman, Amber, comes up to me, looking a bit like a deer in headlights. “Where’s the child, Mr. Dougherty?”

“In the kitchen, eating breakfast.” I say a silent prayer that she’s finished with her ice cream.

Amber pops around the corner, and I hear her voice change instantly to that sickly-sweet tone adults often use with children. Brie’s not that kind of kid—she’s smarter than most adults I know, and I cringe when I hear Amber speak.

“What do you have there, honey?” Amber’s voice sounds like a high-pitched squeak.

“Waffles.” Brie’s voice is caged and hesitant. I follow Amber into the kitchen and nod at Brie. Her eyes lock on mine. “Dad made bacon too. And we had fruit—fresh fruit.”

“Is that ice cream on those waffles, though, sweetheart? Looks like it’s melted a little. That’s a lot of sugar so early in the morning, don’t you think?” Amber turns to me with a sweet little smile that makes me want to punch a whole in the wall. Donna joins us in the small room, noting something in the small book, perhaps that I’ve given my child an inappropriate amount of sugar. Donna begins looking through the cabinets, noting a dusty bottle of whiskey and a mostly empty bottle of vodka. She opens a drawer and finds a few old cigars.

“Do you smoke in the house, Mr. Dougherty?” Donna looks at me quickly and writes something down in her notebook without waiting for a response.

I crack my knuckles and feel my face growing flushed. It’s impossible not to think about the millions of kids out there who have parents smoking meth or locking them in closets. Or smoking meth while locking them in closets. All I have is a felony on my record, and a mother-in-law who has some kind of narcissistic grudge and connections deep enough to get CPS out to Queens on a Sunday morning. I’m hoping the judge sees through her bullshit. Donnelly said it’ll be the guy who wanted me in a relationship—so we might have that on our side. Still, it makes me nervous. It’s supposed to unhinge me, this visit from CPS. I try to remain calm.

I cross my arms, and shift from side to side.

I have to bite my tongue. Marta wants me to fuck up. She wants me to fail.

If I stay in this room with them talking to my daughter for one more second, I might scream. Just when I think I’m going to reach my breaking point, I feel a cool hand on my shoulder. I turn, and I see Skye standing next to me.

“Hi there,” she says. The two women from CPS turn to see Brie, her hair dried and styled, wearing her green dress from the day before. She even has on flat shoes with little bows on them. “Would you like to see Brie’s room here? Liam worked on it with her last night. And then we read some books from the library.” She quickly catches Brie’s eye and winks at her. The women don’t catch it, but I do.

“Yeah, we read books in there,” Brie says. “Let me show you. It’s like a castle. I helped make a healthy dinner too.”

This kid. She catches on fast.

Brie skips out of the room and runs down the hall, making the women follow behind her. “This is a pretty nice place,” Amber says.

“There’s no central heating unit, it doesn’t look like. I’d imagine they got it like that because it’s cheaper. Remember what the grandmother told us—”

Not missing a beat, Skye turns to them as we reach the bedroom. “There’s actually baseboard heat. It’s oil-based, but it’s provided by the landlord and included in rent. He has window units for air conditioning in the summer. Good ones.” She looks over at me. “And Liam is making enough to pay for the whole thing himself. It’s an up and coming neighborhood. Pretty expensive since it’s so close to Brie’s school. He’s worked really hard with his brother at the bar. He co-owns it, you know? He’s been saving every penny he’s earned. So even if Marta has you on the hook, give us a chance here. We’re not the enemy.”

Amber and Donna look between each other but don’t say anything. They follow Brie into her room, and Skye and I listen as Brie gives them the grand tour. It’s a sad thing that Brie knows well enough by now that her grandmother sends people—lawyers and P.Is. and now CPS—all to make sure that she doesn’t live with me. Hell, that she doesn’t even see me. That’s why Brie fell into line so quickly this morning. She knows exactly what this is about, and the poor kid is only six.

They stay in the room for a solid fifteen minutes with Brie, while Skye and I stand outside. The voices inside are low, and we can only hear scraps of conversation.

Neither of us say a word. Instead, we stand against the wall. When the time starts to stretch, and the churning in my stomach grows almost too intense, Skye reaches over and puts my hand into hers. I look over at her and see that her face reflects the same worry that I feel.

“I wonder what Marta’s done to get them out here on a Sunday morning,” she whispers, leaning into me. “Whatever it is, it’s not good.”

“No, it’s not.” My body grows tight, and I close my eyes. I imagine myself slamming my fist into the wall, what it would feel like to crush the drywall beneath my knuckles. But that isn’t me anymore.

It might be. But Skye is here. And she feels like a life raft in a storm, while my daughter talks to two women who will help decide the fate of my family—of my entire world.

When I open my eyes, I see the ladies shuffling out of Brie’s room. There’s a stern look on Donna’s face, but Amber still retains that slightly stunned look that doesn’t seem either negative or positive.

“Can we speak in the front room, Mr. Dougherty? Your wife can stay back here with Brie and Amber. If she knows Brie well enough, that is.”

Skye’s eyes grow wide in surprise, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she walks silently into Brie’s room, looking back at me for a brief moment. I nod to her and walk with Donna to the living room.

“What’s this about?” I try not to growl the words, but it’s hard after the intrusion.

“I think you know, Mr. Dougherty.” Donna looks at me expectantly, like I’m a particularly slow student who she’s sure will catch onto her assignment.

“No, I don’t think I do. I have a legal right to have my daughter for overnights now that I have an apartment and a stable relationship. And I know enough about CPS to know that this isn’t an ordinary visit.”

“Mr. Dougherty,” Donna says, sighing, “Brie thinks she’s going to live here from now on. And it seems that you and Ms. Williams didn’t let her know that’s not even a possibility.”

“It is a possibility. We’re going to court on the twenty-eighth with a preliminary hearing on the twenty-seventh, and we have plenty of evidence that this is a better living situation than she’s in right now.”

“With her grandmother, who loves her and sends her to private school. Can you afford the Catholic school she attends?”

I groan. “Yeah, I can. But since when is private school a concern of CPS? Is there anything here that would endanger Brie? No, I didn’t think so.” I sigh quickly and go to the door, opening it for Donna. “Unless there’s something here I don’t know about it, I’m going to kindly ask you to get the fuck out of here.” I give her my best charming smile.

“See—that right there. The anger. The attitude. And don’t get me started on this relationship you have with that young woman. Marta informed us about your history. It’s clear you picked this one up somewhere and convinced her to marry you. Give me a break, Mr. Dougherty. This is all confusing for Brie, and furthermore, it’s clearly not a good place for her to be. She has no place to put her clothing. She was given highly unhealthy food for breakfast, and I saw several empty packs of candy in the trash. That’s not how you treat a child you want to raise and support.”

“Come the fuck on,” I snarl. “This is all bullshit, and you know it. How much is Marta paying you? There, I said it. The big goddamn elephant in the room. I have plenty of experience with that sad excuse for a woman, and I know that’s what she does to get her way. She’s running out of money from doing all this crap, I bet. And now she’s trying to get me to fork over the money I have saved for Brie. That’s not going to fucking happen. I’ve got all that so she can’t get to it.”

Skye steps around the corner and comes to my side, touching my arm. “Please forgive my husband, Donna. He’s very protective of his daughter. And Brie brought to our attention that Marta isn’t providing adequate food for her. I couldn’t help but overhear your observations about her diet here. But it seems she doesn’t even get a full dinner at Marta’s house. We made tacos last night with a salad, and then we allowed her a treat. She also had fruit with her waffles this morning.” Skye squeezes my arm as she talks. “She says that Marta allows her only bread for dinner. Her grandmother takes away food as a punishment. Isn’t that the kind of thing CPS might be interested in? Write that down in your book.”

“I can hardly see how that’s true,” Donna says, unmoving. The breeze rolls into the apartment. It’s sunny and smells like spring outside, which doesn’t match the scene in here at all.

Amber joins us in the room, stepping up to Donna. “That is what Brie told me. Without Ms. Williams in the room. She also told me that when we visited her at the grandmother’s—”

“Hush, Amber,” Donna says. “We’re not here to discuss Brie’s current living situation. I do think it’s time we left. We need to type up notes for this visit so we can take them to the judge that’s seeing their case. And we both need to get on with the day.” Donna smiles, full of fake sweetness. “And Ms. Williams and Mr. Dougherty here—they might want to enjoy the time they have remaining with Brie. It doesn’t appear this is a place fit for a child. Not in my book.”

Skye steps forward, inches from Donna. “What was the first reason you started working for Child Protective Services? Was it actually to protect children? Or was it to take on outside clients like Marta and run your own rogue business on the weekends?”

Donna’s face grows pale. “I don’t see your point, Ms. Williams. We’re here working for the city, making sure that a child is where she ought to be.”

“I don’t think so,” Skye says. “I just checked with my friend, Rhiannon. She says there are plenty of people at CPS who will do anything for a few extra dollars. It’s not the most high-paying job, is it? And the city is expensive. I understand. But that isn’t the reason you started working for CPS, is it?”

“I think we’d better go, Amber,” Donna says, completely ignoring Skye.

“I think we ought to listen to what Mr. Dougherty has to say about Brie’s living situation,” Amber says. “He’s the biological parent—and the child seems quite happy here.”

“I said we need to go. Now,” Donna replies. “Fall in line, Amber. Your job is quite new. Please remember that.”

Amber looks like she’s about to say something, but she doesn’t respond. Instead, she follows Donna out the door, and Skye and I are left there, watching her.

“Farewell, Mr. Dougherty,” Donna yells back at us. “I’m sure you’ll be hearing our report when you get to the courthouse. Just a few days now.”

My heart sinks down into the pit of my stomach.

I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t know if there is anywhere to go.

But Skye is beside me, and that makes me feel like we might be able to fight. Her head is far cooler than mine, and maybe some of her words will get through to those women.

We can only hope.

Chapter Eighteen

Skye

It’s hard to say goodbye to Brie when Marta comes to pick her up. The old woman has a triumphant look on her face, like she’s already won. I fight the urge to tell her the fuck off. We might have hurt the case, or we might not have. There’s no way to know until we get to the courthouse.

With all that I’ve done for Liam, I’m holding desperately onto the idea that we can save Brie. That we can save this family.

I pace around the apartment, kicking off my shoes. I sit on the edge of the bed and lie back on it. The ceiling has that popcorn type paint on it. It’s ugly, but I’m getting used to it. I lie there and look at it, trying to clear my head of everything—Brie, Liam, the women who came here this morning.

“This is a lot for you to deal with, Skye. I know that.”

I look up and see Liam at the door of the bedroom, his changeable eyes cool and distant.

“It’s not. I just want to see it work out. And now it feels like we know even less than we did last week.”

“All this with the ‘we.’ And ‘our.’” His voice has that wry tone to it, the way it does when he’s teasing me.

I swallow hard, trying to read him. “What does that mean to you, Liam? You said you might want to have me around. What are you saying? Tell me.”

“I’m saying I might want you here. For as long as you want to be here. It feels like we’re in this battle together now. I don’t know if you’d want to stay—”

“I don’t know either.” I look away to the window, so I don’t betray my own feelings. I know very well what I want. And I probably wanted it since the very first time I walked up to his apartment. The first moment he looked at me, the first time he touched me. But what he’s proposing is less a relationship and more a marriage of convenience. With hot sex. Very hot sex. But still, is there something else I deserve—something beyond this? There isn’t a commitment here, not a real one. There’s a signed piece of paper, sitting somewhere in a courthouse, but it could be dissolved in an instant with a quick divorce. That’s what we agreed on. We didn’t agree to the vows we said—until death do us part. That was just something we said. Not something we meant.

I keep myself turned away. If I look at him, all my rational thoughts vanish and become a jumble.

“I think you want to stay.” I can feel him looking at me, and I hear his footsteps as he walks toward the bed. “Look at me, Skye.”

I follow the sound of his voice, my eyes meeting his. “And what if I do want to? Does that mean that we’re a couple? That this is real? That it means forever?”

“I don’t know,” he says simply. He sighs. “I’ve never had anything like that before. Like I said. Not with Tabitha. Not with any of the other women I’ve ever known. This relationship—this marriage—it provides real stability for Brie. It might mean the difference between temporary and permanent custody. It might mean that she has something to hold onto, something real to come home to.” His voice wavers, full of emotion. This isn’t the man I met back at the bar—he’s changed, grown. “Skye, I want you here. It’s not just for Brie.”

I let out a quick breath. “I care about you, Liam. I do. But we rushed into this. And there’s Marta. And the women from CPS. And the courts. I agreed to it—but it’s heavy. A lot fucking heavier than I thought it would be.”

“Let me make it clear. I want you to stay, Skye. I want you to change your fucking name so that there aren’t any more questions. And I want you to cancel the lease on your apartment in Brooklyn.” He shrugs. “Queens seems a little nicer than that shit hole, anyway. I’m warming up to Queens. Fewer hipsters here. Fewer than I thought.” He gives me a wry smile.

My heartbeat speeds up, blood rushing through my veins. “Liam, think about what you’re saying. The life you had before—”

“Wasn’t much of a life. The women came and went, and I was living free above the bar. That place doesn’t even have good water pressure. Or a dishwasher.”

“That’s what this is about—” I feel the irritation rising in me again, like it does with this man.

“No. Well, the nice shower and dishwasher here are just bonuses. But if you leave and go back home, then it’s just an empty box.”

“And if Brie moves in? If she doesn’t?”

“If she moves in, she’ll want you here too. If she doesn’t, you need to stay. I’ll need you to help me fight it.”

“That’s what this is about, isn’t it? All that stuff you said about Brie. The stability and the judges and all that. That’s always what it’s been about, and you said it from the beginning. If I stay, that helps make it stick.”

“It does.” He looks at me evenly. “But it’s more than that, too.”

“We’re talking in circles, Liam. Saying the same thing over and over again, and it makes me so tired. I’m exhausted. I think I’ve been tired since I first met you.” I turn over on the bed, my body still facing away from him. “I get that this is fun for you, and it has been for me, too. But we’re coming up on the hearing, and there’s going to be a decision one way or another. And then we’ll need to make a real decision about us.”

“I’ve made my decision,” he says, cracking his knuckles. “I want you here. How many times do I have to say it?”

Sunlight filters in through the window screens, and there’s a slight breeze from the spring wind outside. It feels comfortable and real, but the foundation of this relationship isn’t either of those things. It was based on lust and excitement and adventure—not just for me, but for both of us. This place, this marriage, this quest to get his girl back—all these things have occupied Liam’s mind. This marriage has kept his mind off of women, alcohol, the bar. It’s given him a weapon in his holy mission to get his daughter back. When the dust settles and all the shiny veneer wears off, there won’t be anything left.

Still, even on a morning like this, when the threat of failure looms closer than ever, Liam’s gaze on my body sends shivers down my spine, singing through every cell in my body. It’s a distraction, the pull between us. It’s why we’re both here right now, why we got wrapped up in each other’s lives.

“So?” He steps over to the bed and falls down next to me. His hands go to my waist, and he pulls me around to face him. “What do you say?”

“To what?”

“Giving me a chance. A real one. Living here.”

I laugh. “I think marrying you counts as giving you a chance. Don’t you?”

“Nah,” he says. He kisses my neck and works his way down to my shoulder. “It has to be official. You and me. In a relationship.”

“I’d call this a relationship. I live here,” I say. “We have sex. You deflowered me on our wedding night. It’s close enough.” I grin, and heat rises over my chest.

“Deflowered is a fancy word for what I did. I fucked you silly. Made it so you couldn’t stand straight the next day.”

“You did.” I can still feel it—that sweet, aching soreness between my thighs. The way I couldn’t walk quite right the next day, how opened and vulnerable I felt.

“I didn’t think fucking a virgin would be that good. I hadn’t done that since high school.” One hand moves between my legs, finding the wetness soaking through my panties. “A sweet little virgin.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not anymore.” I whimper as his fingers gently pinch my clit through the soaking fabric.

“Not what? A virgin? I guess you aren’t. I do wish I could do it all over again. The way you looked at me when I put my cock inside that tight little pussy the first time—that was fucking magical.”

“Magical? Since when did you get so romantic, Liam Dougherty?”

“That’s not romance. That’s the fucking truth. I’d do it again just to see that look on your face.”

I laugh. He’s already tugging at my panties, one hand roaming over my ass, the other pushing my panties to the side and dipping a finger inside of me.

“That’s not how it works. You can’t take someone’s virginity twice.” He slips a second finger inside of me and squeezes my ass. I whimper, and my eyes start to roll back in my head. When he touches me, it’s like he’s taking me to some other place, like I’m leaving my own body. Like none of the things I was thinking about before matter in the least. Not right now.

“I think I can, little girl. I’ve been toying with the idea of taking your virginity again.”

My face grows hot. “I’m a little girl, now, am I?”

“You are.” He flips me around, and he pulls my panties down to my knees. “And you’re still a virgin. My virgin.”

“No, I’m definitely not. I think you’ve got that wrong.” Deft fingers unhook my bra, and his hands go to my breasts, squeezing them, trailing down my body to the cleft of my sex.

“You’re dripping wet. A nice little girl wouldn’t be dripping wet like that. But you’re greedy for my cock, aren’t you? You’re desperate for it. I know you like it when you get stressed out. You like me to make you come.”

My breath hitches in my throat. It feels too far, like we’re skirting the edges of what we should be doing. And I can feel his cock getting hard against my ass. I gulp. “I’m not a good girl.” I pause. “I’m wet for you.”

My whole body feels like it’s on fire—red hot with shame and excitement and that feeling we’ve crossed over some edge.

“But you are a little virgin.”

“No, I’m not.” I swallow hard, but I want to say it again. “I’m not a virgin anymore. Because you fucked me.”

He groans, and I feel him stroking himself behind me. He thrusts his entire cock into my dripping wet pussy in one fluid movement, filling me to the brim. He still feels too big fore me, and he always stretches me far beyond my limit. Every time he enters me, I feel like I almost can’t bear to take any more.

“There’s not just one type of virgin, baby,” he says. His voice thick with desire. His hand finds my neck and holds it, the pressure heavy enough to give the slightest hint of danger. Fingers trail down my body as his cock rams inside of me, filling me brutally with each thrust. His thumb finds my asshole and presses against it slightly, adding a new sensation to his cock filling me again and again. “I told you, you were mine. Your pussy. Your mouth. Your ass.”

I moan as he presses his thumb into my tight little hole. There’s resistance, but it gives way, opening me in an entirely new way as he continues to throttle my pussy. My body aches and throbs, shivers starting from the base of my spine and reaching the back of my neck.

“I’m going to make you totally mine today, little girl.”

I groan, offering no protest. This is never something I would have considered with Charlie—or anyone else that my parents might have deemed more appropriate for me. Liam is so far from appropriate it’s not even funny. You don’t bring this type of guy home to Mom. And you sure as fuck don’t marry him.

Oops.

His thumb works against me. “Are you ready for this?” He thrusts inside of me again, moaning. “It feels like you are. You’re so fucking wet for me already.”

This isn’t something I’d thought would be in a real relationship, nothing I’d ever considered—not until I fell into bed with Liam for the first time. “Yes,” I whine. My eyes roll back in my head as he toys with my ass, bringing new, heightened sensations through my sex and straight to my core.

“Then you hold tight, baby. I have something that might help me fit inside that perfect little hole.”

He takes his cock out of my pussy and starts stroking himself, moaning as he moves to the other side of the bed. I arch my back to turn around and look at him, but he smiles and tries to hide whatever it is that he has. “Not yet, Princess. This is going to be a surprise. Turn back around, and let me see that perfect little ass. It’s mine now, and you’re going to love it.”

I blush deep red when he says it, but I follow his command and curl up on the bed, feeling small and helpless—and empty. My pussy throbs—needy, waiting for him. I bring my hand between my legs and stroke myself. I tremble in fear, but that only heightens the arousal pooling deep in my core.

“I think you’re going to like this.” I hear him open a bottle of lube. “Hell, I think you’re going to need it. My cock might stretch you a little too far without it.”

“Oh God—maybe we shouldn’t—” I babble, suddenly nervous. “You’re so big—it might not fit at all—” I gulp, turning beet red.

“There’s no going back now. You’re mine, remember? You agreed.” He moves closer to me in the bed, and I feel the pressure of something smooth and soft at the tip of my asshole. It’s not his cock—I know that feeling well by now.

“What is that?” I try to turn and look, but he holds my body steady with his strong hands.

“Just relax. Close your eyes.” The heat and pleasure mix with fear, pulsing through my body together.

“I just—I’ve never—had anything there before.” He pushes the tip of whatever the thing is deeper inside of me, and I hear him growl with excitement. His hard cock presses into the back of my thigh, and I whimper.

“It’s just a little toy,” he says, twirling it. The thing invades the entrance of my ass, stretching me out just a little. I moan at the sensation. “But it will help stretch you out, won’t it?”

He pushes it in further, and I moan. “Yes, it will.” My voice comes out in a whisper.

“What do you want, baby?”

“I want you to fuck me.” I look over my shoulder, meeting his eye. I whimper. He slides the toy in further, and I feel myself opening to him. This wasn’t a part of who I was—but wanting this, here with Liam, this is me now.

“How do you want me to fuck you?”

“Fuck my ass,” I moan. “And make it yours.”

Chapter Nineteen

Liam

“Goddamn,” I moan. When Skye first moved in, I picked up this little purple toy. The size of it isn’t even half of my girth, but a tiny girl like this needs a little warming up.

I wasn’t planning on letting her run away without giving me this. She said she wanted to learn all the ways to please me. She might not have meant this, not exactly. In this moment, I don’t give a shit. I push the toy further inside of her, and she whimpers. The wetness from her pussy is drenching my hands, and I can still feel the ghost of her hot, tight warmth on my cock. I’m hard as fucking steel, and I want to fuck her, want to feel her sweet, tight hole wrapping around me, smooth and perfect.

“Oh, my God—it feels good,” she whispers. I can see goosebumps forming on her skin, just as they did the first time I fucked her. “Put it all the way in.” There’s a desperate, searching need to her voice, and I’m happy to indulge it.

As I push the toy in with one hand, I stroke myself with the other. The lube and the wetness from her pussy cover my hand, slippery and inviting. But I’m slow. I take my time, filling her ass inch by inch with the toy until she’s moaning and writhing uncontrollably against my hand.

“Oh, my God. I didn’t think this would feel so good,” Skye says. I almost detect a note of embarrassment, a hint of shame. But she wants what I have to give her so badly that she’s beyond that now. She didn’t know I was serious when I told her she belonged to me. While we’re still married, I own her—pussy, mouth, ass. She’s my toy, my doll. For all the fighting I’ve been doing, I need some relief. And she’s exactly what I need.

“You didn’t know you’d want it so much, did you?” I press the toy in the rest of the way and let it rest against the entrance to her tight little hole. She squirms, bucking against me, and I move so I’m encircling her waist with one arm. “You didn’t know you could want something like this at all.” It’s a statement, one that I know is true. The guy she was with before wasn’t even man enough to get her into bed, let alone show her the pleasure she was truly capable of experiencing.

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t know—” She wiggles against me again, and I let my fingers trace over the muscles of her abdomen, down to the thatch between her legs. My fingers slip inside, circling her clit, dipping in her pussy. I find the ridged spot inside and tap it. The moans rise from her throat—lusty, throaty, forbidden. I have her filled in both holes, but she’s not as full as she’s going to be. I chuckle softly, biting the flesh of her neck as I work my fingers inside of her. She’s lost now, completely at my mercy. I could ask anything of her, and she’d do it.

“You like being all filled up, don’t you? Think you’ll like it when my cock is buried inside you?”

“Yeah,” she whimpers. “I will. Oh God. I will. Please—I want it now.”

My cock is pulsing, aching and hard with need. I gently remove the toy, and run my fingers over my shaft and the head of my cock, putting more lube on as I stroke myself. I want her body to accommodate my size, to stretch and fit me. And I need her not to tell me to stop—in this moment, I need to possess her fully, to hear her call my name as I fuck her, as I take her purity for a second time.

“Liam,” she says. She feels me stroking myself hard against the back of her thigh, feels the lubricant as I push the head of my cock against her hole. “I need it. Please. Oh—”

“Anything you want, my little librarian,” I say.

I start pushing the head of my cock inside her virginal hole, and she shudders against me, tensing like she’s preparing for pain.

“Relax, little one,” I say. I brush the hair away from the back of her neck and kiss her there. “I won’t hurt you. Relax every muscle in your body, and give yourself to me. I’m bigger than that tiny little toy, but I’m going to make sure you feel so good.” I kiss her again, nipping her with my teeth. “So good. Do you believe me?”

“I do,” she says, without hesitation. “But I can’t—I can’t relax. Oh my God,” she moans, shaking against me. She looks over her shoulder, a worried look in her eyes.

“Put your hand between your legs. Touch yourself again. It’ll help you focus on something else.”

She gulps, but she does what I say, bringing her slender fingers to her pussy. She finds her clit and opens her legs slightly, circling it, moaning as she plays with herself. Her orgasm seems to be a hair’s breadth away, her body giving itself over to the pleasure.

As she throws her head back, I press into her, this time slipping the girth of my head inside her. She gasps, but she furiously rubs her clit, moaning louder as I grunt and push myself further inside. I want to unleash myself, to fuck her hard and fast, coming inside of her. It would come quick, that release. But instead, I concentrate on sliding in one centimeter at a time, letting her feel my entire length.

She shudders against me, and her hand comes to my forearm. She looks over her shoulder, eyes meeting mine. She looks like a different person, pupils slightly dilated with lust, eyes hooded and heavy. For a moment, I think she might speak, but instead, she makes a desperate, searching sound and pushes back against me, taking me in farther.

I let out a long groan. Unable to resist any longer, I push myself in the entire way, filling her ass to the hilt. “That’s so good, baby,” I whisper. “You’re doing so good. Such a good little girl. You feel so amazing. So hot, so tight.”

I pull back and thrust inside of her again, moaning as I do.

“That’s so fucking amazing,” she says. Her voice dissolves into a series of rasps and sighs, and she grabs my arm, as if trying to bring me closer into her body. I respond in kind, pushing into her again and again.

“I want you to come for me while I’m inside you, baby,” I say.

For a second, I think she hasn’t heard me. But Skye’s hand returns to her pussy. Her fingers flick over her clit, bringing her to that edge of orgasm again. The way her body tenses and releases, as if preparing, signals me that she’s close. She’s been on the edge now since I started fucking her, and she’s so close.

“That’s a good girl,” I mutter. Skye’s body seems to be of one flesh with mine, responding to me fully as I fall into a rhythm. “A good little bad girl.”

She laughs at that even as she brings herself closer to the edge. I’m fucking her hard now, unleashing all my fears and insecurities, letting them fall away as I fill her. She tenses, body stiffening. From deep within her comes a long, sweet moan, and her hips begin to buck against mine, her juicy ass bouncing against my cock. My balls grow tight, the tingling warmth starting deep within my body. In one white-hot flash of lightning, I come undone, coming hard and deep inside of her. I close my eyes and groan, long and loud, pulling her hair hard as I buck inside of her greedy little hole.

I pull her body into mine, kissing her neck, holding her arms. Our bodies pulse together, and we both sigh and crumple together in exhaustion. We stay like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, experiencing the warmth of our bodies together, for a long time. Most of the women I’ve been with seem to have a need to fill the silence, pressing on and on about what I might be thinking, or if I can see them again, or when might be a good time to get together for dinner. Skye’s not like that, and she never was. Instead, she and I lie together in what I think they call a comfortable silence. I haven’t had that—maybe ever.

As my eyes begin to close, she finally speaks. “It’s a week until the preliminary hearing,” she mutters. “You need me to be there?”

That’s the next step. The thing we’ve been dreading. After today, with the people from CPS, it might be even worse than we thought. But we won’t know until we get there, until it’s clear what Marta’s got on us. Nothing she’s ever had has felt damning before, but I’ve been fooled so many times. This is why I have Skye. She represents stability for the judge. And maybe, more than that, there’s finally someone really and truly on my team. My mother and brothers have always been a part of this, too. But Skye is invested in a way I can’t quite fully define. Being next to her here, I can feel it. Her brain, calculating. The thoughts inside her mind, exploring the ways we can win.

If it were up to me, we’d stay in this bed and fuck forever. We’d skip the hearings, and Brie would magically come to live with us, without the effort and stress of going before a judge. But things like that don’t happen, especially not to men like me.

“Yeah, I need you. The judge will want see that we’re able to provide a good environment here for Brie,” I say.

“I hope the CPS people don’t report about the food we were eating,” she murmurs, finally turning to face me. “It wasn’t great.”

“They’ve seen shit that’s about a thousand times worse than a few scoops of ice cream and some M&Ms. I don’t ever see that kid. Do they think I’m going to make her a goddamn salad?”

She laughs and shakes her head. “I hope not. Salad sucks. I think there should be a ban on it, especially for movie night. We can have fruit and carrot sticks, instead. That’s healthy enough. Plus, popcorn is pretty much a vegetable.”

“Agreed,” I say. I stroke Skye’s hair as I speak. “I don’t know. Marta likes to play like she doesn’t have a dime of money, but she pulls from her family trust for this type of thing. She gets these people who used to know her family, and she pays them with whatever she’s got. And she gets them to fabricate shit for her. P.Is. watching me at the bar, and now these women from CPS coming on their day off. She’s about as smooth as a hunk of unpolished granite. But that doesn’t mean her tactics won’t work. She’ll have those women reporting we had some wild party, or a bunch of drugs hidden under the kitchen sink.”

Skye sighs heavily, like she’s taken on too much weight. In a way, she has. There’s nothing good about her being involved in this—not for her. The benefit goes to me. At least I can keep her in bed, relieving her stress with me. That’s maybe the only thing I can do.

“Well, I’ll be there with you. I’ll tell them it’s not true. They can’t really make that shit up, can they?” Her voice sounds small and fragile.

“I don’t know. I haven’t dealt with CPS before. They both looked dumber than two sacks of hair, so they might not be the ace in the hole Marta thinks they are.”

“We can only pray that they’re not,” Skye says. “That’s all we have—that hope.”

The next days will spread before us with deep anxiety and worry, but we’ll get through them. I’m realizing more and more how indispensable this woman is. There may be nothing to be done about Marta and her plans—but Skye keeps me strong and steady.

And perhaps she’s the missing piece I needed all along.

I can only wonder if she knows how very important she really is.

Chapter Twenty

Skye

It’s the day of the preliminary hearing.

My stomach is queasy as I pull my hair up into a bun. Because it’s so straight, my hair won’t stay in fucking place. It never has—or it hadn’t until Liam’s aunt and Rhiannon got hold of it on my wedding day. There was enough AquaNet in that room to kill a cow.

I smile as I think about it. The wedding. Running home in the rain. Liam, carrying me across the threshold, taking me to bed. Fucking me until I was sore for days afterwards.

The water turns off in the next room, and I hear the shower door close. Liam appears at the door of the bathroom, watching me as I dress. I don’t say anything. Instead, I choose a blue pinstripe skirt and a white button-down shirt. Something feels different when I put the clothes on, like everything about my body has changed. It’s not surprising, especially. Everything has changed. Even the clothes I choose each morning are different. Even my boss has commented on it.

“Do I look okay?” I ask. “I think we ought to go for professional.”

“This is just the preliminary meeting, Skye. The real thing is tomorrow.” He pauses for a beat. “But you look beautiful. If your looks have anything to do with the decision, we’re going to win full custody.”

I cut my eyes at him to see if he’s being sarcastic. He’s not. Instead, his face is serious, more serious than it has been since the day the women from CPS came. Since then, we’ve been able to see Brie a few more times. But now, the time has come. Decisions must be made. And I’ve become a part of all of this.

“Okay then. Get ready,” I say. “We’ve got to go in an hour.”

“That means we’ve got an hour,” he says, coming over to me. “I think that’s plenty of time for me to examine how these clothes look on you.” He kisses my neck, and a shiver runs down my spine. “And off of you.”

“Come on. I’m nervous—and you should be too—”

“I am,” he says. His hand cups my breast, pinching the nipple ever so slightly through the crisp fabric of my shirt. I whimper, because as much as I want to resist, I can’t. Even though he was inside of me last night and every day before that, I still want him. Want him to relieve the stress sitting inside of me, open me, remind me that I belong to him.

Roughly, he lifts my skirt and pushes me against the dresser. As he pulls my panties down to my knees, the towel around his waist falls away. His cock is already stiff, and he strokes himself as he holds me. He groans.

“You need some stress relief from your big man, don’t you?”

“Yes, baby, I do,” I sigh. He hikes the skirt up around my waist and hoists my body onto the dresser, parting my legs. He doesn’t wait. Instead, he thrusts inside of me, taking my breath away. His cock fills me to the hilt, still stretching me open after all this time. I love how it feels—that mix of pain and pleasure that I can feel for the rest of the day.

“You’re a greedy little girl, and you want my cum inside of you.”

“Yeah,” I moan. He pins one of my hands against the dresser, using my body as leverage. He thrusts inside of me hard, slamming into me, hitting my clit with each thrust. The power and pressure build up in my core, tightening into a white-hot coil of need.

“Tell me you need it, baby. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to fill me up,” I whisper. “Come inside of me.” When I say it, my muscles grow tight and then release. The warmth and pleasure spread through me. My toes curl, and I cry out. My orgasm triggers his, and I feel him pushing harder, each movement bringing him closer. He comes, muscles tensing, a low growl issuing from deep inside of him, raw and animal.

We stay like that, panting, and he puts his mouth to mine, kissing me hard. “We keep doing this, we’re going to end up getting you pregnant.”

I feel myself growing pale, even though the thought has crossed my own mind. My arms are slung around his neck, so it’s easy enough to avoid his gaze. I don’t respond. Instead, I nestle deep into the crook of his neck.

“I’m still on the pill—” I mutter.

“I know. Maybe you should stop.”

“Liam, you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I’m a grown ass man, and I do know what I’m saying.” He pulls away and looks at me. “Skye, I want this for the long haul.”

My heart skips, like they say in the movies, and my stomach feels like it’s dropping down to my feet. I move away from the dresser and pull up my panties. While I’m smoothing out my clothes, Liam comes to me and touches my back.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, Skye. I just want to let you know my intentions.”

“You have before, Liam. I think we need to get through all of this first, and then we can figure out where to go from here.” My stomach turns when I say it. I’ve been fighting the words, willing them not to come. It all still seems like a fairy tale, like we’ve been conning ourselves and the world around us for this entire time. But if you pretend something for long enough, can it become real? Do I even want it to be? I’ve been over it in my head a thousand times since Liam started talking about it—and he was the one, the one who kept saying we could be a family. If and when, and us, and we.

“I want to be with you,” he says. “A real husband. For the long haul. For Brie, and for everything else.” I look back at him, eyes wide. He’s pulling on boxers and a pair of wrinkled pants. Ordinary things, when he’s said something entirely out of the ordinary.

I can’t respond—don’t know how to. The emotion surges in my body, roiling in my blood like a tempest. I want to, so badly. But I can’t believe that Liam Dougherty knows exactly what he’s saying, what he’s inviting me to consider. A life with him—no other women. No apartment in Manhattan. No girls. Nothing else, but me.

I open my mouth to respond, but he puts his hand up to stop me. “Don’t say anything. I don’t want to hear it until after we’ve talked to the judge today. He’ll get us ready for tomorrow, and we’ll know more, okay?”

“Okay,” I manage to say. “We need to go, anyway.”

Liam takes my hand, and we walk together to the station. In silence, we ride to the judge’s chambers—a judge who, according to Marta, knows her family and isn’t such a fan of the Doughertys. He’ll be the same one seeing us tomorrow, the one who decides our fate, who makes this whole thing possible one way or another. The subway stops, and we exit the doors to the stale, humid air of the underground station.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen today, Liam,” I say as we step onto the escalator that takes us to the office. “But I’m with you.”

The judge’s chambers are ominous—the walls are all exposed wood, and the floors marble. For a judge who sees family court and custody cases, it all strikes me as a little ostentatious. But that’s how the legal system is. Far more self-important than it should be. Next to me, Liam shuffles from foot to foot, more nervous than I’ve seen him in all the time I’ve known him. With the CPS women at our house—funny that I think of it as our house now—we don’t know what today is going to hold.

The family lawyer, Donnelly, walks in with Liam’s brother Finn and nods to both of us. Finn even nods at me and puts a calloused hand to my shoulder. “Thank you for being here. You know you don’t have to be,” he whispers to me.

“Seems like this is what I signed on for,” I say. “Your brother wouldn’t let me get away with staying at home and painting my nails.”

Finn smirks and cuffs his brother on the arm. “Looks like you got yourself a keeper, whether you meant to or not.”

Liam looks over at me and grins. “Yeah, she’s all right.”

“The judge is coming in just a minute. But where the hell is that bitch Marta?” Donnelly looks anxiously between the four doors that lead into the chambers. We’re the only people here, and the high ceilings and lack of daylight make the whole thing feel a little creepy—like we’ve walked into a trap.

“That’s not the most professional language,” Liam says. “Especially not to refer to a woman who’s about to lose full custody.”

“Don’t jinx it, brother,” Finn says.

At that very moment, Marta walks in with Brie trailing behind her. Brie’s wearing her Catholic school uniform, but she’s pulled her shirt from out of the skirt and is worrying the bottom of it with her little hands. She looks up at me and smiles weakly. For a kid, this is all too much. Marta drags her around to parade her in front of all of us. Maybe to make us jealous, or maybe to prove some kind of point. If she were a real parent, she wouldn’t drag Brie along.

But it’s very clear that she’s not.

From the tight, angry feeling in my chest, I know the depth of my own investment. I hurt not only for Brie but for Liam, his brothers, his mom. Brie is a Dougherty.

Marta’s lawyer enters behind Brie, and following him, there are two people I can’t make out.

“Shit,” Liam says, spying them before I do. “It’s the women—”

“From CPS,” I say. I groan and roll my eyes. “Fucking. Bitches.”

Finn looks between us. “What happened now? Are these the people who came to the apartment to see how Brie was doing? I thought that was just routine.”

“Nothing is routine when it comes to Marta,” Liam says, his voice a low growl.

“Hey,” I say, catching his arm in my hand. “It’ll be okay.”

The judge steps in, looking old and tired. His hair is slate gray, and he carries a sheaf of papers. It might be our case, or it could be a stack of unrelated emails. There’s no way to know.

“I’ll see the case now,” he says, looking between the two groups of people. “This is for the Dougherty hearing tomorrow. And why is the child here? She doesn’t need to be around for any of this.”

“There’s a childcare issue, Judge Brockner. Mr. Dougherty hasn’t provided enough monthly income for a babysitter during these meetings. I’ve told Brie that her father doesn’t care enough about her to provide extra money—just the bare bones and nothing more—”

“Mrs. Maguire, there’s no call for that kind of language in front of the child,” the judge says, looking over at Brie. Brie is still looking down at her feet, even though she’s sitting now.

“She’s baiting you Liam,” Finn whispers. “Don’t take it.”

I hold onto Liam’s arm where we’re sitting. I never realized that I’d be so invested when this day came. Liam clears his throat, but it comes out sounding like a growl.

“I see this case is complicated,” the judge says, refusing to address Marta’s allegations out of turn. “It looks like Mr. Dougherty had sole custody of the child until the death of the mother and his subsequent imprisonment, at which time the grandmother assumed care of the child. Is that correct?”

Donnelly looks to Liam, who swallows hard and nods. “Marta used to split custody with my mother until her health started getting worse. We’re petitioning for full custody at this time.”

“‘We’ meaning you and your new wife, Mr. Dougherty?” The judge looks directly at me. I wonder if my outfit is conservative enough, or if this is all see through. If it seems as flimsy to him as it does to me.

“Yes,” Liam says. “That is correct.”

“We’re having this preliminary hearing today to discuss if the guardians wish to discuss joint custody or sole custody.”

“Sole custody, your honor,” Marta chirps. “That place he lives in isn’t fit for Brie—and we have witnesses to prove it.” She sounds self-satisfied when she says it—disgustingly so.

“Please, let’s save that for later,” Marta’s lawyer says, facing the judge. “But Mrs. Maguire is correct. There’s also the issue of the falsified marriage.”

My heart rate quickens. It was false—a fake relationship, fake wedding, all of it. But we’ve kept true to our vows, and we’ve made it real for Brie. There’s more stability now than there’s ever been. And I’ve been the one to see the changes in Liam. I want to shout all of this out, but I clamp it down inside.

“Falsified marriage? That’s a hefty accusation. One worth looking into. I’ll expect evidence on that tomorrow. Any documentation that you can provide. And we can get testimony from both Mr. and Mrs. Dougherty on that. What’s this about the house being unsuitable?”

“My client’s friends at Child Protective Services went to visit Brie last week, noting that she was given unhealthy food and an unlimited access to screen time during her stay. She was also forced to bear witness to the false relationship between Mr. Dougherty and Ms. Williams,” Marta’s lawyer adds.

“Ms. Williams?” the judge asks.

“Yes. She chose to keep her maiden name because she intends to get divorced and take her reward from Mr. Dougherty as soon as he gains custody. We intend to prove that she never intended to stay married to Mr. Dougherty. She was in it for a significant payoff from the client, from money that should have been going to child support.”

I stiffen in my seat. “That’s not right,” I whisper to Liam. “That doesn’t make sense.”

His skin turns pale, and he puts his hand to his face in a gesture of exasperation. “They know,” he says, whispering to his brother, Finn.

Finn groans. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he says.

The judge rambles on, and the words become a low buzz around me. From the look on Liam’s face, there’s something I don’t know. And it’s big.

Chapter Twenty-One

Liam

The ride back to our apartment is silent. Skye stares out of the window, and there’s a light rain beginning to fall. It’s not like that hopeful spring rain on the night of our wedding. Everything in New York is aggressively green now and totally covered with pollen. It’s that depressing part of spring where the air begins to get thick and humid, a reminder that summer is lurking around the corner. And there won’t be many days before the heat starts seeping in, before the air conditioning units begin humming in windows all over the city.

“It’s nothing that hurts our case,” I say, reaching out for her hand. She pulls it away and stays silent. “It’s about the money I have put away. Marta wanted it—she always has.”

Skye sighs heavily. “I’d thought you told me everything. But I should have known better. The wedding. The apartment. Brie. It was all too good to be true. Or—maybe it wasn’t. I can’t tell now.” Her voice is soft and solemn, like she’s thinking out loud. “Now we’re at the end of it, and I’m being made to look like a fool. Or I will be—tomorrow.”

“It’s not like that.” I sigh quickly. “There’s money, and it’s put away. I have it in your name so that Marta can’t get to it.” I look away when I say it. Even at the first, the plan all seemed so simple, so easy to pull off. It seemed like I could make it all happen, make it all so that Marta would lose custody. I’d had it all worked out, bit by bit, as things fell into place. When I got the idea to marry Skye, when she signed on to be part of my life. What I hadn’t considered was her—and how she might feel about all of this.

She groans slightly. “You realize what this looks like. Whatever she found out—it’s going to look like it’s true. Even if the judge isn’t your typical old school Irish guy or whatever, he’s going to side with the woman who’s held custody for the better part of two years. Because we look ridiculous. How could you do this—”

“I didn’t do this to you, Skye.” Even as I say it, the words sound awful coming out of my mouth.

“I didn’t mean to me. I mean to Brie. She wants to live with you. To be with you. To be a part of this family—or whatever it is. And you knew Marta had people, people coming out of the woodwork to help her.”

“She’s a phony. Talking about how she needs extra child support when she bribes half the town. Donnelly’s told me that this judge won’t side with her. He’s one we know. The one who wanted me married. We lucked out—”

“I can’t be a part of this,” she says. “I care about you, Liam. But I should have stepped out a long time ago. I should have known better. It’s best if I don’t come tomorrow.”

“Come on, Skye. I need you. I need you to be there.” When I say the words, I know I mean them, but there are so many things I’ve said along the way. Maybe these words don’t mean anything at all. Not to Skye, even if they mean something to me. “One last time,” I add.

There’s a long pause as the Lyft I ordered for us turns onto the street in Queens. The one where we live—the street and the little house where we started to build a life, one that was better than anything I’ve ever known. I don’t blame her.

For the first night since we moved in together, we’re silent. We don’t sleep apart, but she stays on her side of the bed, and I’m on mine. She has one of her bags packed already, sitting casually by the side of the bed.

We never even had the bed frame delivered, and she’s moving out. There are so many things I want to say, words circling around in my brain. Long after Skye is asleep next to me, I lie awake. I think about the decisions that brought me here, from the very first night I met her. I had never thought I’d have the opportunity to be with my child again. I had the money, the family to back me. But I didn’t have a reason, a catalyst.

Skye became that reason for me.

I haven’t said the words in years, and I’m not sure if I even meant them when I last did. Tabitha and I were hot and heavy, and we didn’t know how to be in a real relationship. We were selfish, young, not ready for a child in our lives.

But when I look at Skye’s small, beautiful body next to mine, its curves rising and falling in time with my own heartbeat, I can imagine myself saying it to her. I’m not sure why I haven’t already.

It’s maybe the stupidest decision I’ve ever made, not telling her. I sigh.

I put a hand on her sleeping shoulder, and she pulls away ever so slightly in her sleep, stretching. When her body returns to its natural place, she turns to me again, and I see the outlines of her body illuminated by the moonlight.

I want to wake her, to take her in my arms, tell her I’ve taken her for granted all along. I love her, all of her, and I want her to stay with me and be a part of this family, no matter what form it might take.

Instead, exhaustion overtakes me. When I dream, there are swirling images of the judge’s chamber, and a picture of Brie’s face, fading out further and further until I can no longer see her. Then, I’m alone. No Brie, no Skye.

When we wake, the words won’t come. Instead, we get dressed in silence, her in her pinstripe skirt. And she hands me an ironed shirt, and slacks that I haven’t worn for the past two years.

“Not sure if these will fit,” I say, watching her, and holding the dark khaki pants in my hand. She’s ironed them out so that the long wrinkle from the coat hanger is no longer there. She did it without asking, without mentioning a single thing to me. Because she knows this day is important—it means something to me, and more than that, it means something to her.

“They will,” she says without thinking. “I checked. They’re the same size as your jeans. And the tux you wore to the wedding. They’ll be fine. There’s a tie hanging over the towel bar in the bathroom, too. It’s blue. They say that’s good for courtrooms—the color blue. I think I read that in a magazine.”

“I trust you, Skye.” I look over at her, and she doesn’t meet my eye. She buttons up her blue shirt over her full breasts, and my stomach drops. By not being honest, I’m going to lose her too.

No daughter. No wife. I have a flashback to the lonely, dark cell I slept in for six months. And the empty apartment after that.

She doesn’t respond, and I don’t blame her. I used her. I didn’t consider what she would want to know, who she was, or what she needed. I think of that bank account, still sitting in Skye’s name. If Marta’s able to spin it the right way, we’re finished. Skye married me for nothing, and I’ll be in another dark cell—but this time, it will be one entirely of my own creation.

Skye checks her phone and gives me a glance, smiling very slightly. “Today’s the day,” she says. “I’m with you. But I should probably get going after tomorrow. If they give you custody of Brie, it won’t have anything to do with me. So, there’s no point.”

She walks up to me and helps me adjust my tie, cool fingers brushing against my neck. She puts one finger to my jawline and kisses me there.

“I’ve told you a thousand times I don’t want you to go, Skye.” My heart beats harder when she’s this close to me. Maybe I hadn’t noticed that before, or I hadn’t put a name to it. I lean in and kiss her, and she melts into me for a moment before pulling away.

“I know. It’s just best that I go before this gets messier than it is.” She gives me that weak smile again. “But I learned a lot about what I want. And I think it might be a man like you. I never knew that before.”

I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat. “I don’t know if that’s true.”

“It is,” she says. “I see how strong and protective you are when it comes to Brie. How you fight hard for your family. It’s not just how you are in bed—there’s that too. I’m at home in my own body for the first time, ever. It’s how you are with everyone around you.”

“Just not with you, I guess.”

She shrugs and looks away. “We better get going, Liam. Whatever happens today, I think you’ll always be a big part of that little girl’s life. But don’t give up. Keep fighting, even after I’m gone.”

“Skye—”

“Let’s go,” she says. “We have to make a good impression when we get in there. Whether any of that is real or not.”

Despite everything, she reaches out and takes my hand. Her fingers seem small and fragile inside mine. I keep that thought in my head as we make the ride over to the courthouse and walk up the stairs, still silent, to the judge’s chambers. This time, my whole family is here, and each of them greets Skye with a hug.

There’s an air of eerie silence as we sit in the courtroom, waiting for the judge. Marta is sitting next to Brie, blocking her from my sight. But I can feel her here, just as I can feel Skye, sitting next to me, nervous and unable to relax. I put my hand on top of hers until I feel her grow calmer.

She’s worth protecting, too. Worth fighting for.

I sigh and look down at my feet. The benches in the judge’s room remind me of the pews at the church where I married Skye, where we said, “I do.” And all the other vows that said we’d stand by each other through thick and thin.

I look over her as the judge enters the courtroom. She’s fiddling with a lock of her deep brown hair, crossing and uncrossing her ankles. Like she said from the start, she’s in this. She has been from the beginning.

I wanted her then, and I still want her. I want her home with me, waking up next to me. Getting books from the library and eating breakfast at the kitchen table. Even if I have Brie, I think about that little first floor apartment in Queens, and it doesn’t feel like home without Skye. Not truly.

“I’m ready to hear the case,” the judge says. He sifts through papers, and I watch as Donnelly and Marta’s lawyer whisper, arguing about something. The judge raises his hand to stop them.

“It looks like Mrs. Maguire’s counsel has evidence about the marriage to present,” the judge continues, looking over at Skye and me. “I believe this is a new marriage, and Mr. Ellis has evidence here to show that the marriage is fake.”

Something deep in my chest clenches hard, and I try to stifle the string of curse words that want to come out of my mouth. I look up at my lawyer and grimly shake my head. There’s not much to say—since every word is true.

“And why would the father here engage in a falsified relationship? We went over this yesterday for a brief time, and it doesn’t seem likely.”

Ellis, Marta’s lawyer, hands a document to the judge. “It appears that Mr. Dougherty met the woman in question at a bar that he owns. He offered Ms. Williams a large sum of money that had been earmarked for Brie’s child support in exchange for her complicity in this ruse. The wedding and subsequent marriage are both for show. The father appears to believe it would make his case stronger so that he might regain custody of his daughter. My client told me that she believes Mr. Dougherty wishes to have full custody in order to enjoy the tax benefits and collect his deceased wife’s social security.”

“That’s enough,” I growl.

“Liam, please,” Donnelly says. He gives me a piercing look. “If you’ll look at this, your honor—the trust in question is set up to be in Ms. Williams’ name. However, it is not accessible to Ms. Williams under any condition. It becomes Brie’s property when she turns eighteen.”

I sigh, and I try to hold my tongue. I hadn’t set it up that way originally, but Donnelly may have pulled some magic behind my back in the past twenty-four hours.

“So, is the marriage in question fake or not, Mr. Donnelly? What are you saying here?” The judge adjusts his glasses and looks over the financial documents my lawyer has given him. “This does show that Ms. Williams doesn’t have rights to the trust, though it is in her name. Is this so that Mrs. Maguire won’t have access to the money?”

“That’s correct,” I say. “She doesn’t get a red cent of it. It’s all for my daughter.”

“Mr. Dougherty, this is an issue for the lawyers to sort out with me. Unless you have something to say about the validity of your marriage.”

“I do, your honor.” I stand from where I’m sitting and look around the courtroom. Everyone turns to look at me, and I’m about to give them the show of their lifetime.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Skye

Liam stands up in from the seat next to me, and I cover my face with my hands. I’d thought he was a typical bad boy from day one—rude and arrogant and brooding, all to hide the scars he carries inside. But Liam Dougherty is anything but typical. There are things about him that are ridiculous and goofy and totally over-the-top. I have the distinct feeling that he’s about to do something to prove that side of his personality. Right now. In front of everyone.

“Your honor, I object,” he says. He looks down at me, a sparkle in his eye. Where the expression on his face was heavy before, now it’s all amusement. His brother, Finn, groans next to me.

“I can’t fucking believe this guy,” Finn says to himself.

“There’s no jury here, Mr. Dougherty. And you are not an attorney, let me remind you of that. There’s not even anything to object to. These documents look to be genuine.” The judge pushes his glasses up on his nose and looks down at the papers again, nodding.

“If I may, your honor—”

The judge looks back and forth between the two groups of people sitting in the courtroom. “Is this relevant to the case?”

“It’s relevant to the accusation that my marriage to Ms. Williams was falsified for the purposes of gaining custody of Brie.”

“Okay,” the judge says, his voice tired. “I suppose you can address the court on that matter. But like I said, the documents here seem to be in order—”

“As I was saying,” Liam continues, barely giving the judge time to finish his sentence. “Marta Maguire, the woman who has been caring for my daughter—and she’s been doing a shitty job—”

Liam’s lawyer groans. “Liam—” He stops, but I get the impression he doesn’t really know what to say to make him quit talking.

“Told the judge yesterday that Skye Williams and I have been involved in a fake relationship. In fact, Skye just filed to have her name changed, didn’t she? So, she’s a Dougherty now. Let the record reflect that. Isn’t that what they say?”

“Go on,” the judge sighs.

“Well, Mrs. Dougherty here—she and I did have a fake wedding.”

“Like I said, Mr. Dougherty,” the judge says. “Everything here looks to be in order—and I don’t care under what circumstances you married Mrs. Dougherty, as long as you two are staying together.”

“That’s the thing, your honor. I’m saying our wedding was fake, but our marriage sure as hell ain’t.” I look up at Liam. The smile he’s wearing has fully reached his eyes.

A wave of embarrassment hits me. “Liam, sit down,” I whisper. Several heads swivel and turn our way, like we’re the most entertaining show of the hour. And I’m guessing we probably are.

“I’m in love with this woman. That’ll be recorded in the court proceedings, won’t it? Filed away somewhere so it’s official?”

The judge shrugs but doesn’t respond this time.

“I fell in love with her right away, but I was too stupid and too hurt to understand what was happening.”

“Come on Liam,” I mumble, but he doesn’t hear me. Instead, he just continues, looking awkward and proud in his button-down shirt. Before he starts again, he looks down at me and rolls up his shirtsleeves. Warmth pulses through me when I see his forearms, and I realize I can’t take my eyes off him. His brothers and mother are all watching him.

“I went through hell. I lost my wife. I lost my little girl. And I was too afraid to do anything but work at the bar. I kept living the same life, night after night. Until Skye walked in. She was different—beautiful. But not just that. She’s smart, too. She keeps me on my toes, and she pushes me hard, but in a way that I don’t really know she’s doing it until it’s done. And I love her. I do. I keep telling her to stay, but I haven’t given her a good reason to.”

He reaches down and takes my hand in his. “Liam,” I say. I don’t add anything else because I don’t know what there is to add. This is the one thing I’ve been waiting to hear, but there’s a crushing uncertainty. There’s no way of knowing that he won’t want to go back to that life, the one he built around the bar and taking women to his apartment upstairs. I know too little about him.

“We haven’t been together for years, like some people who get married,” he says, as if he’s reading my mind. “But I know this. I love her. That’s not fake. I want to wake up seeing her every day. And I want to grow old with her too. What do you say, Skye?”

“Liam, this isn’t really the place—” I start. Redness rises over my cheeks as I realize that everyone is looking at me, waiting for my response. “And I don’t quite know what you’re asking.”

“Skye Williams Dougherty, will you stay married to me?”

I pause, probably too long for Liam’s family and the other people in the courtroom. Even the judge is looking in my direction. His day has been interrupted grandly enough that I don’t blame him. He was ready to declare in favor of Liam before the man got up and started with his grand gesture. I close my eyes for a second, and when I do, I know the answer. I’ve known it all along, from the first time I woke up next to him.

“Yeah,” I say. “I will. If you sit down.” I smile up at him and laugh, pulling on his hand. “Please. Sit down.”

“Okay,” he says, a satisfied grin on his face. “I can do that.” He sits next to me and pulls me into his arms. His lips find mine, and he kisses me. For a second, everything around me fades out. Liam has that effect on me, that way of making me doubt the life I originally saw for myself. And when he kisses me like this, it’s like I’m in a dream.

It’s not a sea change, not exactly. I think I’d been waiting for this moment ever since I met Liam. He put words to the things I was feeling. We were rushed—our whole relationship was. But it doesn’t mean that there weren’t feelings there, a foundation that existed whether we knew it or not.

I keep my lips pursed tight, heart beating hard. I’ve never been good with being the center of attention, and this was a particularly strange experience. All eyes are on me, while a man declares his love for me in the middle of a courtroom.

Well, this is a lot more exciting than the entirety of my relationship with Charlie.

“We’ll make a note that the relationship will continue. That will be a good mark on your record with the state,” the judge says.

“This is ridiculous,” I hear Marta sneer. “It’s clear that this whole thing was organized and planned from the beginning. No one really believes that their relationship is real.” Her voice increases in volume, and she stands up, pointing her gnarled, arthritic finger in our direction.

“Please sit down, Mrs. Maguire. I haven’t reached my final ruling yet, and your role in the little girl’s life does depend on some of these things.”

“Me—I’ve taken care of her since her delinquent father went to prison,” Marta says. “It doesn’t matter whether he loves this woman or not. Their marriage isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on. And this man is a criminal,” she adds, pointing at Liam. “He committed armed robbery!”

“You planned that whole thing,” Finn says across the courtroom. “You know you did. Liam never would have gotten tied up in any of that shit if it weren’t for you demanding money when he didn’t have a red cent to his name. And since he got out, he’s been a model citizen. Working his ass off for this kid, making sure there was money for her. He’s paid child support. He’s proven he can do what it takes to care for her. He put himself out there. What more do you want?”

Liam laughs beside me, a low rumble from deep in his chest. It’s not an uncomplicated laugh—there’s a sense of anger in it, of a long, drawn-out battle that is just now ending. “She wants Brie, and not because Brie is wonderful. Or smart. Or a pretty perfect kid, all the way around.” Liam looks over at his daughter, smiling. Her face brightens instantly, the way it does whenever she sees him. There are hopeful tears in her eyes. “Brie, come on over here. Sit with Daddy.”

Brie tries to extricate herself from her grandmother, but Marta holds on to her collar and yanks her viciously backwards. Brie yelps. “Ouch! Let go of me!”

Marta yanks Brie’s collar again and swats her viciously on the arm. Brie starts crying, tears streaming down her face. She’s asking for her father, but Marta still won’t let go.

The judge looks at Marta coolly.

I feel Liam’s fist clench as I hold onto his arm, but he keeps his cool. He’s waiting for what comes next.

“Enough!” the judge shouts. “Mrs. Maguire, this is not appropriate behavior for the courtroom. Furthermore, the complaints you brought to us from the CPS investigation you ordered don’t hold any weight. Despite your position in the community, we cannot prevent custody from going to Mr. Dougherty. He is the biological father, and he will be better able to care for Brie due to his physical and mental health and the seemingly stable relationship he has with his wife.” The judge lets out a heavy sigh.

“This is ridiculous,” Marta shouts. “I was told that the court would rule in my favor. I paid the other judge with part of the reverse mortgage I got on my house, and it turns out that we see you for this. This is not fair—”

“Please let go of the little girl, Mrs. Maguire. Let me state that your claims of needing more child support do not mesh well with bribery and the countless investigations you’ve paid for in order to keep custody of Brie for the past two years.”

Marta huffs, but she lets go of Brie’s collar. A defeated look takes over her aging face.

“This court hereby grants full custody to Liam Dougherty, and his wife, Skye Williams Dougherty. Mrs. Maguire will be granted supervised visits, should she want them.” The judge pounds his gavel once, and gets up to leave immediately. Brie rushes over to the two of us, wrapping her arms around her father’s legs while Marta watches us in dismay.

“This is unconscionable, ridiculous. I can’t believe it,” Marta keeps repeating. The older woman from CPS puts a comforting hand on her shoulder, and Marta brushes it away angrily. “I don’t know how you two screwed up, but you absolutely did. There’s no way that that man is fit to care for my granddaughter, and you both know it.”

“She’s coming unhinged,” Liam whispers to me as Brie hugs his legs hard, not letting go. Liam was right—this kid never needed to be in a courtroom. And I’ll make damn sure she doesn’t have to enter one again. “It’s beautiful to watch,” he adds.

The edges of Liam’s eyes crinkle up, and tears appear at the very edges of his lashes. He wipes them away quickly, but he chokes up, and more tears come. He picks his daughter up and pulls us both into a tight hug. “We’re a family now,” he says, kissing Brie on the cheek.

“I’m happy that we are,” Brie says. “I think we’ll all be happy together.” There’s a pause. “Should we go have lunch somewhere? I’d really like to eat at a restaurant. I’m hungry.”

I smile, and I lean my head against Liam’s shoulder. “Yeah. I think we should. Hot French fries. Chocolate shake.” My stomach rumbles. There’s so much that’s buried in Brie’s words. For the past two years, I bet she hasn’t been able to ask that of her caretaker. Instead, she’s been subjected to endless scrutiny and strange punishments—and worst of all, the lack of access to her father. She doesn’t say all of this because she can’t. She doesn’t yet have the words.

We leave the courtroom in a boisterous mob of movement—that’s how Liam’s family is. Everyone is talking over each other all at once, and we’re all laughing together. Brie can’t escape the hugs of her uncles and her grandmother, and she’s tumbling along with all of us as we walk out of the door into the sunlight.

When I look back, Marta is alone, scowling at us, arms crossed.

I guess that’s who she always was, but the effort she put out to get what she wanted—it wasn’t rewarded this time.

Liam, Brie, and I huddle into a Lyft that takes us through the traffic to our house—our home, back in Queens. By the time we make the turn onto our street, Brie is sleeping against her father’s side, her small chest rising and falling. I make a mental note to take her on a shopping expedition as soon as I can. The collar of her uniform is dirty, and she needs all the attention she can get. Even seeing her as infrequently as I have, I can tell she simply needs to be with people who care about her in a real way. And I do—I can’t help it.

This is my family.

“Liam,” I whisper.

“Hm?” He’s stroking his daughter’s arm, content even though we’re stopped in traffic mere blocks away from home.

“I’m not loud and—um, social—like your family.” I swallow hard. Everything has been building to this moment.

“No, you’re not,” he whispers, his hand resting on Brie’s arm. My heart swells at the sight of it. He chuckles quietly. “I don’t need anyone else like my family, though. I need you.”

“I want to stay. And I want to be part of your family.”

“Good. I didn’t think you were lying back there in the courthouse, but you never know. You Brooklyn girls.” He shrugs.

I smile. “I love you. That’s what I’m saying. And I want to be your wife.”

“Thought so,” he says, grinning. “I didn’t have any doubts about that.”

The Lyft pulls up beside our little house, and the driver looks back at us for a moment, giving the three of us a smile. “You two get married today? Congratulations.”

“Something like that,” I say. “Anyway, we’re a family.”

Liam slides out of the car after me, pulling Brie into his arms. When we step over the threshold, there’s a feeling of completeness that there wasn’t before. The first times we came into this apartment, nothing was for sure. But now, everything is.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Liam

Three Months Later

“You’re what?” Something clenches deep in my chest. Before I met Skye, I never felt this way—protective, worried, concerned. And that one word—it changes everything.

“Pregnant,” she whispers. She’s lying next to me in bed and holding one of those little white tests, the ones with the digital displays. I take it out of her hand, gingerly, like it might break into a million pieces or vanish into a cloud of dust.

Pregnant. Two to three weeks.

“Shit. Look at that.” We’re in our bed, in the safety and quiet of this house we share together. I let the tears come to my eyes and wipe them away, unashamed. “You know, I never had this with Tabitha. It was like—an emergency. She was four months pregnant when we found out, and we were real lucky she was mostly clean during that time. We got married real quick at the courthouse, and we were all walking on eggshells until Brie was born. She was perfect. But we never had this moment.”

“When it was just exciting? Not anything else?” She looks at me with wide eyes, still naked from the night before, her leg slung over mine. She must have creeped out of bed and taken a test before I woke up. I didn’t even know, but I was here, waiting for her, mere seconds after she took it. After she saw that word.

“Yeah. Something like that,” I say. Skye’s the one who has a way with words, but all of that memory poured out all at once. It floods over me right now—the mixed happiness and terror that comes when you have a kid too early with a woman you barely know. This—this thing right here with Skye—this is different. Entirely different.

“It’s still early,” she says. “I’m fucking nervous too. It’s not the same as with Brie, I know. But I don’t know. I’ve never done this before, and I have no idea what I’m doing. How to be a mom—”

“You already are one, my librarian. Brie hasn’t had one. Not one she remembers, anyway. She has this idea of her mom, but nothing else. You’re the one who’s been getting up with her for months when she wakes up at six in the morning. Packing lunches for camp and holding her hand when she crosses the street. I’d be fine on my own—”

“Sure,” she says, laughing. “I guess. I mean—you’d have to figure that shit out.”

“No, no. What I mean is—yeah, I’d be fine. But I wouldn’t be so goddamn happy all the time. I’d be surviving, making sure Brie got from place to place. You’re the one who’s mom.”

“I guess. I just haven’t had a baby before. And I don’t know what to do about work.”

I shrug, pulling her close into me. Her hair has that light, tropical scent I noticed the first time I took her in. Her body, as always, feels small in my arms. Soon, she will be growing larger, carrying a life from both of us inside of her.

“I was thinking of selling the bar,” I say. “It’s in a prime location. Bunch of fucking hipsters are moving into that neighborhood anyway, and we’d get a big-ass pay out. You take the year off. Write your first book. Grow that baby. Go back when you’re ready. Or who knows—you could make it big and we’ll never have to worry about money again.”

She laughs and puts her lips to my cheek. “That’s why you married me, isn’t it? So I could write romance novels and make millions of dollars?”

“That’s the only reason,” I say, laughing. “It was purely a business decision. Nothing else.”

“Then I think your business sense sucks. You’re betting on an unknown.”

“Nah,” I say. I pull her body into mine. The sun will be rising soon, and with that, Brie will wake up. She always does. A morning person, totally unlike me. Everything has been changing though, and I find myself waking up just to be with Skye before Brie wakes. “It was a very good decision. For business and otherwise.”

I pull Skye on top of me, and she yelps, trying to pull the sheet with her. “No—oh my gosh—I already feel all weird and bloated and fat.”

I pull the cover away from her and hold her by the hips. I’m growing hard just looking at her. She’s fucking beautiful in the gray predawn light of the bedroom. “You’re more perfect now than ever, Skye. I always had this dream,” I start. But then I pause because it’s a little bit embarrassing, and that dream never really made much sense.

“What was that dream?” She puts her hands on my shoulders and bends down to kiss me. The warmth and silky softness of her body brings mine to life, and I pause, just feeling her against me for a moment.

“Just you,” I say simply. “It was about you, I think. I just didn’t know it.”

I let my hands roam over her trim waist and down her back to the curve of her ass. She’s utterly perfect. Her breasts even seem fuller than they were before. I bring my hands to cup them and pinch her nipples, rolling them between my fingers. She moans softly. Acting automatically, almost on instinct, she positions her body over mine and takes my cock in her hand. I sigh, bucking my hips up toward hers. At first, Skye wasn’t confident. She wasn’t self assured or comfortable in her skin. But now, she gets on top of me by instinct, totally unabashed. She slides my cock inside of her, breath catching in her throat like it always does. I thrust upward to meet her, watching her as she sighs and starts riding me, her body falling into a steady, sweet rhythm.

She grinds her body against mine, and I watch as the flush rises over her chest. When she looks down at me, I see the lust in her gaze. Her eyes are hooded and hazy with it, her teeth biting one plump red lip. Her speed and rhythm increase, and I watch, patiently, as she begins to tip over that edge into the most beautiful oblivion.

Our wedding may have been fake, our relationship built on an impossibly shaky foundation, but the desperate, aching sound that comes from her is deeply, intensely real. She says my name, over and over, eyelids fluttering open and closed, her lips parted. I thrust inside her from below, filling her with each movement, riding her through her orgasm until she’s spent and falling against me. I roll over on top of her and pin her down, my hand on the nape of her neck. Her pussy is tight and hot, clenching me with each wave of her pleasure.

“I love you, Skye,” I whisper, tangling my fingers through her hair. Her locks are messy, fanning out on the white pillowcase like a halo. A surge of emotion rushes through me, fire rising in my core. I thrust hard inside of her, balls growing tight, and release, the flood of sensation filling every cell in my body for a moment before receding like a wave from shore.

Skye groans subtly, a soft sound from deep in her throat. She bucks against me again as I fill her, my body tired and spent. It’s quick—not complicated. We’re both quiet, hoping the noise won’t travel through the wall.

But this is the missing piece. It’s what I wanted but didn’t know I could have.

It wasn’t the women coming to my apartment, night after night. Nameless, forgettable. It was this—the contentment of waking up next to someone I love, a woman who keeps my family together, who puts me first. The woman strong enough to care for my child and carry my baby, fierce enough to keep me in line—and vulnerable enough to let me protect her and care for her as much as she needs.

“I love you too,” she mumbles, yawning. Her eyes close, and we lie in bed together. The air conditioning clicks on in the room, a low hum filling the room. I close my eyes and listen to it. In her room, Brie is stirring and starting to sing to herself, like she does every morning. There are footsteps in the apartment above us, the sounds of breakfast being made and served.

These are the sounds I might have thought boring before I ever met Skye. But here, with her, I realize these are the sound of a real marriage, of a life lived, a bond shared.

That echo of a dream comes back to me. It’s not all exactly the same, but the feelings are.

I lie beside Skye and close my eyes, buying a small slice of time before the day truly begins.

When we both wake, it will be the dream I’ve been waiting for, and I only hope that I’m part of hers as well.

This love will carry us far, for all the days of our lives.

For an awesome opportunity and my author info, flip to the very back of the book!

Deleted Scene

Skye

I can’t stay. I have to keep reminding myself.

“What’s happening between us…can’t be…” I start, but my thoughts won’t form into words. The wedding was two days ago, and we’ve fallen into a pattern that I don’t quite understand. We act like a real married couple. But after the court hearing, the document says that our marriage can easily be dissolved.

Where do I fit in his life? What does he want beyond his daughter and his job at the bar?

The word has crossed my mind. I hate to admit that it has. When I look at him, toweling off after a shower, my thoughts seem to scatter, and that word is the only thing I can think of. Love.

It’s almost like a reflex, that thought.

It must be mixed up in the desire I feel for his body.

“What?” He shrugs. “You put too much thought into things. Best not to.”

“Is that your life philosophy?” I go to the dresser in the corner and start looking for something I can wear to work. Something that might hide the bite mark on my shoulder. I blush at the thought and pull out a black knit cap-sleeve dress. It should be hung in a closet, but the closet doesn’t fit all of our clothes together. That might be a symbol for our entire relationship.

Not enough space to fit everything. Not quite. Not the right fit.

“Yeah. It’s gotten me this far.”

“Yeah?” I say absently, sorting through the drawers to find a bra. “And how far is that, exactly?”

Right as I pick up a lacy pink bra—one that Rhiannon gave to me right after the wedding with a saucy little grin on her face—I feel two strong hands around my waist, fingers traveling down to the waistband of my panties.

“It got me into your pants.”

“Oh good Lord,” I say, but I can’t help laughing. Each time he does something like this, I want to stop. To say no. To tell him I need to catch my train or read a proof for my boss. But I don’t. Instead, I wait for the tingle to begin at the base of my spine, the warmth to rise between my legs, the wetness to soak through my panties. I close my eyes and let the sensation overtake me.

“You’re fucking amazing. Seeing you like this. Every morning. A man could get used to this sort of thing.” He kisses my neck, and the sultry, shivering feeling seems to pass into every cell in my body.

I can’t help but put my hands over his, pushing them down into my panties, to my aching sex. My body is pulsing with need, and it’s rushing through my blood like an unstoppable, powerful wave.

“Liam—” I start. I always start what I mean to stay, and he stops me. Or I stop myself. It’s not really that clear.

“Don’t say a damn thing, woman. You’re mine, aren’t you?”

“For now,” I whisper.

“For now, what?”

“For now, yes. I am yours.” I lean my head back against his shoulder, and his fingers find my clit, circling it, pulling the wetness over and around it. I moan softly.

“Good. I’m going to show you what that means. Again. Because you’re fucking made for it.” He whips me around and pushes me against the dresser. His words are raspy with lust, echoing in my ear and sending vibrations into my core. Heat rises in my center, igniting me from the inside with a need as wide as the ocean.

Liam pulls my shirt off over my head and brings his mouth to my breasts, biting gently with his teeth. A whimper escapes my lips.

His eyes are serious when he looks at me, distant and cool. At times, I feel like there are so many things he’s not telling me, that there are secrets bigger than the two of us. But I push the thought aside, letting gooseflesh overtake my skin, giving myself over to the sensation and longing.

The need becomes urgent, pressing. I open my mouth to speak but he raises a finger to my lips.

“Like I said, you’re mine. And I get to use you like I please. Isn’t that right?”

A stormy tempest of arousal rises in my body. “Yes, that’s right.”

My love.

Surrender. Give in.

I close my eyes. There are no declarations of love, no talks about our relationship past the hearing, no mention of a future beyond today. But my heart longs for it. It’s what I wanted, and being married to Liam is tricking my mind into wanting it again.

I want to say this, but my words are gone. Liam’s hand is between my legs again, his fingers slipping inside of me, the base of his palm rocking against my clit. I suck in a sharp breath, and need winds its way through my body. I’m aching with it, desperate, hapless, miserable. I spread my legs for Liam, even though my mind tries to pull away. To separate.

Instead, I’m pulling off my panties and throwing them to the floor. Liam lifts me and carries me to the bed, throwing me down on the rumpled gray coverlet I brought from my apartment. I throw my body back so I’m posed on my elbows. Liam shuffles out of his towel, and I can see his growing length.

He wants me as much as I want him, and that confuses everything.

But when he joins me on the bed, there’s nothing that I can say.

Instead, his fingers are finding my sex again, and I close my eyes, letting my body draw closer to the edge of reason yet again.

There are things to be said, but the scent of this man, the way he smiles at me, the way he parts my lips with his… all of that takes over my thoughts instead, pushing out every hint of worry with coursing, intense lust that heightens my senses and threatens to destroy me completely. My nipples grow stiff in the cool air of the room, and he palms my breasts, fingers trailing over them, playing me like I’m an instrument designed for his pleasure.

I am his. His for now. The instrument he needs in this time and place.

Liam rolls to his side, next to me, stroking his shaft to an even greater hardness. My eyes meet his, and slowly, I spread my legs for him, my hand reaching for my slippery cleft.

Gone are the protests from before, and my thoughts about our relationship are getting fuzzy. Instead, I concentrate on circling my fingers over my clit and running my hand down the slippery wetness of my sex.

This is never something I would have done with Charlie.

He never would have asked. Never would have wanted it.

But it feels so natural, so necessary, with Liam. I’m compelled to show him my pleasure. My presence in his life. The aching sweetness that he gives to me each time we’re together.

“What do you want, my little librarian?” Liam’s voice is deep and husky.

My lips curl up into a smile. I might not know what this relationship means, but I am entirely certain about what I need at this very moment. “I want you inside of me.”

These are words I never would have said before.

Words that are on my lips each time we’re together like this.

There’s a first time for everything, and I am evolving.

I tilt my head back and lose myself in the pleasure, fingers working over my own body. Each flick brings me closer to orgasm, sparks lighting through every part of my body.

“Make yourself come, baby,” he groans.

I moan, loud, at the very sound of his voice. My mouth waters as I look at Liam stroking his length. I think of him, stretching me, taking my breath away. His mouth, his tongue, his fingers. Suddenly, I come with jarring force, shaking against my hand.

He watches me with hunger in his eyes.

“I want your mouth on me, Skye,” he says.

I kneel next to him, and the next thing I know, my hands are on Liam’s cock, stroking it, tasting his soft, hot skin and the saltiness of his essence. It makes the think of the first time we were together here in this apartment. My sex throbs as I suck his cock, taking his shaft to the back of my throat and listening as his sighs turn to groans. His hips move in response to my mouth and my tongue.

I’m ready for him to come in my mouth, hit the back of my throat. But he pulls himself away from my mouth and positions himself between my legs.

I look at him with wide eyes. “What did I do wrong?

“It’s all about what you did right, my little librarian.” He drops his body onto mine, and I can feel every chiseled muscle against my skin. “I’m going to come inside of you. Like I did last night and the night before. I just can’t resist.”

He kisses me hard, and he pulls my hair. Every bit of me is on fire, my body screaming out primally and fully. He puts his cock at the entrance of my pussy.

He groans. “So tight. So sweet. Are you ready?”

Before I have a chance to answer him, I feel the head slip inside. My sex pulses in response, and a network of fire explodes in my body. In one swift movement, he pushes the rest of the way inside, his bare cock pushing against my walls. Liam groans, throaty and rich, throwing his head back, lost in pleasure.

“I’m going to come fast, baby. Are you going to come for me again?”

His hips crash against my clit, the pressure building, the rhythm increasing in speed with each powerful thrust.

“Harder,” I moan. “Make me come. Please, make me come.” I’m babbling, groaning, hips bucking upward to meet him.

“Tell me I’m yours. Tell me that pussy is mine. Say it.”

My body is quaking against Liam’s, and I can barely say it, wave after wave of orgasm filling me with light and white-hot heat. But I manage. “It’s yours. I’m yours.”

He grips my wrists and finds his rhythm again, thrusting hard inside of me. I can feel his essence fill me, the warmth and satisfaction of it.

His body slumps against mine, spent.

If my last words were too much for him, he doesn’t let it on. Instead, he pulls me closer into his body and kisses me gently on the forehead. It’s not the gesture of an extended one night stand—that’s what this was supposed to be. It’s more intimate, more real.

Maybe this is preparing me for some brighter future, for some nebulous goal somewhere down the line. But right now, this all feels scary, like this is too far for either of us to go. But as I shower and get dressed for work, everything fades back into the sense of normalcy that existed before.

We’re married.

We’re living together.

We’re fighting for that little girl. For stability. For the courts. For everything we’d planned.

The word goes out of my mind again. It’s an emotion I could feel, given the right circumstances. But these are not the right circumstances, and Liam clearly isn’t the right person. I’ll let it ride.

But as I get on the train for work, I’m lost in thought.

Will I not let myself say those three words because he’s not the right man for me—or is it because I know the sentiment won’t be returned?

It doesn’t matter, either way.

The results are the same no matter what, and our relationship will continue just as it is for the time being. Anything else would be far more than our fake relationship can stand.

* * *

For another exciting romance, read on for your free copy of Royal Beast! Jess Bentley and I also have a brand new romance, A Perfect SEAL. There’s an excerpt right after RB, if you’re into that sort of thing. If not, just search for A Perfect SEAL on Amazon!

Royal Beast

By Lexi Whitlow

Chapter One

Matthias

“Hit me again, Bruno.” The guy gives me a suspicious look, as suspicious as a giant gorilla of a man can look. Usually, he’s the bouncer here, but tonight, he’s dealing cards. He knows me well enough by now and likes me even less. We both know his name isn’t Bruno, and I’m firmly of the opinion that he’s an asshole. But he deals again, and it’s a full house.

“Looks like you win again. Filthy royal. Your mother must be dead proud of you.” He spits the words at me in a thick, muddled cockney accent and hands me my chips, gesturing with his giant, muscular chin over to the bar where I can collect my cash. If this were a normal night at a normal bar, I’d stay for more, but something tells me that Bruno here is serious about not dealing me another hand. About as serious as he is about insulting me and my family.

No matter.

“Whore that she is,” he adds.

“Can’t help it if I keep winning, man.” I wink at him before I walk away. At this point in the evening, I need a drink anyway. “Just like you can’t help it if you have the IQ of a fucking chimp. And a personality that suggests about half that same intelligence.”

I couldn’t help but get that last jab in, and there’s enough alcohol running through my system that the words slipped right out. When I get up to the bar and exchange my chips for the cash, I’m almost convinced he didn’t hear me. But after I’ve tucked away the money, a beefy hand catches me by the collar and pulls me backward.

“Take it back, you rich cunt.” His voice rumbles in my ear, and I turn around quickly, wrenching myself out of his grasp and landing a punch under his chin. My adrenaline is pumping, heart racing, battling the alcohol I’ve got in my system. I step back and shuffle to the side.

“Chimps are right smart. Probably smarter than you.” As I say it, I regret it. God knows my mother isn’t worth defending to anyone, nor is my family. But something protective surges up inside of me every time a jab comes. They might be very close to being first-world dictators, especially when it comes to managing me and my life, but they’re mine to insult at the end of the day. “I was probably giving you too much credit. But hey man, I was trying to be nice.”

I shrug and dance back to the side, my back landing against the bar as I avoid the swing of his fist. He’s not exactly sober himself, and this kind of establishment in the red-light district isn’t prone to stopping bar fights when they occur. I grin as a small circle of people starts to surround us. Giving a wink to a few of the girls in the audience, I step to the side to avoid impact with the bouncer’s fist again. The scowl on his face deepens, and he attempts to bend over and grab me by the waist, which would have my ass on the short ceiling of the bar. I dodge him again, landing a strike on his side that would slow an ordinary man down, but only makes this one madder and more vicious.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he pants. “But you come in here every Friday night and fuck up our game. You take money you don’t need, you run up a tab, you short the bartender, and then you leave.”

“Never do I short a good server. Just you when you’re working there.” I smile again and narrowly avoid his elbow as it heads for my face. The crowd watching is bigger now.

Good. There’s less of a chance he’ll knock me the fuck out and take the money, I think. As much as this place might like to think it’s seedy, it’s primarily a tourist destination, and it wouldn’t look good if customers weren’t getting their due.

As the thought passes through my mind, I’m a second too slow, and Bruno’s fist collides with my face, knocking my head back so hard that I think I might have whiplash. A second punch lands in the same spot, and soon, I’m pushed against the bar, pinned by a giant, meaty arm.

“All right, man. That’s enough now. Let him go. Bad for business.” The owner’s voice echoes in my head, and I feel the arm easing up on my midsection.

“You sure, boss? This one’ll just keep coming back.”

“He won’t be,” the voice says. “You hear that, Albring? We don’t want to see your face around here again. Or I’ll let Liam have his way with you. And tonight, he only just got started. Nod if you understand me.”

I nod, chin and jaw throbbing hard. The whole thing will smart like hell tomorrow. Liam. That’s funny. That sort of stately name doesn’t fit the big gorilla of a man. No wonder I couldn’t remember his name.

Dramatically, he lets me go, nearly throwing me towards the stairs. I fall against the wall, panting. Normally, I’m the one who wins these types of fights. At over six feet tall and muscled from a decade of judo and lifting, I’m a match for just about everyone I meet—even in this section of the town. The best I can do now is grumble in annoyance and head up the stairs out of the bar. No one is a match for that man. And even if this was my highest paying gig, like he said, I don’t have much need for the money.

It’s good to spend on women, when it comes down to it. But there are always resources for that in the family fund—or there were until Mother and Father made their most recent decision. The rickety wooden staircase seems to swirl around me, the walls expanding and collapsing, but somehow I manage to stay on my feet and make it to the cool autumn air outside.

I lean against the two-hundred-year-old brick and put up one knee. The canals reflect the orangey-yellow lights of the city, pulsing with life, and I suddenly wish I had my camera with me. Instead, I take out my phone and snap a picture. The edges of the buildings along the canal look blurry, but that’s how it is with a phone at night. Shrugging, I put my phone back in my jacket pocket with the three thousand euros I cobbled together over the course of the evening.

Mad money. I touch my cheek and shudder. Hard won this time, but maybe that makes it better.

Strangely, the streets feel dead right now, heavy with something unknown. Maybe it’s the shame of getting kicked out of a bar without even finding a British girl to take home. Or maybe it’s the string of texts from my mother that I ignored a few hours ago, each one angrier and more insistent than the last.

I’m serious, Matthias. You’re done with this life, Matthias. We know about everything, Matthias.

Come home. Undo this.

There’s an image to uphold. A monarchy to maintain. Marriages and children to be had. Debts to be paid and written off.

Debts. No one even knows where I live for most of the year. Debts easily paid by the money I’ve saved, but they haven’t come looking yet. And they won’t.

I contemplate lighting a cigarette, but I catch movement from my peripheral vision before I can grab the pack from my jeans. At first, I think it’s a trick of the light on the water, but instead, it appears there’s a specter coming from the left. A girl dressed in a long white skirt and a white shirt, tattoo peeking out from the sleeve of her white shoulder. That’s white too. Short, deep brown hair and eyebrows that would make her face look severe, a nose that turns up slightly at the bottom, full lips pulled into a tight, straight line. The whole look should make her look strange and unapproachable, but the sum of her parts makes her look captivating instead. A tourist—yes, possibly. But an interesting one, without the ubiquitous blue backpack and the money wallet around the neck.

I take my thumbs and forefingers and put them into a square, taking a fake picture in my mind. Something to remember for later.

The girl must be closer than my mind first realized because she stops less than ten steps away from me and looks at me quizzically.

“What was that? What were you doing?” Her voice is raspy and low, in a sexy, distinctly American way. Like that actress—Emma Stone. A bit like that, but this girl is far grittier. More fascinating.

“Saving a picture. Girl in white, walking on the canal. Rosse Buurt in the background. Pretty. Stunning, in fact.” Like before, the words slip out. But at least, this time, they’re compliments. Complimenting women comes easy to me—not that insulting idiotic bouncers doesn’t come easy. This girl isn’t likely to come home with me off the street, but it doesn’t hurt to try. It would be the second big win of the evening, and it might make up for what happened to my face.

She cocks her head to one side and puts a hand on one hip. “You use that line with all the girls, do you?”

“No. I have plenty of lines, but I rarely see a woman who warrants a picture.”

“And what warrants a picture?” She looks a bit like she’s on guard, her hand casually brushing over her purse and gripping a little bit too tight.

“I’ll walk you home and tell you.”

“I’m switching to a new Air BnB tomorrow. It’s my first night in Amsterdam. I’m just walking right now.” She bites her lip, and I can tell she didn’t intend to say that. Looking at her, full breasts and hips gently outlined in white, I want to offer a bed, a soft, downy place to stay. I want to offer more than that—hands and lips and hips to slide between her thighs and shock the distant, sad look from her eyes. Blue-gray in color, and sad, yes, now that I look more closely.

“Then I’ll take you to coffee in the morning after your night walking.”

She raises an eyebrow and gives me her most skeptical look. I can’t help but smile, but the smile hurts my face now that Liam smashed it within an inch of its life.

“I don’t think you need to be going much of anywhere tomorrow morning, champ. What happened there?”

“Like I said, I’ll walk you home and tell you.” I touch my jaw absently, and her cool eyes stay on my face. “Maybe the other guy looks somewhat worse. You won’t know unless you spend a little time getting to know me.” I grin, and it’s somewhat painful when I do. That Liam fellow packed a good punch. Since the shock has worn off, I’m reasonably certain I need ice. I’m also reasonably certain it’ll hurt more tomorrow when I’m 100% sober.

“I did point out that I don’t have a home right now. Just a rental. And I can’t get in until eight in the morning.”

“So you’re really walking through Amsterdam in the middle of the night? What if you get mugged?” I imagine some guy coming up to her and taking her by the arm, wrenching her purse away from her.

“I have my bags and money stowed. And I’m pretty certain I could fend for myself.” She stands up straighter when she says that, and I can almost believe her. She’s tall, but with a curvy frame that might hide a layer of packed muscle beneath. Looking at her, even in the dim, shimmering light coming off of the canal, I feel a tingle that starts low in my belly, reaching out warmly through my thighs. My cock twitches. At this moment—slightly in pain, more than slightly tipsy—I’d give anything to see exactly what she’s made of. There aren’t many girls who make their way through the city that inspire that sensation. Plenty have seen the inside of the Albring family house here, but few make a lasting impression.

The girl standing in front of me, with the short, dark, curly hair and the long white skirt, she’s the lasting impression kind. She keeps staring at me intently and brushes a lock of hair away from her face. “You look like someone I’ve seen before.”

“It’s just the light. Or lack thereof.” I give her a crooked smile and take a pack of cigarettes from my pocket. I don’t ordinary smoke, but these are hand-rolled, and I like fine things after a night of gambling. I offer one to her, but she shakes her head. Shrugging, I light it.

“No, really, you do.”

If she’s seen pictures of me, they’re from at least five years ago. I don’t allow many people to know who I am, let alone where I am. And the one thing I can say for my parents is that they don’t press those particular issues. Not until the past month or so, since Father started growing ill. I shake off the thought. “I bear a slight resemblance to someone you might have seen. But I get that a lot. There are lots of Dutch men that look like me.”

“I’ve only been here a day, and I don’t think that’s true.” Her words come out in a whisper, and she nervously shifts her weight. She didn’t mean to say it—I can tell.

I can always tell with women. This one might be slightly different, the tiniest bit more alluring. But she’s still a woman, something intimately familiar in my life.

“Is that so?” I take a drag from my cigarette and notice that there’s a long train of ash forming at the tip. I haven’t been paying attention. “And you see a lot of men on your travels?”

“I don’t—no—definitely not. I just meant that—” She turns an alluring shade of pink and backs away from me slightly, like I might reach out and grab her. I grin slyly. I have half an impulse to do it, just to shock her.

“I’m teasing. I can tell there’s something unusual about you. You don’t have the look of the American tourists I see walking around here. They’re all light and carefree, throwing their money around and coming to bars like this for a bit of a laugh. They’ve seen plenty of men. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that’s not something you’ve been looking for.”

“What have I been looking for, if you’re such an expert?” She keeps her face composed and purses her lips like she’s a bit too haughty for someone like me. But her eyes look down for an instant, lingering on my body for a moment before returning to my face. This girl—she probably didn’t even know she did it.

I shrug. “That I don’t know. But even if I can’t walk you home, I can walk with you. You can tell me then, if you even know. I’m a good listener, or so I’ve been told—”

“By multiple tourist women?” She steps away, like she’s getting ready to leave.

“Something like that.” I move from the wall and stub out my cigarette, ready to follow her. It’s more instinct than anything else, the urge to follow her, to see what it is she’s thinking, what she’s here to discover.

She holds up a hand. “No thanks—I don’t think it’s a good idea to walk around with a stranger for the rest of the night.”

“It’s not a good idea to walk around alone either, is it? Not in this part of town.”

“I’m heading to the city center. And then to the apartment where I’m staying. It’s in some neighborhood with a J—”

“Jordaan?” I don’t let her know that my little neighborhood is steps away.

“It could be that. I don’t remember,” she says, scrunching up her face. “I need to check my phone. And right now, I need to go—”

“The night is young. You sure you don’t want someone to walk with? I’m good company.”

“So you say.” She adjusts her skirt, nervously again, and turns toward the city center.

“It’s a smaller town than you might think,” I say into the darkness as she walks away, white skirt swaying. “I might see you around.”

She turns back and looks at me, the white part of her tattoo catching a stray bit of streetlight. “Maybe.”

I resist the urge to follow her as she walks on.

I don’t follow women.

I’m not the type. I turn towards my apartment and light another cigarette. My bed is calling my name, even if I’m not bringing her to it.

Chapter Two

Mallory

“Stupid key, stupid lock, stupid apartment, stupid city.” I kick the bottom of the old wooden door and stub my toe hard, the pain spiraling from toe to leg to the very center of my nervous system. Like I’ve hit my funny bone, but worse. The pain is exacerbated by all the walking from last night. The sharp ache coincides with a fatigue unlike any I’ve felt in my ordinary life.

I wonder, sometimes, if this was what Kim felt at the end. She talked about the tingling that traveled up and down her right leg, the words she often forgot, the clumsiness of her fingers and feet. I wished I could feel it for her. I still wish that.

What she described was probably so much worse than the ache of muscles and the wash of tiredness I’m feeling right now.

Mallory, you don’t know anything about it, I think. I’ve had this train of thoughts a million times before, and Kim wouldn’t want it. I keep reminding myself that she wanted me to come to this continent to have fun, to meet people, to start a new adventure. I’m doing nothing of the sort—I spend my days in museums, my nights walking because I can’t sleep.

Instead of going down that hole right now, I shake off the feeling and growl in annoyance. I try the key again, sliding it in and then jiggling it like I have the past five times. That’s what it said in the email from this Albrecht guy from Air BnB. Hell, he’s a super host. He should have a key that works, especially for an 8:00 AM check in. The key sticks again, and I jiggle it, closing my eyes and hoping it works.

This time—it does. I push the door open with my shoulder, hauling in the red suitcase that Kim gave me for Christmas three years ago. Since she was the one who told me to go to Europe in the first place, I figured I could at least bring part of her with me. It’s what I can do for her, I guess. Or her memory.

But what would she have said about you walking away from that guy last night? She probably would have shaken her head and given you shit for a week. But what if he was dangerous? He didn’t look dangerous. Just beautiful, sensual. A good fuck. I blush and chew on my lip, trying to dismiss the image of him that keeps sticking in my brain.

The door to Albrecht’s apartment swings open.

“Albrecht?” I say, an empty apartment echoing back my own voice. The email says he’s not supposed to be here, but I’ve spent enough time in Europe on Air BnB this summer to know that empty spaces aren’t always what they seem. I’ve been surprised by Finnish couples in compromising positions one too many times, not to mention unprepared hosts who had no idea who I was. And once, a drunk Icelander on holiday in Spain—he thought my room was supposed to be his. “Anyone?”

I wait for an answer before I walk in. Only silence greets me.

What if I had let him walk with me last night? Would he be here with me now, his broad hand resting against my waist?

No, I would have been dumb and left him downstairs by the old wooden door.

Like most places I’ve stayed in this area of Europe, the apartment is clean and neat. The kitchenette has one of those dwarf refrigerators I’ve become so familiar with, and there’s a murphy bed that’s already been lowered down from the wall. There’s a single burner hot plate, a tiny bathroom with a tiny shower and a separate room for the toilet. Everything is small, compact, and European.

Is there enough for two? I sent you to Europe to get laid, not look at shit in art museums all day. Maybe that guy would help you carry the suitcase up the stairs next time. I hear Kim’s voice in my head and smile for a moment, patting my suitcase. I have been looking at a lot of art, and in Amsterdam, there’s even more to see. Sorry, Kim. I blame you for making me too depressed to pick up guys. You had to up and leave me, and now I don’t have a sister anymore. I have museums, I have art, I have design, and I have Europe. But nothing and no one else.

I swipe my index finger against the aging stone counter in the kitchen. It comes away clean.

“Everything’s how it should be, Albrecht. I give you that.” I walk over to the bed and sink down into it, looking around at the simple, empty room. Like I always do when I enter one of these places, I feel vaguely uncomfortable, like there are the ghosts of other people watching me. There might be. The building is over a hundred years old, and that’s new architecture for places around here. I push my backpack and the red suitcase from Kim up against the wall. Now is the time for sleep, the time for forgetting. Later, I’ll walk the city again and see the fountains, maybe try a few of the things Amsterdam has to offer.

“Bet I won’t get laid, Kim,” I say to the walls. “I’ve only got two weeks until school starts, and then I’m down to business. But here’s what I’m going to do—I’m going to see some Van Gogh, meet some interesting people, smoke a joint, see the penis fountain, and sketch some designs. Does that work for you?”

Kim doesn’t answer.

She never does.

I consider what the guy from last night said—that a girl alone in the city stands out to him. He didn’t know anything about me besides the fact that I stopped to look at him and the red bruise, swelling across his face. How did he know there was something different? Did I somehow stand out to him? I want to shake off the feeling he gave me, the one that made me feel like he was looking right through me, straight to the damage inside.

He’s right, though. It could be because he knows women, and he knows them well. And I can’t blame a single woman who’s slept with him. A man like that even wakes something in me. And I’m depressing as shit.

Tall, without being lanky. Well-muscled shoulders and chest, evident through his tight button-down shirt, but not bulky.

I sit down on the bed and think about the silky tone of his voice, reaching out to me like it was a physical thing. The way his deep green eyes locked on mine the moment I walked up to him. It’s the first real connection I’ve made since I started traveling. It seems funny that a twenty-three-year old girl wouldn’t meet a single person in Europe. But I am what I am, and maybe I’ve been trying not to.

Not even I could escape that gaze.

In all my time in Europe—three months now—I haven’t met a man. Not a man like him, anyway. I made out with one guy in Prague, but I barely remember his name and certainly not his face. I can’t blame that lapse on drinking, since I’d only had two vodkas, and the alcohol had faded from my system long before I met him. Even though I was alone and desperate for human contact, I didn’t go home with him.

He didn’t have that thing, the thrall. The man outside of the bar had that thing, and I entered his world for just a few moments. I close my eyes, and all I can see are those lips.

“And you were silly enough to walk off. Silly, silly.” My words fall flat in the empty apartment. I’ve noticed, in my time traveling through Europe, there’s a thing that happens when I’m this tired. Even though I haven’t indulged in sleeping with anyone since I arrived, I often want to go grab someone—anyone—when I haven’t slept in so long. Maybe it’s the longing for release that will provide me with a deeper sleep. I don’t often indulge—but the vision of the man’s body, leaning against the wall, won’t leave me even as I close my eyes.

“If anyone is here, you’d better come out now,” I say to the empty room and look around suspiciously. After a few seconds of silence, I lift my skirt over my hips and slip my hand into my panties, finding my clit and touching it, fingers circling over its tip until the heat and energy rush through me in shocks and waves.

Normally, a flashing series of images roll through my mind, all unrelated. Men from movies, one old boyfriend, faces shifting into one another as I fantasize with my eyes closed tight. This time, the shifting images melt into one—his quizzical, intelligent face and aquiline nose, his full, sensual lips running over my body, the secrets that lie beneath his shirt and jeans. I imagine him entering me, taking me forcefully, his words letting me know how I should move my body beneath his as he fills me.

I might feel shame if I were the quiet, good girl I was before flying across the Atlantic. After all, he’s a man I met once—a man I don’t even know. Instead, I let what small embarrassment I would have felt fall away from my body as I rock against my hand and come hard, envisioning the tall, blond man’s body colliding with mine.

I open my eyes after that, half expecting to see him standing above me. But there’s no one. I close my eyes and sleep for two, maybe three hours. When I wake, I’m thinking of him again.

And when I leave the apartment and lock it behind me, it’s him I’m hoping to see.

But Amsterdam is a big city, and it looks like I let that one opportunity for fun go sometime late last night.

“This isn’t the movies, Mal. And there’s no Prince Charming. Especially not one who looks like that. Besides, he’s probably the world’s biggest asshole. Certainly seemed like it.”

I shrug and sigh, trying to shake off the feeling that I missed out on something big.

It’s noon, I tell myself. I need a strong latte, something starchy to eat, and hell, I might even buy some pot. It’s Amsterdam, after all. I’ve never tried anything like that, but maybe it’s time.

All bets are off in a city like this.

Chapter Three

Matthias

My face still smarts from where the bouncer punched me last night. I know that I might have lost the guy some money, but that’s what I’m good at. Actually, I’m good at a fair number of things—picking up women, playing cards, swindling people out of their money, and taking photos.

I don’t advertise that part much since it doesn’t go with my image.

Rich aristocrat, bad boy, disinterested player. That’s the face I show to Amsterdam. The image that inhabits the Albring building my parents own.

This morning, I wish I was a little better at getting rid of bruises. I didn’t have enough mental capacity at three in the morning to ice it properly.

It might have been the girl I met. She distracted me.

I did, however, get the money to the safe. I don’t need the cash, no. But it’s nice to have, even if it did come with the black and blue imprint of knuckles on the side of my chin.

It’ll be a good story if I meet a girl. That girl. She shouldn’t be that hard to find. Americans stick out around here. If I ask around… maybe…

Why would you care, Matthias? Why?

I get myself together and shuffle around the room, head throbbing.

After my hair is combed and I put on the button down shirt and jeans that I wear like a uniform in this neighborhood, I rattle down the stairs and out into the street. It’s noon. That means it’s time for coffee.

The cobblestone feels somewhat unsteady beneath my feet, and I wonder if it’s because the guy from last night rattled the insides of my head when he punched me last night. Fucker was strong.

When I turn towards the coffee shop I usually stop at, there’s something anomalous. Something off. There’s a girl, sitting outside at my table, sipping something frothy and contemplating a joint she must have had rolled inside. Like she doesn’t know quite what to do with it. I watch her watching it. Instead of taking out a match or a lighter, she pulls a flaky pastry out of a paper bag and takes a big bite, following it with a long sip of coffee. Without thinking, I take out my phone and snap a picture of her, short brown hair falling over her sunglasses, a tattoo peeking out from the edge of her tank top. Not one of those unfortunate Chinese symbols that I see on American girls these days, but instead, two blossoms—one white and one pink. Simple, respectable, feminine.

It’s her.

At that moment I realize I was ready to spend the day looking for her, and I don’t entirely know why. I lean against a tree and watch her for a while.

I half expect her to look up and see me taking a picture of her, but she doesn’t. Instead, she looks straight ahead and takes off her sunglasses, leaving the pastry, the coffee, and sadly, the joint, sitting in front of her on the table. She stands out, this one. She is beautiful—in a non-traditional way. Her face isn’t exactly symmetrical, and her body is far more solid and real than many of the girls I meet around here.

I stride over to the table where the girl sits. I didn’t catch her name last night, and she didn’t want anything to do with me. But she had stopped—maybe it was because I was the only guy on the street. It could have been something more, and I guess I’m banking on that.

Oh, Matthias. No. There are a thousand girls cycling through the city at any given time, ready to spend a night or a weekend with you. Why this one? The one who wasn’t interested?

My mother’s voice echoes in my head. She’s always the naysayer, and she’s made it clear she’d prefer me to move into the estate in the North Islands like a well-behaved young man. Someone who doesn’t gamble, fight, get involved in unsavory illegal activity, or bring American girls home to the house in Amsterdam.

I smirk.

That’s just the point. Something different. A small gamble in the scheme of things, but an exciting chance nonetheless.

It takes a solid minute before she notices me because she’s still staring off into space. But she slowly takes off her sunglasses and sits back in her chair, almost like she was expecting me. Her countenance is even chillier than it was last night, but a corner of her lip turns up with a small smile. It’s an odd juxtaposition, I admit—that cold stare and the grin that might look menacing if it was a big bouncer like Liam. On her, I like it. On her, as I told her bluntly last night, it’s like art.

I stand a meter or so from the table, and then I sit down across from her. “I told you I’d take you to coffee, but I didn’t expect that you’d take me up on it.”

“You followed me.”

“No, I didn’t. This is my city, and this is my coffee shop. This is the table where I sit every morning.”

“It’s noon. No longer morning.”

“You’re treating it as such. You’ve got a coffee. Were you walking all night, like you said? Is that why the coffee? And the little spliff you’ve got there? Trying to be an adventurous American in Amsterdam?”

She blushes slightly, a brief cascade of pink across the high planes of her cheeks. “That’s a lot of questions all at once.”

“They’re on the same topic.”

“What topic is that?”

“You. And the reasons you came to this city. My city. I always take an interest when I see a tourist who doesn’t quite seem a tourist.”

“I’m an ordinary tourist, like any of the girls you pick up on a regular basis. That’s just a guess that you’re picking up tourists but you and I seem to be in the business of making assumptions.”

“Good guess. But I’m not usually the one doing the picking up. It’s the tourist girls. They’re looking for a good time when they come to Amsterdam. Good beer, good drugs, nice art to look at and tell their parents about. I’m just part of the package deal if they’re lucky enough to meet me.” I smile broadly. “I do want to know if you walked all night. That’s a good bit of strenuous exercise for the middle of the night.”

She takes a sip of her coffee and a bite of her pastry, her eyes not leaving mine. “I did. Through the red light district and back down this way. I checked into my room earlier, but I couldn’t sleep.”

I nod. “That will help.” I gesture to the lone joint sitting between us on the table.

“I haven’t smoked one before. I bought it because it seems like part of the Amsterdam experience. Like something I can tell my friends when I get home.”

“How romantic. Where’s home?”

“Florida. But maybe not anymore. I might be going to design school somewhere in Europe. I haven’t heard back from everywhere just yet, but I was accepted in Paris, so I’m probably going there.”

“Mom and Dad sent you here with a trust fund?” I want to bite my lip after I say it because the look she’s giving me could melt steel.

“No. No trust fund. My sister left me what she earned after she died. She was a lawyer.” A shadow crosses her face, and she gives me a chilly look. “My dad never had anything to do with us, and my mother could care less about my existence now that my sister is gone.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “You were close?”

“She was ten years older, but yes. We were very close. She was only thirty-three. Why I am telling you this?” Her eyes remain dry, but she has the look of someone who’s spent time grieving, perhaps deeply in private. This isn’t the usual banter I exchange with a girl. But I find myself wanting to know, wanting to ask more.

“Sometimes you need to say things out loud. Doesn’t matter exactly who is listening.” I shrug and take the joint from in front of her, digging out a lighter from my pocket and burning the end, inhaling so that it’s started now.

“Share this joint with me, and tell me your name. I’ll take you around the city.”

She laughs, raspy and rich. “You’ll play tour guide and ask me questions about my personal life while you’re creepily trying to—what—take me home after that, like all the other girls? No thanks. Last night, I saw you propped up outside a bar in the bad part of town—”

“It’s not bad exactly. It’s historic. And it’s got a historic reputation. Some people come just to stay there. Because it’s so—historic.” And yes, it’s not exactly the best part of town.

“Sure it is. Tell me why I need a tour guide. Seriously. I’ve been going around Europe for months without anyone bothering me. Tell me why I need one now, and I’ll tell you what.” She takes the joint from me and inhales, coughing. When she catches her breath, she hands the joint back to me and shakes her head like she’s not especially interested in taking a second puff. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll consider it if you can give me a good reason why.”

“The city’s a lot more fun with someone to talk to. I’ll take you to the best restaurants, and I know a few people who can get it us into the museums after hours. No crowds.” This isn’t a thing I do—take girls around to places with me. My life is solitary, but something about her makes me want to know her, if only for a few days. And a few days is all I give, especially now.

“Special museum friends? That’s all you’ve got, isn’t it? I don’t have museums on my list for today. I was going to walk some more and check out the fountains.” She sips her coffee and grins at me cheekily, and I wonder if she might be feeling something from the joint. I take a puff and offer it to her again. To my surprise, she takes it.

I watch as she inhales again. This time she doesn’t cough. When I take it back, I finish it up and reach forward to grab a bite of her pastry. “I’m good for walking tours too. I know all the best pastries so I can repay you for part of this one. I know the best coffee so we can keep walking all day, and I know several old bookstores that I think you might like. Maybe I’ve got you figured all wrong, but those seem like things you might enjoy.”

She waves her hand and pushes the rest of the pastry my way. “Those are all nice reasons to walk with someone.” Her eyes are the slightest bit glazed over now, and she finishes the final gulp of her coffee. “But I don’t think you know what you’re in for. And I don’t know why you’re so insistent.”

“What am I in for? Besides a good day? What’s so terrifying about you?”

“I’m depressing,” she says flatly. I imagine the words are coming more honestly now that she’s very slightly high. “I walk through all these places and take it all in, but I don’t know really why I’m traveling. Not anymore. My sister told me I should and that I should meet people and get laid, but I don’t know anymore. She died a year ago and—now I’m rambling.” She sits back and sighs, then reaches forward to grab the remaining pastry. She peels away several layers of flaky crust and pops them in her mouth.

“That doesn’t sound out of the norm for someone who lost the person they were closest to. Tell me your name, and we’ll spend the day together. That’s all I ask for now—one day.”

Just then, my favorite waitress brings by my normal order—an apple pastry and a large, black coffee. The girl eyes me suspiciously. “Do they know you here?”

“It happens to be my favorite cafe. I was going to ask if you were stalking me, but chance meetings happen all the time in this city. It’s a smaller town than you might realize. In some ways, that is.”

“Okay,” she says, stealing a bite of my breakfast. I don’t think she realizes I didn’t ask a question.

“Okay what?” I sip at my coffee, blowing on it. A breeze starts to roll through, signaling the coming autumn.

“Okay, you can be my tour guide. Tomorrow I’m going to the museums. Or the next day. I think. Today, I guess we do what you want.”

I grin. “You forgot to tell me your name.”

“Mallory.”

“I’m Matthias. And I promise—I’ll make today worth your while.”

Chapter Four

Mallory

“You can stay here, you know. I promise I won’t try to sleep with you. Not tonight anyway.” The grin he gives me causes a deep heat that starts in my belly and spreads to my upper thighs. It’s been a long time—years maybe—since I felt something like that. In college, I poured myself into my design work, and it wasn’t often that I let myself get involved in anything more than a one-night stand. There had been a few boys here and there, and maybe one made me feel that thing—the thing I felt when I first saw Matthias, the thing I’m feeling now that I’m standing in the middle of his giant fucking house in the middle of one of the most expensive cities in Europe. In the most expensive part of town.

From outside, the building looks the same as every other building in the neighborhood—old, regal, quaint. But inside, it’s decked out with light hardwood floors and sparkling white countertops, furniture that was unmistakably hand-crafted.

The whole thing makes me nervous.

“I have an Air BnB place down the street. It’s not even that far.”

“Can you be sure it doesn’t have bedbugs?” He grabs an apple from a bowl of fruit that sits decoratively on the warm wood of his dining room table. “Or that it’s not infested with mice? It’s an old city. There are plenty of places people rent out that aren’t on the more savory side of things.”

“This guy’s a super host. I think that means he can’t have bedbugs.” Matthias bends over, to pick up what looks like a camera bag, and I catch myself glancing at his shirt as it rides up on his back. And god help me, his very fine ass and legs in those jeans. It’s clear enough that he takes care of his body, that it’s probably higher on the list of priorities for him than it is for someone who doesn’t live a life of leisure. “I think I’ll just stay there. That seems like the best idea. You can take me around the city—that’s fine—but I paid for that place, and I don’t know you—”

“Not much to know. I’m a deadbeat, like you said. But I’m fun.” He slings the camera bag over his shoulder and raises his arms in an open gesture. Like, Here I am. This is what you get.

And Christ on a bike, he does look like he’s fun. There’s a sparkle in his deep green eyes, and he has the casual demeanor of someone whose life has been easy. Really easy.

I’m already traveling around Europe by myself before graduate school—why wouldn’t I want to be with someone like him? It only makes sense that I’d let him take me around. And while we’re at it, it only makes sense that I’d be attracted to him. Not that I have to sleep with him to get the full experience—just walking next to him might make me feel slightly better about life.

Matthias gives me a crooked grin and then steps past me to open the door that leads down to the street. His body brushes against mine, and I suppress a shudder that would surely give away what I’m feeling. Which is… what exactly?

You’re just needy for human interaction, Mal. This guy is good for a day in Amsterdam, and that’s it.

He’ll definitely look good walking next to you, for sure. And he’d look even better lying across a bed. My sister’s voice rings out in my brain, and I try to silence it as I run down the steps toward the street.

“Do you own this building?” I say, looking back to the tall brick edifice. “None of the other apartments have names on them.”

“Good observation,” he says, shrugging. “What if I do? Does that make me more attractive to you or less? I’m going for more attractive, in case you were wondering.”

I feel color coming to my cheeks, and I don’t quite have my bearings after sleeping for so short a time. I’m not entirely sure where we’re going—and I don’t have any idea how to answer the question he just posed. “I—I don’t know.”

“My family owns it. I’ll go with the honest route. But I have plenty of my own money. I sell my photos to magazines. I gamble, and I’m good at it. I save every cent of it.” He lifts his hand in a dismissive gesture, as if to dismiss his family, the owners of the old stone building where he lives and brings women every weekend.

“Gambling? That’s what you were doing when you got that bruise. Wasn’t it? A little dangerous for an ordinary autumn weekend.”

“It isn’t quite autumn,” he replies, leading me on through streets of the city I didn’t pass in any of my walking. “It’s early September still. It’s just cooler than it is here than—where did you say?”

“Florida. It’s always summer there. Not the pleasant kind, either. It’s nice here in Europe. Not humid.” We pass by a line of coffee shops where a string of American tourists sit, smoking pot and talking loudly. “What is this—where are we going?”

“Back to the Red Light District,” he says, like it’s no big deal. Red Light District? I go there every day.

“I’ve been there.” My voice comes out rather pinched when I say that, like I have a problem with the Red Light District.

“Not like I have. Did you go to the stores on Spuistraat? I have a feeling you need to loosen up. And you might need a souvenir from your time in Amsterdam.”

I stop in my tracks. “You don’t mean—”

“Americans,” he says, huffing and walking ahead of me. He takes his camera out of his bag and snaps a quick picture of me, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, flanked by trees that have just started to change color. And here I am, an American as plain as day, with a shocked expression on my face because a man hinted that I might need some kind of sex toy souvenir from the heart of Amsterdam’s most debauched activities. “Have you ever used anything to enhance…. mmm.” He pauses as if searching for the right words, then takes another picture of me standing there in the middle of the street. “Nighttime activities?”

“No—I—” I gulp. “I never needed to.”

“No one needs to. We all have hands.” He holds his fingers up as if to demonstrate, and for some reason, I turn uncomfortably hot. “But these things are made to make life a little more fun and interesting. Don’t you think that life can be a little more fun and interesting? Or did you come to Europe just to be depressed?”

“I didn’t—I’m not—well, I guess I did say I was depressing.” I laugh and cover my face with my hands. He knows he’s put me on the spot, and he comes up and takes my arm, walking with me back toward the Red Light District and whatever kind of store he’s leading me to.

“How about we look at a few toys that will make you less depressed? Guaranteed to lift your spirits.”

I can’t ignore the heat spreading through my sex, so for once, I decide not to dispel it. Instead, I let him lead me closer to the place we met. We turn down another tree-lined street that opens onto a broad street, covered in colorful street art and graffiti. We’re closer to the city center than we are to the Red Light District, but there are enough coffee shops and bars, and seedy-looking shops that I know we must be on the outskirts of Amsterdam’s most famous spot. I spot a shop and see the lingerie and videos advertised inside and blush hard, stopping and pretending to take pictures of the street with my phone. “This is… vibrant. I think I passed by this street on the north end.”

“You didn’t come where I’m taking you.” He emphasizes the word “come” very slightly, like he’s biting his tongue and trying not to say anything else. “Lean against that wall there, Mallory. I like that background.”

Behind me, I see the wall he’s talking about. On it, there’s a painting of a tall, pear-shaped naked woman. Surrounding her is graffiti of all kinds. It’s more pop art than the art I came here for, but I can see why he likes it. Tentatively, I put my bag down and go to lean against the wall, cocking up one knee. My white skirt drapes over it, and Matthias snaps a picture before I can smile.

“I didn’t even pose—”

“Did you say you were going to design school? You should know that not every good picture is posed. In fact, very few of them are.”

“I’m a designer and a seamstress. I didn’t study photography.”

Matthias walks up to me and takes my hand, a surprisingly intimate gesture.

“You have a lot to learn,” he says, leaning in. I half expect him to kiss me, and my heart starts racing fast, beating so that the noise drowns everything out. Instead, he picks up his camera and takes another picture, the lens a breath away from my face. “Beautiful,” he says.

Camera around his neck, he takes my hand. I pull my fingers away, almost like I’ve been burned. It’s an instinctive reaction—it’s not because I don’t want to be touched by him. It’s the opposite. His fingertips touching mine give me an incredible shock, jolting straight to my center, arousal rushing through my veins and giving me an undeniable yearning. To his credit, he moves his hand to my shoulder and guides me down Spuistraat, pointing out his favorite street art and explaining how the street got to be so colorful. At last, we reach a quiet part of the street, headed toward the Red Light District. For something that’s supposed to be so harsh and forbidding, this area, all cobblestone and flowering bushes, seems quite nice.

“We’re here,” he says.

“We’re where?”

“The shop I had intended to take you to. There’s a woman here who knows exactly what her clients want, and you’re exactly the type of client she loves best.”

I look across the street and see a small white building with a pink sign. It’s brick or stone, like most of the buildings here, and the exterior looks classy rather than garish. But with the black lingerie—and leather—displayed in the window, it’s clear what kind of place this is. My stomach drops, and I laugh nervously. “I don’t think we’ve known each other quite long enough—”

“Nonsense. It’s a classy place. Female and Partners—it’s unique among the shops here. All for girls, all very lovely and refined. And we’re just two friends, browsing for the sake of entertainment.”

“So we don’t have to buy anything, right?” I chew my lip, and he starts to drag me across the street, hand on the back of my arm.

“I didn’t say that. Estelle is an old friend. I’d be ashamed to go in her shop and not get anything.”

“Matthias—I’ve never—” We’re at the door now, and he ushers me in, the shop bell ringing to alert everyone inside that we’ve arrived.

“That goes without saying, Mal. You’ve never been in a place like this. You’ve never used a vibrator—”

“Matthias!” A petite woman walks over to us and puts a hand on Matthias’s arm. She starts talking in Dutch, and I look down, my eyes exploring the white carpet instead of the walls and rows full of sexual paraphernalia.

“Estelle, this is Mallory,” Matthias says to her in English. “She’s never been to a shop like yours. And she might need some assistance choosing the right kind of thing.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say blandly. “I think I might just be looking today.”

“Impossible. If you’ve never used any helpful aids before, I can show you just where to get started. I can promise you won’t want to leave empty handed.” She looks back at Matthias and winks at him. “And Matthias won’t want you empty handed either. It’s been years since he’s brought a girl here. You must be quite special.”

I don’t respond. Instead, I feel that unwelcome pressure building inside of me again. When I look back, Matthias is staring at me. He crosses his arms over his chest and watches with amusement as Estelle guides me over to the wall at the far end of the store—the shelves positively lined with vibrators.

“This is our beginner section, dear. I think we’ll find something perfect for you. Do you like simple vibration, or do you think you’ll want internal stimulation as well?” She smiles, motherly and kind, a jarring world of difference between her and my own mother. This woman, she’s kind. And strangely to me, she doesn’t believe that sex is the deadliest sin of all. Instead, she sells it for a living. I stand, stunned, my eyes roaming over all manner of pink and purple silicone—some smaller than a tube of lipstick and some quite a bit larger than any man’s anatomy that I’ve seen.

“I guess I—” I look back to Matthias for encouragement.

“Always go for the internal stimulation. Then it serves a dual purpose. Or maybe we should get you both. I think it might be good for you to have a variety in your arsenal. For an adventurous girl like yourself.”

“Um.” The blood seems to rush to my head all at once, arousal pooling between my legs. I’d never even considered something vibrating there before. Good God. What have I gotten myself into? “Maybe show me one of each?”

Estelle nods, like she knows exactly where I’m coming from. “Maybe this one.” She plucks a small, sleek-looking vibrator from the shelf. The shape of it is curved so that it would fit the shape of the female body. I swallow hard and feel myself starting to perspire at the very top of my forehead. But Estelle carries on, placing the contraption in my hand and letting her fingers roam over the other store samples. “Don’t worry, lieverd. The floor samples are all only for show, not for practice.” Estelle selects another vibrator from the shelf, this time a thick phallus-like thing of seven inches or more. It’s bright green, and the head curves inward.

“For the g-spot. Good selection.” Matthias’s voice rings out behind us, and I blush even harder, if that’s possible.

“I think maybe that’s enough—” I fidget with the thing in my hands and then set it down next to me, barely able to concentrate. I feel Matthias’s eyes lingering on my backside, and I can’t help but think of him and these devices, and the women he may or may not have used them with.

But Estelle keeps picking out toys, some of them long and thick, some shorter and squatter. “And the Lelo. Very reasonably priced for being so effective. I have two myself.”

“If you say she needs one, then she needs one.”

“Matthias, I can pick out my own vibrator.” Just saying the word makes me want to faint, but I don’t appreciate him standing behind me, making me even more nervous. What am I doing here anyway?

Estelle looks back at him and shoos him away. “You go look at something else. Mallory and I are going to look at these.”

Reluctantly, Matthias moves to the other end of the store, and I feel instant relief without him watching us. There’s still the ever-present feeling that this is a step I won’t be able to take back—that with each moment I spend with him, I’m making the decision to hop into his bed.

And maybe there’s nothing wrong with that.

“Okay,” Estelle says, pulling me out of my reverie. “This one is for penetration…” I maintain my composure as she explains the virtues of each device, trying to listen so I can make an informed decision. An informed decision? Am I actually getting one of these now? With each explanation, I start to feel like I’m in a messy pool I can’t get out of, a stultifying pit of desire. He brought me here so I could think about sex, so I wouldn’t be able to refuse him.

Good job, Matthias. Mission accomplished.

I think of his hands on my skin, gripping me, pulling me close. His full lips on mine, the length of his body pressed between my legs, opening me, splitting me. The sound of his groaning as he comes.

Sweet merciful God.

“I said, which one do you think you might want? I know Matthias, and I don’t think he’ll let you walk out of here without choosing.”

“The uh, Lelo. I guess. It looks really nice, but it’s expensive.”

“Oh my dear. Lieverd, he will pay. I haven’t seen him look at a woman like he looks at you. Are you old friends? Lovers?”

I look back at him, and he catches my eye. “New friends, I guess.”

“Even better. Pick the Lelo, and we’ll throw this other one from Fun Factory. Local company. And I’ve got a few other goodies for you.”

“You ready?” Matthias asks, stepping up to the counter and presenting a stack of shiny, new bills to Estelle. His arm casually drapes over my shoulders, and I can smell him—the scent of pine and something else, a musky male scent that drives home my desire, solidifies the decisions I’ll be making tonight. He might not know it, but he’s winning over this girl, changing her into something she isn’t.

“Enjoy, my dear,” Estelle tells me with a wink. She pushes the bag across the counter, filled with more than just the two vibrators we selected.

I reach for it, but Matthias takes it and shoves it in his bag. “A surprise for later.”

“Not for—not for tonight,” I mumble as he walks me out of the shop. “I think I’ll wait until I leave the country. I might need a surprise then.” In that moment, I think of being alone, without anyone I know. I’ve spent months like that, but today has reminded me of what it’s like to have someone next to you. Even if he is infuriating, entitled, and a total womanizer.

“Then I guess I’ll need to get you out of the country.”

I roll my eyes and make a mental note to sneak the goodies out of his bag before I leave.

I may need a memory of today.

Chapter Five

Matthias

“It’s been forever since I’ve eaten this well,” Mallory says to me, stuffing a French fry into her mouth. I smile. It’s been forever since I’ve eaten with a girl during the daytime. I might take some of them out for coffee or meet one of the ones that sticks around longer than a week for a casual dinner. I keep it to coffee shops and cafes and not a tourist-laden restaurant like this one. Out in the middle of the day, we look like an American couple strolling through the city center.

“It’s a burger,” I say laughing. I steal one of her French fries and take out another joint.

“Usually, I just eat ramen noodles back in the apartment I’m renting. Or I make sandwiches. You Europeans have a sad, sad lack of peanut butter on this continent.” She smiles and takes a big bite of her burger, following it with a swig of the lager I ordered for her. For some reason, it pleases me to see that she’s eating. To know that she doesn’t ever eat well, and to get her something as simple and American as a burger and fries.

“Peanut butter. Disgusting,” I say, laughing. I light the joint, knock off a bit of the burning tip and take a drag.

“You can’t do that!” She reaches over to shield the smoke from rising.

“Say something bad about peanut butter? I can and I will. Peanuts shouldn’t be made into any kind of butter. Nor should any nut. You know what should be butter?”

“What?” She looks around like there might be a policeman from Florida trying to take away my pot or send her to jail for being seen with someone like me.

“Butter. Made from cream. Made from cows. And that’s it. That is the only butter.” I take a drag from the joint and offer it to Mallory.

“Seriously. No. I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“There’s no one sitting outside, Mal.”

“Don’t call me ‘Mal’ and offer me a joint.”

“Aren’t we friends? I just bought you a high-end vibrator.” She blushes dramatically and takes a long sip of her beer. “Plus, nothing goes better with burgers and beer than a spliff. In the middle of the day. On the street. Where people can see us.” I lean in and hand the joint to her.

She takes a surreptitious, tiny puff, leaning down to the table and coughing ever so slightly. I nod to her, and she takes another drag, longer this time, holding it and then blowing out smoke more gracefully than she did this morning. She hands the joint to me like she doesn’t want to be seen with it, but then she sits back and smiles and looks up at the tree above us. The leaves are just starting to be tinged with orange, and she drinks her beer, silently, contemplating it. I take two long drags and then stub out the spliff for later. I take out my camera and snap a picture of her looking up at the leaves. This time, she doesn’t bat an eye, doesn’t look up to tell me I shouldn’t be taking so many pictures.

I have pictures of women on my camera, many of them. But one at a time, not the stream of pictures I’m taking, all of Mallory. I don’t contemplate what this means. Instead, I put my camera away and steal some of her French fries, thinking about the different ways I might convince her to come home with me tonight. She says she won’t try the vibrator until she’s out of the country, but perhaps I could lure her in some other way. The sun is hanging lower over the trees, and there’s plenty of time for us to drink and talk and come closer to the breaking point where she decides that she needs one good night in Amsterdam before she dedicates her time to museums. If I have anything to do with it, it may be more than one night.

It’s not a common thing for me, wanting one woman. But there’s something about Mallory that makes the idea seem exciting, like the feeling you have when an old friend comes to visit after years and years away from home. I don’t know how to describe it another way, but it feels like I know her, even though there are things left unsaid. I take a long sip of my beer and think about the places to take her, the things we might do together. It’s odd, thinking like this. But I like it.

“You’re looking at me,” she says.

“I can’t help it if you’re stoned,” I say. “You only think I’m looking at you.”

She puts her hands behind her head and stretches. I can see the outline of her bra, a hint of her smooth stomach as her shirt lifts up. I am looking at her, drinking her in.

“I’m not stoned. Or not terribly. I don’t think. I’m not really sure. The first time I ever smoked pot was about three hours ago, with you at that coffee shop.”

“You haven’t been terribly adventurous in your what—twenty-two, twenty-three years?”

“Twenty-three. I guess not.” As she speaks, her eyes remain on the swaying leaves above. There’s a gentle breeze, and the street is mostly silent. “My mom raised us, and she put the fear of God in us. Literally, I guess. She told me and Kim—that’s my sister—or she was my sister—”

She sighs, as if only now remembering that her one ally is gone. It must strike her many times a day, and I wonder how it was, to have someone who was so essential that you have trouble understanding that they’re gone. “She’s still your sister,” I say, knocking back the remainder of my beer.

“Thanks. It’s hard to remember sometimes that when I go back home—if I do—she won’t be there.”

Mallory stares off into space for perhaps a minute, and I just sit there watching her. “What did your mother say to you?”

“Oh that,” she says, a wry smile coming to her face. “That we were cursed by God because we were women. The only way to make up for it was to ‘stay above our sinful nature.’ There weren’t parties for us, or sleepovers, or birthday parties with friends. We had each other for a long time, and then Kim was at college and law school. It wasn’t a good time for me.”

“I can imagine.” I don’t share then that I know plenty about overbearing mothers. Something tells me that I don’t know about this type of mother, the distinctly American kind who leans on God and all that hellfire and brimstone business that people from that side of the world seem to love so much.

“She filed for custody after that.”

“It was that bad?”

“Yeah, it was that bad.” Mallory looks down at her plate and eats a few of the fries, now grown cold. I don’t say anything, and she doesn’t either for a little while. As she polishes off the last French fry and pushes her plate away, she looks at me with her distant, blue-gray gaze. “Kim got sick when she was thirty-one. I was in college, and I didn’t know for a long time. The doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong for months, and she didn’t tell me until a year later, months before she died.”

“What was it?” It’s hard for melancholy to descend on such a perfect day. The breeze and sunshine seem at once too light and too happy, but there’s silence and stillness on the street around us.

“It was multiple sclerosis. Not the kind that takes decades to kill you. It was the rare kind, the one that gets you in a matter of months. Kim said she was kind of lucky in that way, that she didn’t have years and years of hospital beds and valium, wondering if her eyes were going bad or if it was the MS.” Mallory shrugs, as if to indicate she still disagrees with Kim’s assessment. “She was a corporate lawyer, so she had money saved. I have it all now, and she bought me this trip and thousands of dollars in traveler’s checks. The rest is for school. She wants me to be a fashion designer, like I always wanted. But I don’t even know now—”

“Wait—you have a fat wad of traveler’s checks, and you’re staying in hovels and eating ramen noodles every night.” I sit back and laugh. “I shouldn’t have bought you anything. You need to recklessly spend some cash. Believe me. It’ll do you some good.”

To my surprise, Mallory looks at me and smiles. “You sound like Kim. She told me I needed to come to Europe, stay in hotels, eat expensive food and—” She stops and blushes.

“And what?”

“Have sex. With, uh, guys, I guess.” She gulps and then looks down, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“And have you?”

She looks up at me, startled. “No, definitely not. That’s not me. I don’t think.”

“What is you? Have you had sex in the past three years? Since your sister got sick?”

“No—not really. There was one time. And a couple times before she told me. It hasn’t been an important factor in my life.”

“Not an important factor?” I grin. “If you’re going to be a fashion designer in Paris or Roma—or wherever it is that you’re going to be—you need to know sex. Haven’t you heard? It’s what sells. That element of naughtiness, of decadence, that’s what will get you noticed.” I watch her face intently as I speak, watching the pink blush on her cheeks rise. This girl—she hasn’t had sex in years. And I’d expect what she did have wasn’t any good.

“I’m not sure I agree with you.” She taps her nails against the table, as if lost in thought. “Couldn’t I be the designer who brings modesty back to the runway?”

“Not when everyone will be looking at you, not your models.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She looks at me pointedly.

“It means you’ve got a look about you. When you make it big, everyone will wonder who you’re sleeping with, what you’re doing behind closed doors. You need to cultivate that air of mystery.”

She sighs hard and her breasts heave. I think about what they might look like beneath her clothing, and I almost can’t bear watching her. I’d like to launch her over my shoulder and haul her back to my apartment, but as it stands, I don’t think she’d like that very much.

“So you say. You don’t think my designs can stand on their own merit?”

“No, I didn’t say that. I’m sure they can. But to launch to the top of the game—you need something else.”

“And you’re the one who could give that to me?” She raises an eyebrow and smirks at me. I can read the incredulity in her expression, but there’s a flush rising over her chest. I’ve put the thought in her brain, sealed it there, no matter what she thinks. I want her, and I get what I want.

“I think I could.” In fact, I know it. But I let it drop there, and we chat about other things until our remaining food has grown cold and the last drops of beer in our glasses are totally flat. I keep thinking of her as she is, young and nearly virginal, on her own, traveling over a continent she doesn’t know. My phone buzzes from time to time, and I know it’s my mother and father trying to contact me about their latest idea for getting me to fulfill my royal duties. I ignore it—and instead, I focus on Mallory’s luscious curves and pouty lips. I don’t think beyond this evening, but as we talk and bits of our past slip out over a second beer and then a third, I can see that she’s mine. I’ll be taking her up to my bed, breaking her, making her do things she hasn’t yet dreamed of. And if my mother thinks I’ll give this up—finding girls like Mallory to ever so slightly corrupt—she’s insane.

After the cafe closes in the late afternoon, I reach out and touch Mallory’s hand. She doesn’t brush it away this time. Instead, she lets it linger and looks at me, cocking her head to the side.

“What now?” she asks.

“I think we need to spend some of your money.”

“Come on—we don’t. I’m saving it for—” She stops. “I guess I’m not saving it for anything, am I?”

“No. If you have plenty set aside for school, then no. You don’t have any reason to hold onto the checks.” I lace my fingers through hers. “What’s something you want, more than anything? Something frivolous.”

“I—I don’t really know.” She bites down on her lip, and it turns blood red. I can only think of taking her, making her mine. The thought is dizzying. I haven’t wanted someone quite like this before, but Mallory is different. I can’t explain why. But she is. “Maybe a painting. Or—I don’t know.”

I throw a few euros down on the table and take her hand, lifting her from her seat. We’re both still reeling from the pot and the beer, and all the food we inhaled. It’s a perfect time to have her do exactly what she wants, wake her up from the deep sleep she’s been in for so long. “I know a place.”

“Did you even pay?”

She looks back at the table as we walk away, and I shrug. “I put down a hundred euros. I think they’ll enjoy the extra cash. They’ll probably think it’s a mistake but—”

Mallory laughs, and the sound is sweet. “Okay, moneybags. That seems like a little bit of a waste. But I guess you know what you’re doing. Maybe.”

The sun is low in the sky, and I walk on with her, putting my arm around her. My predator’s instinct is alight in a way it hasn’t been before. I want her, I’ll take her, and she’ll be mine until I say otherwise. She just doesn’t believe it yet.

We walk on, approaching the part of town famous for its art galleries and museums. I pull her into a bar and buy her a fruity drink before we walk to one of the galleries I know well. The owner and I—well, we might have had a fling a long time ago. Mallory laughs—and can’t stop laughing—at the tiny paintings with scenes of the city, finally picking one that has a picture of a blue bicycle.

It costs two hundred euros, and it can’t be more than ten centimeters high. She buys it, like I told her to, setting the package in her bag gently, as if it were a breakable thing.

The sky is dark when we leave, and I put my hand to her waist. It’s a fine waist, with a slight curve to it. I think of what it would feel like to rip away her shirt, to pull her skirt up and dive between her legs.

It’s an inevitability.

And by the time we approach my building, she knows it too. Her body clings to mine, even though her gaze is distant and concerned, like this is something she shouldn’t be doing. I lead her to the walkway in front of my door, and she looks around like she doesn’t quite know where she is, or what we’re up to.

The look she gives me is mixed, like she’s trying to decide if what her body wants is in any way acceptable. “Matthias, I’d better go back to the rental.”

“Your things are here.”

“I should get them and go—”

“Why? Give me one good reason.”

She’s silent, and I take her in my arms, guiding my lips to hers. “I want to take you upstairs. I want you to let me,” I say.

When she breathes in, she shudders a little bit in my arms, like she can’t quite get herself together to think about what I’m saying. I’ve had women respond to me like that before. It’s a natural response to desire, and it’s something I’m familiar with at this point. But with Mallory, even after one day, it feels different. Almost totally new and unfamiliar. Perhaps that’s because it’s clear that she’s not the girl who’s been walking around Europe looking for men. In fact, I don’t think she’s ever been looking.

I bring my lips to her cheek, just where the skin there meets her ear. I kiss her there, lips touching the soft downiness of her skin. Her hair smells like something fruity and tropical, like coconut and passion flower, like American shampoo and beauty products.

“Matthias—this isn’t something I do. It’s not why I came to Amsterdam. Or Europe for that matter.”

“Not many people go somewhere thinking that they’ll meet someone and have a night—or perhaps a week—of something nice.”

“A surprising number of women do exactly that. Especially right after they graduate from college. I’m not—I’m not like them. I’m not ready for anything—”

“That’s good. Because I’m not asking for anything. I’m not the type of guy who does.” Gently, I push her against the stone of the building, and I tilt her head toward mine. “You’re not ready for anything, and I’m not asking for anything except a night. Maybe a little more if you like what I’m giving you. I’m going to show you that you’re not all the things you think you are. You’re more.”

I kiss her again, lips pressed to hers, less urgently this time. I taste the subtle hint of whatever sweet drink she ordered, feel the flick of her tongue against mine. She melts into me, her body going limp, save for her arms, which climb up to my neck, long cool fingers resting against my skin. My cock stirs, and it’s all I can do not to lift her right there and carry her up the stairs to the main floor. There’s room there to do all the things I want, to demonstrate exactly why she’s lovelier than any of the women I’ve met in this town. With this girl, though, there’s a need for exquisite slowness, time spent in exploration. I try to convey that with my kiss, lips meeting lips, skin touching skin. A soft moan escapes her lips, the sound communicated to my mouth alone.

When I pull away, her lips are cherry red from the kiss. The slight change makes her face even lovelier, her vulnerability even more apparent. I’m the kind of man who doesn’t notice these things about women, who doesn’t even want these things.

But I’m not one to dwell on emotions.

I take her hand, and she lets me lead her up the creaking wooden stairs to the place where I’ll change her forever.

Chapter Six

Mallory

A thousand girls would like to be me right now. I’m on my own, beyond the reach of my mother and the rest of my meddling family, traveling through Europe, and I’m standing in an apartment—or does he own the whole building? — of possibly the hottest guy I’ve ever met in my life.

“What’s wrong?” His lips brush against my neck, hands wrapped around my waist, his body pushing against mine and pinning me against the wall. Maybe pinning me isn’t the appropriate description—it’s more that he’s gently holding me there, like he’s afraid I might break. There’s something strange about that. He doesn’t seem the type to be slow or gentle, and it’s freaking me out the slightest bit. Especially since I’ve never done this before. Any of it.

“Matthias…” I’m not exactly a virgin, but I’m not exactly experienced. Those aren’t the words a guy wants to hear in a situation like this. I might look like I’m easy—or that’s what my mom said about my tattoos—but I’m not anything of the sort. I swallow hard. “I don’t do things like this. This is a little new to me. The whole one-night stand thing. And you’re being…”

“Too fast? We can slow down.” The warmth of his breath hits my skin, and I shudder, arousal and fear coursing through my body in equal measure.

Do I want this?

“You’re being too slow—I mean—I might lose my nerve—”

Yes, I want this. I wanted it when I saw him leaning against the stone wall next to that bar. Maybe he can cleanse my palate of all this grief I’ve been carrying around. Kim would approve. I choke down that other feeling—the anxious, nervous feeling that I might genuinely like this guy, despite his more infuriating qualities.

His long, steady fingers brush against the nape of my neck and wrap into the curls of my hair. With a wicked grin, he takes a handful and pulls my hair gently, tipping my head back. “Maybe that’s something I can teach you too, American girl. Slow is much better. But if you need it a little rougher, I can manage that too.”

His grip on my hair tightens, and I gasp. This time, his lips meet mine with renewed determination, his tongue pressing through my lips with brutal precision. A moan escapes my lips, and my arms go limp, hanging against my sides, the backs of them brushing against the raw, exposed brick. Strong lips roam away from my mouth, finding my neck, and then the thin fabric of my white shirt. Warmth touches my right nipple, and teeth tug at the sensitive flesh, bringing it to attention. Matthias’s free hand cups my other breast, a thumb brushing against fabric and flesh beneath until I’m moaning, the sounds coming from somewhere deep.

Please, hurry. I need this. I want you to obliterate me until I’m nothing more than flesh. I need the voices and the memories gone.

I don’t say these things. Instead, I close my eyes as his hands both find my waist and turn me so I’m facing the wall, fingers grabbing and pulling off my shirt and then the thin fabric of my skirt. The seam on one side rips—I hear it as he pulls it down to expose my panties. Hands grab my ass, and a deep, rumbling voice echoes in my ear. Gritty and filled with lust, nothing like the carefully accented European voice I heard today.

“So conservative,” he growls, his thumb hooking under the waistband of my plain cotton briefs. His hand travels across the length of my back, fingers finding the back of my bra. Matthias laughs, the sound dark and rich, like liquid gold or chocolate, something equally decadent. “This too. A girl like you, you need something that shows off your curves. Something that doesn’t hide them.”

I don’t stop to point out that I didn’t exactly pack my carryon bag with sexy lingerie. Or that I should probably leave right after this, since the money I spent on my rental is slowly being wasted—that this is a one-night thing, and tomorrow I’ll go to the Van Gogh museum by myself.

I don’t say that, because his deft fingers unhook my bra, and I let it fall to the floor. Slowly—true to his word, he pushes my body against the brick. My nipples, stiff and sensitive and pressed into the rough surface, send shocks through my nervous system. The hair on the nape of my neck stands on end, and like he’s reading my mind, Matthias places his lips there and then bites gently.

“Don’t worry, Princess. I’ll make everything else go away.” Matthias’s hand slips between my legs, thumb brushing over my sensitive button and down the length of my sex. The cotton fabric is slick with my wetness, and against the brick, my cheeks turn bright red. It’s not like he didn’t know I wanted this too, but I never let my guard down like this. The brief affairs I’ve had have taken place under the cover of complete darkness, in a bedroom, beneath the thin, scratchy sheets of college dorm rooms.

“Yes,” I manage to respond. “Please.” I’ve never asked for this before, not with words, never wanted it so desperately.

He moans, the vibration of his voice hitting my skin. “You’re already very wet. Naughtier than I imagined.” Thumbs hook in the waistline of my panties and pull them down slowly, the elastic tracing over the line of my legs as he pulls them down and kneels behind me.

“Lift your right foot, Mallory, and then your left.”

I do as he says, shivering. The air of the room is light and cool against my skin, and I realize I’m completely naked, while this man is still clothed. It’s a simple thing, but it puts the power in his hands. He could do anything to me—the danger makes my heart race, but it also sends deeper, pulsing need to my sex.

I hear him unbuckling himself, and I suck in my breath—is he going to fuck me here, like this, pressed against the wall? Or…?

“What are you…”

“Quiet.” His hand finds my ass and squeezes one cheek, fingers slipping between my legs again, moving over my slick folds and cruelly—expertly—avoiding my clit. “And close your eyes.”

“Okay,” I breathe. I close them instantly, surprising myself.

“Mallory,” he says, pushing a finger inside of me with aching slowness. “Tell me how many men you’ve been with.”

I swallow hard, blood rushing to my head. My sex pulses, throat growing tight, lightning filling my veins. “I—I don’t know. Two. Maybe three.”

A second finger slips inside of me, pressing against my walls, spreading me open. I can hear a rhythmic stroking sound, and I groan involuntarily, imagining him behind me, stroking himself hard. “Was it good for you? Those few times?”

“I don’t know—I don’t know what you mean. It was—fine—”

He chuckles, but it’s not a disparaging laugh. “But you didn’t come. Did you?”

Ashamed, embarrassed, I shake my head. He removes his fingers from inside and pulls my wetness up around my clit, circling it, fingertips brushing over its hardness. I cry out, bolts of energy pouring through me, centering on the place where his fingers move in circles.

“We’ll remedy that tonight.” He moves closer to me, and I feel his breath, hot against my sex.

“I don’t—” The protest sticks in my throat.

“Spread your legs for me,” he says, and again, I do as he commands. Light, heat, energy spread through me in glowing waves. Obeying his voice takes me higher, thoughts coming in fragments now. His lips meet my sex, tongue replacing fingers and trailing over my wetness, tasting and touching. Unless my ears are mistaken, he’s still stroking himself, even as he holds me steady with his other hand. My body shakes and shudders, responding to his mouth. I groan—loud this time—as his tongue travels back and touches my tender, untouched ass. His stroking grows more insistent, and he turns me so my back is touching the brick wall now, my eyes still closed.

“Mmm,” he moans. “Your eyes are still closed. Very good. I’m going to make you come now, and then I’m going to fuck you. I like to make my women come before I fuck them for the first time.”

“Why—”

Before I can say another word, his lips find my clit again, covering it this time and pulling it into his mouth, sucking and licking. I’ve come plenty of times—all on my own—but it’s always seemed like a perfunctory bodily function, nothing terribly exciting, a quick relief of built up tension. But as he kisses my sex, lips encircling my clit, the coil that tightens inside me is at once far greater and more consuming than anything I’ve ever experienced. My body begins shaking, the back of my head pressed into the wall, naked body exposed to him, completely. Mind tipping into oblivion, I come, glittering light rolling through me. The experience isn’t like any I’ve had before. Even after a few hours of knowing this man, there’s a trust between us I can’t quite describe. There’s danger too—of course. Perhaps it’s that mix that makes my body let go the way it does. And perhaps it’s why I confessed details of my past that I only ever shared with one human being. The two men—or the two and a half, if you count the one awkward night spent with my roommate’s brother who “couldn’t quite get it in—hadn’t desired my pleasure in any way. Those college experiences had been awkward, quick, and wholly forgettable.

But with Matthias… well. Perhaps it’s because he’s older, or because I am. It could be the freedom of a one-night stand, or a multi-night stand, or whatever the hell this is.

I’m left shaking, panting, back pressed hard against the brick wall, listening to Matthias’s breath as he pants too, his hand still moving over the flesh of his stiff cock. “You can open your eyes now, Princess.”

Princess? I blush at the moniker. Nicknames haven’t been part of the relationships I’ve had, and that one doesn’t feel like me, not in any legitimate sense. I’m not that type of woman, am I? Or am I one of a long string of women that Matthias calls by that name?

He doesn’t give me long to think. “I said, open them.” His voice comes out raspy with need, but the commanding tone of his voice is apparent.

This is how he talks to other women too, Mallory. Don’t be fooled.

But still, I obey him, still reeling from the touch of his tongue. When my eyelids flutter open, I peer at Matthias, still kneeling before me on the floor. His jeans are casually open, the bottom few buttons of his shirt undone. On any other man, it might look ridiculous. But on him, I can see the definition of his muscles under his shirt, the defined lines leading down to his perfect, exceptionally hard, and utterly massive cock. I gasp.

It won’t fit. It won’t.

Still, the overwhelming feeling buzzing through my mind is one of intense, unabashed desire. I want it. I want him. If that means pain, I want that too. Anything that will bring me closer to that body of his, the tight, sculpted creation I’ve desired since the moment I laid eyes on him.

Slowly, he takes one hand and unbuttons his shirt, casting it to the side. He rises and steps out of his jeans. His length is gravity-defying, stiff and straight. I haven’t seen a man so unashamed before—not that there’s a reason he would be. The body beneath his clothing is exactly as I imagined—worked on and sculpted to physical perfection. The muscles in his arms reflect the judo he says he’s practiced for the past decade. There are scars from fights, one running down his thigh, another across one bicep.

I gulp. He takes his cock in one hand and brushes his fingers over the length, making a glistening bead of precum appear at the very tip.

“You want this, Mallory? Tell me you do. Tell me how much you do.”

At this moment, I want to sink back into the brick, to become one with it, to escape the depth of what I want—the finality of what he’s asking. Being with him changes my identity, even if only for one night. This isn’t the type of girl I am.

But who’s to label the type of girl you are? Kim’s voice comes to me as I stand there, shivering. Not me, not Mom. Just you. And that can change drastically over time, believe me.

“Yeah, I do. I do want this.”

“What is it that you want, Mallory?”

I swallow hard, the taste of fear filling my throat. But there’s no denying the overwhelming desire pulsing through me, making my sex wet and full again. “I want you,” I whisper.

“And what do you want me to do to you?” He steps closer, hand traveling absently over his hardness.

“I want you to fuck me.”

“You want me inside of you?” He takes another step and presses his cock against my thigh.

I nod. “I want you inside of me.” My words come out in what sounds like a pathetic squeak, but he gives a small groan, leaning in closer and kissing my neck. His hand rises greedily to my breast and pinches a nipple, sending another rush of blood to the dark, waiting place between my thighs. “I want you—I want you to fuck me. I want you to come inside me.” I balk at my own words. They tumble out of my mouth before I can consider what I’m saying.

I want all of this and more. I want him all at once, everywhere. Maybe this is Kim meant by playing it casual—maybe this is what you get.

“My pleasure,” he says, gripping me by the waist and hoisting me up so that my legs are wrapped around him. He kisses me then, mouth hot and hungry, the outline of his muscular torso long and lithe against my far softer flesh. The length of his cock is pressed to my sex, my clit rubbing against the hot, smooth skin. The nearly agonizing need builds inside of me again, and the heat spreads through my thighs and lower back. I want to come again—and I feel like I could. I try pressing my body closer to his as he carries me back to his bedroom, but he holds me still, laughing and nipping at my neck.

“Eager little thing, aren’t you? Not yet, not yet.” He throws me down on the bed like he’s a caveman home from the hunt. Surprising myself again, I raise up on both elbows to watch him rip a foil packet open and slide a condom onto his waiting cock. My entire body pulses in anticipation.

When he comes to me, I tremble, legs shaking. He moves a lock of hair away from my eye and kisses me again. He brings my body to the edge of the bed, positioning himself so the head of his cock meets my entrance. His expert thumb goes to my clit and works it in small circles again, and I feel the rush of wetness I know he’s looking for. He works the head against my opening, stretching me open as I lie there before him.

I yelp—it feels like it’s been a century since I’ve done this. “It hurts,” I pant.

“Do you want me to stop?” he mutters, thumb still pressed against my clit. “You feel so good. I want to finish inside you, sweet girl. And I want to make you come again.”

I sigh, my body egging me on. The ache inside me intensifies, and I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I need him completely, his entire length. When his tongue met my flesh, he must have known I couldn’t let a night go by without him.

“No, don’t stop.” I hook my legs around his waist, drawing him in closer, listening to his groans and sighs.

His hands reach for my hips, and he steadies himself, pushing further in and then retreating slightly before thrusting deeper. “You’re so tight. God, you’re tight. Jesus, that’s good. I’m going to take you all the way now.”

I nod, biting down on my lip. I feel myself stretching to accommodate his size. There’s pain, yes, but there’s a deeper feeling of fulfillment too. He pulls back and pushes inside of me again, filling me deeper this time. With one final movement, he fills me to the hilt, the base of his cock making contact with my clit.

He holds himself there for a while, fingers buried in my flesh, groaning with his own private need. I’m at a limit I’ve never known, my clit pulsing.

“Please,” I sigh. Matthias lets out a great groan and begins fucking me in earnest, his thighs pressed hard between mine. I cry out with each thrusting movement, close to the edge of orgasm. I feel my muscles spasm, clenching involuntarily, a long throaty moan coming forth from somewhere deep and hidden in my body.

“Matthias,” I cry out, moaning his name. He falls into a faster rhythm, pumping deep inside with controlled thrusts. With that utterance, I feel myself starting to come again, the rising tide of my pleasure longer and sweeter than the last orgasm. My thighs shake beneath his, my muscles clenching and pumping thick waves of pleasure through my sex and into the outer reaches of my body. I moan, long and loud, wrapping my hands around his back, my nails raking against his skin. The tide of my orgasm washes over my body, finally settling into the golden peace of an afterglow.

Just as I finish, Matthias grabs my hips and flips me over so that I’m on my hands and knees. He grips my waist hard again, and begins to fuck me with wild abandon, his breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps. The sounds he makes send a ripple of pleasure through my body. As he gets closer to his own pleasure, his body slows as if he’s savoring the last seconds of our closeness.

“So sweet. So good.” He fills me with one final thrust. “Oh Mallory,” he sighs, hands traveling to my breasts as his body collides with mine in the final throes of his ecstasy. I feel his muscles tense and release against mine, and he groans, coming hard.

I have the vague thought, as he collapses against me and pulls me into an embrace, that I want this again. As soon as possible, and then again. Until I leave him behind as a distant memory. This—this is what Kim told me about—and it was nothing like the clumsy experiences I shared with my brief relationships back in college. This was something entirely different, something life-changing, world-shattering.

I keep these thoughts to myself. A man like Matthias does this every Saturday night, and sometimes twice. He doesn’t need to hear it from his most recent conquest.

Instead, I let him pull me into his shower, lined with green glass tile. He bathes me in a soap that smells like lavender and carries me to bed, where we both fall into a deep sleep until morning.

Chapter Seven

Matthias

You’ll have hell to pay for shirking your responsibilities. You’re supposed to be on a ferry to the North Islands right now. But I’m going to guess you’re at the house in Amsterdam with some girl.

The messages pour in from my mother in the morning. I look over to see Mallory, still asleep. I’d wager she hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since long before she left home. And I know her time in Europe has been lonely. There’s nothing wrong with being alone, but I know loneliness, and that’s an altogether different thing. I take one of her curls and twist it around my finger. She doesn’t wake.

We’ll be sending someone for you.

I growl and put my phone on the bedside table. I’ve been dealing with my mother and father for twenty-seven years, and I’ve never gotten over the constant watching and waiting. I’ve made it clear I don’t want the kingdom, I don’t believe in its ideals, and I disagree with their antiquated thoughts on marriage and producing heirs.

If they send someone here before Mallory leaves, she’ll know all of this. With an ordinary girl in my bed, I wouldn’t necessarily care what she thought of me or my lineage. For some reason, this one is different. There’s something I can’t put my finger on. I don’t take too long to ponder it all—the night we shared, the fact that I wanted her here when I woke in the morning, the reality of my mother’s words weighing down on me. I’m a man of action, my brother Kian told me one time. And what’s better than a good chase?

I trace my fingers over the tattoos on Mallory’s shoulder. White and pink blossoms, two of them. I haven’t asked, but it strikes me that one of them represents her sister and one Mallory herself. She hasn’t said much about her sister, but it’s clear that the loss struck her down and stayed with her. I wonder if these losses ever leave us, or if they simply dull over time.

“Mal,” I say, placing a hand on her back. Her dark lashes stir, and her blue-gray eyes flutter open.

“You can’t call me Mal. You barely know me.” She grins a little, less distant than she was the first day I met her.

“I’d say I know you pretty well after last night.” And I’d like to continue to know you just like that all day today, but there are at least two North Islander goons headed this way to force me onto a ferry and get me the hell out of Amsterdam. There are ways to avoid that reality. I put on my best smile, the one that always gets tourist girls at the end of the night.

“What are you smiling about? I have to go back to the rental today and get my shit together. I have plans to go to the Van Gogh museum.” Her voice is still sleepy, and she yawns. The sight of her pink lips parting stirs something inside me, but I have a mission right now. And it involves a train headed for Brussels.

“You should really do the museums on the last day you’re here. Have you been to Brussels yet?”

She shakes her head, and thankfully, there’s something of a spark in her eyes. “It wasn’t on my itinerary. I passed through on the way to Amsterdam.”

“What’s after Amsterdam? School? Do you know where?”

“Rome. Maybe. I haven’t heard from them yet. I was accepted in Paris, but I don’t know.”

“Then you definitely need to see Brussels if you haven’t been. You won’t have a chance when you’re back in school. The cathedrals, the nightlife, hikes through the woods. It’s nice this time of year.” My phone buzzes again, and I don’t pick it up. I know the nature of what’s being said on the other end.

“No. I came to see Amsterdam. I came to the Netherlands as my last stop.” She pauses. “Besides, how would we get there? Don’t you need to reserve the train ahead of time? Where would we stay—”

“Taken care of. I don’t have an apartment there, but my friend owns a hotel in the center of the city. It’s got a suite. Room service, old world charm. I can buy you a skirt to replace the one I ripped last night.”

She lifts herself to one elbow, creamy breasts and pink nipples exposed. God, I want to take this woman and throw her over my shoulder, make her do as I please. And right now, what the fuck I please is getting the hell out of this city. She bites her lip and looks at me questioningly. I’d like to roll her over and enter her again, make all the questions disappear.

“Matthias. Who are you? Why can you even propose things like this? I don’t quite feel comfortable accepting all this—I mean—what do you want in return?”

I chew on my lip and think a second before answering. After a day and night—and a proposed romantic getaway—she’s right to make a few inquiries. “My parents own a few large corporations, and I’ve been smart with my investments. And I want your company until you go to graduate school. We’ll go our separate ways after that.” I shrug, like it’s all simple, like I haven’t left anything out. Like I do this kind of thing all the time, when in fact I can’t remember the last time I wanted to spend more than one day with any woman. “And you shouldn’t miss the Musees des Beaux-Arts in the city center. I might be in the minority suggesting it too, but the food there is better. Italian. French. And my favorite ethnic cuisine—chocolate.”

She scrunches up her nose, hopefully because she’s thinking about changing her itinerary. “I’d have to cancel with Albrecht—”

“The room you rented? With whatever company that is? I’ll pay the rest. Or threaten him.”

She smiles, but there’s worry in her eyes. I’d like to break down and tell her everything right now. But my background isn’t one I want her to know. I’d rather leave here and have a few days where I’m nothing and no one. No responsibilities. I reach over to her and cup one of her lovely breasts, fingers brushing over her nipple. She gasps, and instinctively, she turns her body toward mine. Mallory wants more of this. And I want the same.

She presses against my body, sighing gently, her flesh warm in my hand. “If you want me, can’t I just go to the museum on my own and come back here for more of—this?” She moves my hand to her other breast, the sheet falling away from her body, exposing its planes and curves. My cock stiffens, and the feeling I had last night starts to come back. I shake it off, though my cock remains hard beneath my boxer briefs.

“Let me take you to Brussels. I’ll take you to dinner and dessert and the art museum. The cathedral. I want to photograph you through the city, fuck you every evening, and in the morning again.” I shrug. “I thought you were the adventurous type… but if you need to stick to that printed itinerary.”

“It’s not printed—”

“It fell out of your backpack,” I say with a grin, hoping my voice isn’t too desperate.

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. We’ll go. But I need to be back here to catch my flight by Friday.”

“Good girl.”

She sits up with a wicked grin, sheets fully falling away. “That’s patronizing, Matthias.”

“But you like it.” I can see her full body now, backlit with the morning sun coming in through the window. Her breasts are near perfection, round and smooth and full, the slight curve of her belly, the dark thatch that leads to her sex.

“I do,” she says, unashamed. “Just promise me—this is all fun. It keeps being fun until I leave.”

“That’s all I do in life, Princess. Good fun. I prefer the dirty kind, not the clean.”

“Good,” she says, kneeling back down and pulling the sheets away from my legs, exposing my hardness that hasn’t quite gone back down. Without a word, she pulls my boxers down and bends over my cock—probably an action she wouldn’t have considered herself before last night. Straddling me, naked, she presses her lips to my tip and takes my head into her mouth before I can protest.

“I need to book the tickets and the hotel. Not exactly saying no but—”

Her tongue swirls over the head before she stops for a moment and lifts her head. “Book it on your phone.”

“And you’ll what—keep going?” I grin. This woman.

“Yeah,” she says, gripping my cock and stroking it with one hand. Her movements are inexpert, but I’m as hard as I’ve ever been, my length straining against her touch.

“Jesus, Mal.” Before I can say more, her mouth is on me again, sweet warmth enveloping my cock. I think of what I did with Mallory last night as she takes me into her mouth, the feeling of entering her all at once, her body growing tighter around me as I pushed deeper inside of her, the soft, sweet quality of her voice as she moaned. She stops and looks up at me as if she’s waiting for me to pick up the phone and book our tickets. I grin sheepishly and put one hand to her hair, tangling my fingers in it, and reaching my other hand out to grab my phone. As she takes me into her mouth, my cock closer to the back of her throat with each movement, I search for tickets and clumsily book them. I hate to admit it—but my mind is far more intent on Mallory than it is on our escape now. With each concentrated lick, her tongue seeming to twist around the head of my cock as she lifts it away, I’m closer to coming. My eyes raise and linger over the top of her phone, watching her round, perfect tits bounce against the tops of my thighs, jolts of white hot sensation flickering through the tops of my thighs and the base of my cock. Her hand touches me there again, encasing me fully. I shoot off a text to my friend in Brussels and throw my phone aside. Pulling Mallory’s hair like I did last night, I guide her how I want. Wide, blue-gray eyes look up at me, locking with mine. I groan loudly, and guide her mouth, slowly, very slowly, so that she takes me to the back of her throat. Without thinking, I buck my hips hard, watching her as she submits to me and takes my cock fully.

I have the fleeting thought that I don’t want this to end. I want to see Mallory working my cock for hours, to hold her hair as she pleases me like this. I’ve had blowjobs before—I love them. The wild abandon, the woman on her knees, eyes on mine. But this one feels different, like it’s the first one I ever had, the melting, soul-extending feeling somehow more real and more present than anything I’ve experienced in years. Mal takes me to the back of her throat again and, in that instant, my muscles tense and tighten.

“Mal—I—” Before I have time to think about finishing, I come hard in her mouth and watch her as she swallows. Her tongue travels my length again and glides over the head. Shivers run up my spine and back down, and I feel like closing my eyes, though I want to keep them open to see Mallory’s face and her pink tongue traveling along her lower lip as she lifts her head and sits back again. Same view as before—but somehow, I see her differently now.

Mine, she’s mine. The thought echoes in my head, like a mantra. How could my mind come up with that? I’ve only known this girl for two days. Not even that. I shake off the thought. It’s a dangerous one, for a man like me. We’re only going to Brussels for a few days, and then she’s gone from my life for good. That’s the situation that’ll work best for me—and for her, come to think of it.

“I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean to—”

What do you say to a girl when she brings a red-tipped fingernail to the corner of her deliciously wet mouth, staring at you like she’s ready to go again? I didn’t mean to come in your mouth, not if you didn’t want me to. None of that sounds like something I would say, not before this morning.

“Did I do something wrong? I’ve only done it once before. I’m not really sure what I’m doing—not tonight, not right now—” She stops and blushes hard, her pink cheeks now colored to match her astoundingly talented lips.

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong.” I bite my lip. What do you tell a girl like this? Certainly I won’t divulge any of the myriad thoughts in my head—that she’s the best I’ve had in years, maybe in all my time as a grown man. Instead, I decide on a partial truth, one that closes this conversation and leads to the rest of the day. “You were perfect.”

The right side of her mouth rises into a soft smile, and I lean forward to catch her in my arms, kissing her neck, breathing in her scent. On the bed, I can feel my phone buzzing again. I take a deep breath, taking a picture of her in this moment and locking it in my mind. These memories, these images, they’re good for safe keeping. When she’s no longer here and—hell, I might be in the North Islands—I’ll have this collection of moments, like still photographs, to look upon. I don’t dwell on the fact that this is not the kind of thing I store in my memory, nor are girls like Mallory the ones who draw my attention for photographs.

“Okay,” she whispers, pulling away from me and starting to throw her clothes in a bag. She pulls on a pair of jeans, worn on both knees, and a long purple shirt that has cut-outs on both shoulders. One of the strategically placed holes shows the tattoo. It’s simple, the look she wears, but something about it shows the intensity that lies beneath her surface. “Let’s go on an adventure. You’re right. I can’t stick to my itinerary if I want to make the most of Europe. I’ll let you wine and dine me and put me up in some hotel. I don’t have anyone worrying about me at home, so I’m still banking on the fact that you’re not a serial killer.”

I give her a wry grin and slip on my boxers and a dark gray shirt, opting for worn jeans like Mal is wearing. Might as well blend in if we’re leaving the city. I can only hope that my mother hasn’t gone the route of alerting everyone in my old haunts. If she has, I sincerely hope she didn’t think of Brussels. It’s been years since I’ve been there, and the hotel isn’t one of our properties. I hope that’s enough to keep me—and Mallory—out of the drama my parents so desperately want to create.

A man can hope.

“I said I hope you’re not a serial killer,” Mal says, putting her backpack on so it sits lopsidedly over one shoulder. I make a mental note to buy her a messenger bag to make her look less conspicuously American when she leaves for graduate school. “And then you didn’t respond. That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”

“No. I’m just a serial hedonist, and I’m hoping to take you on a trip you won’t soon forget.”

“That’s the only reason I agreed. That—and the sex. I’ll admit it.” She smiles and sheepishly puts her hands in her pockets. Something about her seems lighter this morning.

“Good. There’s plenty more to come.” I raise an eyebrow and focus on the vision of her in the dresses I pick out, her skin clad in Belgian lingerie.

I pack a bag, not lingering over the details of what I’m taking with me, hoping Mallory doesn’t see me checking the time on my phone every other minute. The adventure can’t begin soon enough.

My phone buzzes again as we walk out of the house in Amsterdam.

Hopefully, there aren’t any traces of us here.

A prodigal son is bad enough, in my parents’ opinion. A prodigal prince with an American girl—that’s something entirely different.

Chapter Eight

Mallory

“Who’s blowing up your phone?” I lean my head onto Matthias’s firm shoulder, making sure to keep my eyes away from the screen. I’ve heard that people who sleep together shouldn’t look at each other’s phones, so I don’t. It’s been so long that I’ve slept with anyone that I don’t know the protocol associated with these things. But Matthias’s phone has been buzzing nonstop since we got on this train, and half the time, he’s not even picking it up to look at it. After an hour of sitting next to him, I can’t help but ask. His mind is somewhere else, and it drives home the point that I don’t know a damn thing about him.

“No one is ‘blowing up’ my phone. See?” He leans back toward me and shows me the phone. “It’s not blown up. It’s completely intact.”

I giggle for a second and then look at his face. He gives me a wide smile and clicks his phone off. “I meant, ‘Who’s texting you?’”

“I know. Let me assure you it’s nothing exciting or important. In fact, you’d be desperately bored if I told you.”

He’s keeping something hidden, and I’m pretty sure it has to do with the reason we left Amsterdam. And if I’m not wrong, it might have something to do with the lifestyle he leads. What’s he involved in? A drug ring? The mafia? Is the mafia even in this part of Europe? I guess they’re probably everywhere, but I have no clue what he’d be doing with them. I glance up at him again, examining the distant look on his face. He’s entitled to each and every one of his secrets. This isn’t serious. There aren’t any strings attached.

I close my eyes and focus on the memories of this morning and the night before. The taste of his skin, the feeling of his body pushing against mine. The things he’ll do to me when he gets me alone. That’s the point of this trip, the point of this whole week before I go back to real life. An escape. Fun. Lightness. None of the awful things that have plagued me for so long. It’s what I didn’t know I wanted, what Kim kept telling me I needed.

I’ll keep that in mind when the next sketchy thing comes up. I won’t know him long enough for the drama to get to either of us. When whatever is chasing him catches up and finds him, I’ll be long gone, and he’ll be the one dealing with it. I press my body closer to him, wishing desperately that I could will away all the people in their adjoining private cubbies. It feels like too long since he’s touched me, even though it was just this morning that I watched his face as he came. For a moment, I doze, lulled by the continuous rhythm of the train, sailing over the tracks and taking us into a different country. I imagine that Matthias’s hands are roaming over my body, his fingertips traveling over the skin of my neck and down to the flesh of my breasts. In my state of half-sleep, I think about the many hours I spent worrying about the shape and size of my body, particularly my breasts. And when I fell into this man’s bed, it seemed that my body actually pleased him, that the shape of it, its curves and planes, turned him on to no end. The vision of him entering me for the first time flashes through my mind as I fall into a deeper sleep, and all at once, my body starts to soar with arousal, like there are actual hands and fingers searching over my body.

I wake with a start, but my eyes stay closed. There is, in fact, a hand under my shirt and moving slowly up my back. Fingers find the clasp of my bra and unhook it, and I sigh softly before coming to the full realization that anyone could come into our semi-private cube at any moment.

“Matthias—” I hiss. “What the hell are you doing?”

His hand, still under my shirt, pulls me closer. He laughs. “You look really nice in that shirt. But I feel like your bra is a hindrance. I want it off.”

I feel my face growing hot. “But we’re on the train—there are people—” His other hand sneaks around to my front and tugs up on my underwire. In a quick—and perhaps too expertly executed—move, he moves the straps beneath my sleeves and helps me out of the bra. I’m too stunned to resist. He holds the lacy bit of lingerie in his hand, and when I reach for it, he pulls it away and stuffs it in his backpack. Against the silky fabric of my shirt, my nipples grow stiff and obvious, and I blush even harder.

“That’s so much nicer. I’d get your panties off too if you weren’t wearing jeans, Mal. I should have told you that’s what I wanted before we left the house, but it was so much more fun on the train.” He leans in and whispers in my ear, his breath hot against my neck. Shivers run through my body, and my nipples grow even stiffer, if that’s possible. “Maybe I’ll get you to go take your panties off in the bathroom. I’ll get you a new skirt in Brussels so I have easy access whenever I want you.” He nips at my earlobe, and he groans slightly, bringing his hand to my right breast and cupping it through my shirt.

“What if someone sees?” He moves his hand to the other breast and then back again, focusing on one nipple and then the other. The feeling is heady, hallucinogenic, dizzying. Instinctively, I spread my legs. And hell, now I wish I were wearing a skirt too.

Just as I imagine his fingers moving lower, I feel a hand at the button of my jeans and then at the zipper. They fall free, and fingers slide into my panties, using the long hemline of my skirt to very barely cover what we’re doing. He makes contact with my clit, and I whimper, my voice coming out louder than it should.

“Then they’re in for quite a show, because I’m going to make you come. If we take a night train back—” He leans in again and kisses my neck, his voice rumbling in my ear. “I might have you sit on my lap, straddle me…”

I want to manage a protest; to tell him he’s being ridiculous. We couldn’t—but the image is stuck in my head now. His fingers circle my clit and slip lower, pushing my jeans down more, making the heat pool between my thighs. “And?” My voice comes out, silky and strange to me, communicating in a tone I’ve never before heard. “Then what?”

He laughs and turns my face to his, kissing me deeply, tongue exploring my mouth as he slips one finger inside my sex, accessing my wetness. I’d be ashamed on any other day, ashamed that I let someone do this, that I gave in so easily, that I was so wanton in my desire. But I’m not. Instead, I’m hungry, needy. I want to come for him, show him what a good girl I am.

He pulls away from my mouth and continues fingering me, watching my face. “Then, I’d pull my cock out and have you stroke it until I’m very, very hard. Since you’ll be wearing that skirt, I’ll have you slip forward and lower yourself down, inch by inch.”

He slips a second finger inside of me. “Oh God.” A person passes in the train hallway outside, perhaps on their way to the dining car. I cut my eyes over to the glass, and Matthias’s fingers pump inside of me, curving and catching my g-spot inside. “Oh God—” I moan. “Someone’s going to see us. They’re going to kick us off the—oh Christ—”

The base of his palm rocks against my clit, fingers deep inside me now. “Then I’ll watch you, your beautiful body giving me pleasure. Until I can’t bear it anymore and I—” His fingers hit my g-spot, tapping it in quick rhythmic bursts. “Come. Hard. Deep.”

“Faster,” I moan. “Faster—I’m—”

His fingers obey my demand. “Inside of you. Filling you.”

Another person walks by, eyes ahead, not seeing us through the thin layer of glass that separates us from the outside world. The orgasm soars through my body, sparks flying, eyes growing dim as I watch the other passenger head through the door to the next train. It closes behind him, and I’m still bucking against Matthias’s hand, whimpering, tears trailing over my cheeks. “Holy hell. Matthias.”

He pulls his hand away and helps me back into my jeans. “What? Isn’t this what everyone does on trains? Or are Americans puritanical about public transportation too?” He grins and kisses me again, lips warm and strong. “I think that last guy was purposefully looking away, Princess. But he should have watched. My God, you’re beautiful when you come.”

I feel color rising in my cheeks, but it’s not the same as it was when I first slept with him. My blood isn’t rushing as hard, the embarrassment and shame far less thick than it was. Instead, I’m almost pleased with myself.

Why?

The train pulls into the station at Brussels before I have a chance to contemplate the reason I let a strange man bring me to orgasm in a nearly public place, so the thought rolls away, like all the protests and concerns I had when I first met him.

Yes, some things about him are strange. There are parts of him he’s carefully hidden, but that doesn’t matter.

There’s nothing to tie us together after these next few days, and I’ll be making a decision soon about where I’m going to graduate school. I won’t see him again after that because there will be no reason.

Isn’t this what Kim meant when she told me to have a fling with someone I met in Europe? She’d be proud.

Hell, I’m proud.

As we get off the train, Matthias swings my pack over his shoulder and takes my hand in his. It feels warm and right to touch him like this, to let him guide me.

For a brief moment, I wonder how it would be if we were real—if these encounters didn’t add up to a simple fairy tale. Would I fall in love with him? His body, his sharp, observant mind, the simple, unabashed arrogance he uses to address the world?

The thought isn’t a good one, and I throw it away.

Instead, I take the city in, smiling, warm September sun hitting my face as we walk toward the city center.

“Brussels isn’t quite like Amsterdam, princess. But it’s a good place to be right now, trust me. Good food, nice shopping. I’ll turn you from an innocent girl to someone who fits right in wherever we are.”

“I wouldn’t call anything we’ve done very innocent,” I whisper.

He laughs and leads me on to the hotel we’ll call home until I depart for yet another country, the one I’ll make my permanent home for the next few years. It’s all so simple, so decadent, something I thought was so deeply forbidden. But a brief affair—it can be all of those things, can’t it?

There doesn’t have to be a single complication.

Matthias checks his phone several times as we cross the courtyard in front of the hotel he’s chosen. A nagging feeling comes over me as I watch him click it off again.

But it isn’t any of my business or any of my concern. Whatever he has going on doesn’t affect me at all.

Chapter Nine

Matthias

I shouldn’t want this. I’ve never taken a girl with me on a trip like this.

I watch Mallory as she wanders around the hotel lobby, investigating the fountain and the plants that make the place look more like a tropical villa in Brazil than a grand old hotel in Brussels. She purses her pink lips, furrows her dark brows, and I wonder what she’s thinking. These aren’t things I notice, and I rarely have time to contemplate a woman’s thoughts. The quick affairs I have aren’t conducive to such romantic thinking.

Perhaps it’s no surprise that I’m this way—my parents have been pushing me toward romance since I was eighteen years old. Not a normal version of romance—a royal version. This version includes arranged dates, slight girls of sixteen cooing at me and listening to every word I say with wide eyes, marriages that occur promptly at nineteen, and supervised doctors’ visits that assess the girl’s egg quantity and quality, and worse yet, her virginity. Last time I went home—two years ago now—my mother even mentioned that I could select the sex of my first-born child. That way, she said, we could assure that a boy would be in line for the crown, and then I could go on my merry way back to Amsterdam and leave the poor girl—my potential wife—while I occupied myself with tourists and whores.

This was my mother’s solution to the marriage problem. Marry a woman in name, have doctors impregnate her with a healthy boy, and send me on my way to the life I “preferred to lead.”

The thought makes me even angrier than it normally does, though I can’t quite place why. It was the last time I went back to the North Islands. Since then, I’ve been lobbying for them to ex-communicate me permanently. Take my money, take my name, put my sister on the throne. She’s about to turn nineteen—she can legally marry, and they could appoint her husband as the prince. Or if they were feeling generous, hell, they could actually make it legal for her to be queen.

That’s not the kind of thing my parents do, though.

They want me on the throne. And because of the old laws in the North Islands, they want me married before I take my father’s place.

Mother and Father haven’t agreed to any of my solutions. Father is getting old, and there are rumors that he’s sick, and they want me as their pawn. As for my sister, Celeste, they likely want to keep her to sell off to some other royal bloodline so they can keep the North Islands “pure,” as they say. Every text, every email, every phone call—it escalates in intensity. The ten messages on my phone are each worse than the last.

I knew this day would come, and somehow, it coincides with meeting Mallory. Lovely, pure, unabashed passion surrounding her like light surrounds saints in ancient engravings. None of this will touch her. I’ll send her off in four days, and she’ll be gone.

I turn off my phone again, and Mallory walks over to me, putting one arm around my waist. There’s a slight shock when she touches me, like it’s something forbidden I shouldn’t be doing out in public. I’m Matthias Albring, after all, and I don’t do this sort of thing out in public with women. Then a second sensation settles in—one more closely akin to pleasure, but it’s more than that too. Comfort, contentment, pride at being close to a beautiful woman in the heart of one of my favorite places on the continent.

“You have your camera?” She walks with me to the front desk, and I drape my arm casually over her shoulders.

“Yes. For photographing you at the fountains, like you said. And at the Musée. The cathedral.”

She nods. On the surface, my itinerary seems boring and acceptable, but I don’t reveal the other things I have planned. If I told her what I normally do in the city, she never would have hopped on that train. I’d never have the memory of today. When we approach the counter, the concierge looks at us blankly. My friend might own the hotel, but again, no one knows who I am in this city. And all the better. My French, rusty since living in Amsterdam, pours out haltingly at first. But the switch in my brain occurs, and my words become more fluid, easier and more comfortable in my mouth. He hands us the key, and we walk to the elevators, a bell boy following us close behind.

“How many languages do you speak?” she asks.

“Four, maybe five if you count Italian. I usually don’t because I don’t know it as well as the rest. English, French, Dutch, German—those I can handle on any day. Not so much Italian.”

“That’s a shame,” she says as we get on the elevator. “I’d love to meet you in Italy sometime. I might be there for school, so I’ll have to learn Italian.”

I shift uncomfortably in the elevator. By the time she’s in school for a year or so, my mother and father will have succeeded in marrying me off, or I’ll be wandering through Asia or South America, staying as far away as possible from Europe. “I’m sure you’ll be great at it. You know French, n’est-ce pas?”

“Oui, un petit peu.” Her eyes wander around the glass elevator, and she pulls away slightly. “I’m not supposed to talk about seeing you again. I forgot. Don’t worry. You’re a little too shady for a regular sort of relationship. Very fun for a one-night stand.”

Her words sting more than they should. “We’re officially headed into two nights, and more. I’d call it more of a brief affair.”

“Never had one of those. Just boyfriends who weren’t any good in bed.” She smiles, but her eyes are distant. “I like the sound of that. I won’t mention seeing you again. It’s just an Amsterdam and Brussels thing. Not an Italy thing.”

I catch her hand. “I would. It’s just that—” I pause. Would I see her again? “Things are complicated.”

“Your phone.” She taps her forehead like she’s working something out. As long as it isn’t the full truth, she’s welcome to think I’m as shady as she likes.

“Yes, there are complicated things on the other end of the line. Let’s just say that. Things that will keep me occupied until I figure them out.” I tap my phone, willing my mother and father to forget about me when their men don’t find me at my place in Amsterdam. If they’d wanted to find me, they never should have told me they were coming. I smile at the thought and then look to Mallory. “For now, we can pretend there’s nothing complicated at all, for either of us. I can take you to our room on the top floor and…”

“And what?”

“We’re here,” I say as the elevator draws to a halt. “I’ll show you when we step inside.” I pull her through the door, and another bell boy on the top floor brings the cart with our suitcases inside the suite. It’s what Americans would call a honeymoon suite, but for us, there’s no wedding. There’s plenty of sweetness, but no years to look forward to. I have the passing thought that perhaps I could marry Mallory right here in Brussels and get my mother off my back that way, and then this would be a true honeymoon, however brief my American marriage might be. I wouldn’t—couldn’t—do that to her.

My thoughts are interrupted as Mallory takes a deep sigh and sinks into the king size bed. Maybe it’s my imagination, but there’s no trace of embarrassment on her face when she lies back, bra still off, looking as beautiful as any fine work of art. “It’s amazing.”

She lifts up onto her elbows and looks around, her face young and fresh and excited. The bed itself is expansive and covered in a white cloud-like coverlet. The gleaming hardwood floors suggest that tropical feel, made of materials that I might guess were harvested from Africa a hundred years ago, before people started to understand that owning other countries wasn’t the best thing for the health of the world. There’s a sitting area with two sofas covered in crushed velvet. Beyond that, there’s a huge, claw-foot tub that easily seats two people. The ceramic tile is gleaming white, just like the bed and the furniture. It’s all so well cared for that one couldn’t possibly tell if it was all built this century or sometime in the distant past.

“There’s something I need to tend to here, Mal. And then we must get going. There are appointments we need to get to.”

“Let me guess,” she says sleepily, falling back onto the bed. “You’ve got something to do with your person on the other line. And then—appointments? What are you on about?”

“You’re wrong this time. What I have to do—” I say the words slowly, enunciating each syllable. “Has everything to do with you and absolutely nothing to do with the person on the other end of the line.” While she’s still lying on the bed, I take out my camera.

“What are you doing? God if I had a nickel for every time I’ve said that to you in the past two days…” Her voice trails off and she laughs. “I can’t possibly be that good a model for your camera.”

“You’re a good model for me. I told you that when I first photographed you. You have that thing.” I snap a picture of her lying on the bed, short hair splayed like a halo around her head. Her breasts are free under her shirt, and I catch the light and shadow on the fabric, outlining them. My cock twitches in my jeans. It likes what it sees, and it didn’t get the relief it needed when we were on the train. I draw closer to her, snapping just a few photos of her face while she closes her eyes.

I want her again. Now.

I put my camera down and through my jeans, I begin rubbing my cock. It’s already hard for her, and even harder when I remember the bag in my suitcase.

“Close your eyes, Mal.”

“Why—”

“We’re out of the country, aren’t we?”

She laughs, silky and throaty. It’s utterly unlike anything I’d heard from her before we slept together. She closes her eyes, and to my surprise, she spreads her legs ever so slightly. “We are.”

I open my suitcase and watch her as she listens, ears alert. “You thought you might not use any of this stuff with me, but I was planning on it before I walked you into that shop.”

“I know,” she says. “I want you to, now.”

“My pleasure.” I reach into the bag from Estelle’s store and pull out the small purple vibrator. I press the button until it turns on, vibrating in my hand. Mallory lets out a small moan, like she’s anticipating what’s about to happen next. With one hand, I undo the button of her jeans and pull them down with her panties. “This is the last time you’ll wear panties while we’re in Brussels. Is that clear?”

She nods, and I can see her swallowing, like she’s staving off some hidden anxiety. She’s evolving, but there are bits and pieces I still want to break down.

“Good girl,” I say. My motions soft and deliberate, I press the head of the vibrator to her pussy, barely touching her clit and then moving down over her folds. Her body jumps, and then she sighs, opening her legs wider like she’s asking for more. Inside my jeans, my cock is raging hard, and I undo the button, letting my length fall free. As I stroke myself, I press the vibrator to Mallory’s sex again, this time pressing harder and then switching the speed of vibration.

“Fuck,” she moans, writhing against the toy. “Oh my God—don’t stop—keep pressing—”

I would tease her, keep taking it away and returning it, but I’m as hard as granite now and there’s a bead forming at the tip of my cock. I need to be inside of her. She bucks her hips once and then again, her purple shirt lifting up over her belly. “You want to come for me, Mal. Come on, so quick this time. So good.”

She lets go then, hands reaching for mine, gripping my wrist as she cries out and presses the vibrator closer to her. As she finishes, I turn the thing off and throw it aside, reaching into my suitcase for a condom. I rip the foil packet with my teeth and slip it onto my length. I’d give anything to forgo the damn thing and feel her skin touching mine, nothing between us. For a moment, as I roll the end of the condom to my base, I wonder what it might be like to fill a woman with my seed, hoping to get her pregnant with my child. With my parents’ history of ordering me to make an heir, the thought never seemed to appeal to me. But as I flip Mallory onto her side and pull up her shirt so I can see her round, perfect tits, I imagine it for the first time, entering the fantasy as I enter her.

That would be my ultimate act of possessing a woman—not just any woman—this one. I groan, gripping her tight by her hip and pushing inside of her wetness. Even through the condom, her slickness is apparent. Her walls tighten against me, sex clenching as I increase my rhythm, her little sighs and whimpers telling me that what I’m doing is exactly what she wants. I flip her to all fours and ride her as her belly tightens and she comes again, moaning loud. I watch my cock crash into her gorgeous, tight pussy, watch her legs shaking. She’s tight—so tight—around my length. I push into her one last time and come hard and quick, a monumental rush pouring through me.

“Matthias,” she whispers, looking back at me. My hands grip her waist, and I think that I want to be inside of her forever. And perhaps—what would it be like to have her wake up next to me each morning? I could take her when I wanted, use her body as I pleased, bring her further and further into my world. Her eyes locked on mine, my cock still buried inside of her, I realize that I would do all of these things. I’d take her home, never let her go. It’s a passing thought that I don’t share—there’s no use. Every relationship of mine ends, as it should. I won’t be able to escape my name and the weight it brings for much longer, maybe not longer than the week. And if my mother or father ever got wind that I truly cared for a woman, they would find a way to turn her against me, to ruin her name. In Mallory’s case, they might even be able to take away her schooling, and perhaps, the career she wants. For now, I let myself imagine it, and I fall onto the bed and wrap her in my arms, lifting her shirt and kissing the space between her breasts, trailing my tongue over her belly and then between her thighs.

I feast on her again, my phone off and my worries far away, until she can no longer move. We fall asleep until the sun is setting. When we wake, I imagine she’s mine, and I order her to get dressed for dinner—no bra, no panties.

She does exactly as I say. A wave of unexpected sadness hits me as we walk to the elevator, her perfect ass swaying in a knee-length pink dress. It’s nostalgia, perhaps, for this night as it spreads before us. I can remember her when she goes, and I’ll remember her just like this.

On the elevator, I kiss her deeply.

“What was that for?” she asks when I pull away. My eyes must reveal something since I’ve kissed her a dozen times before this.

“Because you’re lovely.”

We walk out into the breezy night.

Chapter Ten

Mallory

We walk toward the city center, his arm around my waist. I’m still buzzing from his touch, still smell like his body. I showered yesterday before we left, but now I want to walk with his scent, the warmth of him encasing me. It’s a feeling unlike any I’ve had before, something that I might want to recreate. A sinking feeling hits me—after this week, I won’t be able to recreate it. Matthias has made that clear. His terms were spelled out from the beginning—we spend this time together before I leave for school, and we don’t see each other again.

There are two letters in my email, one from Studio Bercot in Paris, one from Istituto Europe di Design in Rome. I haven’t opened them yet, though the first has “Bienvenue” in the heading, the second sporting the official emblem of the Istituto. Welcome, congratulations. You’ve been accepted to your two dream schools.

I’d tell Matthias, but he might not even care. He doesn’t even know my last name—it doesn’t matter where I go to school. There’s no repeat of this week. It tugs at me, the sadness. The first person I start to care about—and how foolish it is to care for a rich, handsome Dutchman I find wandering the streets at three in the morning—he’s being ripped away from me, just like Kim.

Nothing’s permanent, Kim had said at the end. I told her I thought love was, and she’d nodded slightly and said, “Maybe.”

So, enjoy it, her voice echoes in my head. You’re walking through a beautiful place you’ve never been, with a gorgeous man, in a dress you designed and sewed yourself. Enjoy it now, because nothing is permanent, like I said.

“What are you thinking about?” Matthias leans in and kisses my earlobe, his hand roaming to my ass, squeezing it through the silk I used for the dress. “I can tell you what I’m thinking about, Mal. Your ass. That dress. You designed this one, no?”

“How’d you know?” I look up at him, and he kisses me, body pressed to mine. We’re right in front of the restaurant he’s selected, and people are walking all around us. No one particularly seems to notice, not like they would back in Florida. There are other girls being kissed, too. And I’d wager, just from the feel of this place, some of them might not be wearing bras either.

“It looks like you. It fits your body perfectly, hugs your breasts and your hips. Maybe I was wrong about you not putting sex in your work. Maybe you have been all along.”

“Maybe,” I say. I pull back and then kiss him chastely on the lips. I need at least one drink to forget my train of thought from earlier. He may notice that I’m distant, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he pulls me into the restaurant and the host promptly seats us, nodding at Matthias like he’s an old friend.

“This is Belgian cuisine. The city is full of all kinds of food, like I said. Japanese, Italian, Nepalese…” He goes on, talking about the restaurants he’s been to, the bars where he knows the owners, the hidden cafes and diners. He comes back to talking about Restaurant Alexandre in his best tour guide voice just as a tall, elegant woman comes to our table, putting a hand on Matthias’s shoulder. Like Estelle had back in Amsterdam.

Friends everywhere, but such an impermanent life.

“Matthias. I saw your cousin Cheon just the other day. You aren’t here with him, I don’t suppose? I thought you were done with all that.” A shadow passes across Matthias’s face, but it’s gone as quickly as it comes.

“No, Anna, I’m taking my friend, Mallory around the city. She’s going to school in Paris at the end of the month—”

“Or Rome. Or Florence, come to think of it,” I say. “I haven’t decided.”

Matthias raises an eyebrow but doesn’t ask anything. “Anna is one of the owners. She’s the sommelier. And I trust her impeccable judgment. And the chef’s. Bring us your finest.”

Anna smiles and squeezes his shoulder, taking the wine list with her. My heartbeat quickens. Even though I have money now, there’s something strange about the way Matthias treats it. Maybe it’s because I’m not used to it, or because I don’t know how to treat it yet. But it seems like it’s been a constant in his life—something I can’t comprehend.

Before I have time to contemplate it further, Anna brings us a bottle of rich, red wine, setting it before us and letting us each taste a sip. She speaks in French with Matthias and then switches to Dutch halfway through their conversation. I follow the French reasonably well, and drift off, my stomach rumbling. Matthias glances at me wolfishly as Anna walks away, his eyes lingering on my breasts. I smile and take a sip of wine.

“You’re well suited to Belgium, Mal. You just need to practice your French and you’ll be mistaken for a native.”

“What makes you say that?” The food begins to arrive—beef tartare, a salad made up of delicate flowers, a cold soup swirled with autumnal colors. Each bite is more exquisite than the last.

“Once you sit back and enjoy life, you look more European. Less American.”

“Is being American a bad thing?”

“No, it’s a thing I like very much about you. You’re ambitious and determined. You have plans laid out and organized. But everyone needs to be a combination of things. After seeing you in bed,” he says, leaning in closer and taking my hand. “I know you are much more than that innocent girl in the white skirt.”

I take another long sip of the wine, appreciating its richness. The food pairs with it perfectly, melting in my mouth. Complex and rich, with hidden secrets, like Matthias himself. “I’m that too.”

“I’m glad you are. I like that you’re not for me.”

It seems romantic, our conversation. But I count the days in my head as our entree arrives, and then again when we eat dessert and finish the bottle of red wine. Three days before I’m supposed to leave Amsterdam. The ticket is booked for Paris, but I don’t even know if that’s where I’m going to be.

The thought sits with me even as we get up to leave the restaurant. The bill must have been a few hundred euros, but Matthias doesn’t bat an eye as he pulls out another stack of cash, handing it directly to Anna. When we walk out into the crisp evening, he twirls me in his arms, and pulls me into another kiss.

“I’d like to taste you again after this, explore every part of your body with my tongue.”

I can’t help but laugh and kiss him back, wine thrumming through me, my nearly bare breasts pressed against his shirt, heat pouring to the dark space between my thighs. We walk on into the night, exploring one bar and then another. We have one signature drink at one place, one at another, maintaining a fine line between tipsy and drunk. At one place, he pushes me against a wall in an almost empty hallway, letting his hands roam up the hem of my dress, brushing the tops of my thighs. For a moment, I think he might want me then and there, but his phone starts to buzz again, and he only kisses me, growing more distant as we walk back to the hotel, his arm around my shoulders. Even close to me like this, he feels, suddenly, a thousand miles away.

“There is a lingerie shop,” he says, his voice startling me. His deep stormy eyes meet mine, and it feels like he’s back for a second. I suppress a shudder, wondering where his mind had gone for the past half an hour. “I think it stays open until midnight. I do think we need that skirt for you—and perhaps something in lace that you can take off for—”

His eyes catch something close to the hotel, and we stop abruptly.

“Matthias, what is it?”

His eyes search the street in front of the hotel, and he purses his lips. “We can go to the lingerie shop this way. Then back to the hotel. From the back.”

“Matthias, what’s going on? You’re scaring me a little.” His arm grips my waist tight, and he’s already guiding me away from the hotel. I scan the street but can’t see anything. There are a few people walking along the brick pathways and heading to one of the fountains in the courtyard, but none of them look in our direction.

‘A little’ is an understatement. Without the wine and drinks in my system, lulling me into relaxation, my body would be on high alert. As it is, I can hear the blood rushing in my ears.

There’s so much I don’t know about him. So much he hasn’t told me. In a few sentences, I gave him my life history. But his, I have a feeling, is far more complicated.

“No reason to be scared,” he says, walking me toward the shop that apparently stays open so late. “Remember when Anna mentioned seeing my cousin, Cheon? The two of us used to get up to quite a bit of trouble when we were younger. He still does a lot of the things he shouldn’t.”

Matthias puts on a smile and lowers his arm to hold my hand. The weight of his fingers is only slightly reassuring, but my heart rate starts to slow. “It’s just a coincidence that he’s here, isn’t it? He’s not looking for you.”

We stop before a streetlight and weight for a line of yellow taxis and dark-windowed cars to pass. In the daytime, Brussels seems simply a beautiful place to be. In the night like this, thinking about shadowy figures and possible criminals, it seems far more forbidding.

“No one knows where I am. I’m sure of that, Mal.”

“And why would anyone want to know who you are? I got the impression that you were a lone wolf, no attachments.”

The streetlight changes color, and we see the walk signal. I pull Matthias back before he starts to walk. He sighs, and I catch his other hand in mine. “Everyone has some attachments. Some things we can’t quite get rid of, no matter how we might try.”

I try to manage a smile, but I’m fairly certain it’s coming up false. This affair with Matthias might have relaxed some of my sensibilities, but I was raised by a religious nut and a dying sister, so my sense of danger is fairly well developed. “And what are those?”

He doesn’t respond, pausing for one beat too long.

“Matthias,” I say, trying to get him to look at me again. “This is fun, you and me. It’s better than any week I’ve spent in Europe so far. I realize—and I mean, I know for certain—that in a few days, we’ll split—”

“Mal, I don’t—”

“No, I get it. It’s all good. But there are things going on in your life. That’s right, isn’t it?”

He nods slightly. “That’s true.”

“I just want to know if we’re safe.”

“We’re safe,” he says. He squeezes my hands.

“And then, when I leave, tell me you’ll be safe. You’re not the leader of an underground crime organization or anything? I don’t have to worry about you when I leave, right?”

“No, you won’t have to worry, schatje.”

I think that means darling or sweetheart, or something equally saccharine, but it rolls off his tongue. It stings when he says it because I realize I won’t be hearing it again—and he’ll be countries away, with this same dark look on his face, as he faces whatever lies at the other end of the line.

I nod curtly and don’t say anything else. We wait for the walk sign to light up again, and we cross the street to the other side. The store is still open, like Matthias said it would be. He walks me in, and just like in Amsterdam, there are walls and rows of brightly colored, beautiful things. The shop owner knows him here too, and we talk and laugh as I run my fingers over the lace. For me, he picks out a short flowing skirt and a set of purple lingerie that looks totally impractical. When he steps away to talk to the owner, I sit down in one of the overstuffed chairs in the shop, next to his phone and wallet, which he left on one of the arms of the chair.

I purposefully look away, my eyes lingering on the blush pinks and light shades of lavender. This is fun, the very definition of it—all this beauty, all this decadence. I’ve been missing it the whole time I was in Europe, opting instead for museums and aging cathedrals. I want those in my memory too—but it’s only one kind of beauty this place has to offer. Matthias represents another, even if tonight, some of the beauty was broken.

Next to me, I feel the phone buzz. Out of the corner of my eye, the screen lights up. I swallow, refusing to look at it. He turned it on again before our night out, another riddle I don’t know the answer to. But I’m not the girl who pries. Kim would tell me not to. It’s only a brief affair, and I think the going rules involve no questions asked and no strings attached.

The phone buzzes again, and I turn my head to watch Matthias talking to the store owner. When I look back to the lingerie, my eyes flicker down to the phone.

We know you’re in Bruxelles, Matthias. We have a woman here waiting for you, and we’re tired of chasing you all over Europe. Stop whatever it is you’re doing and come home, or there will be consequences.

After that, the phone keeps buzzing, messages scrolling up the screen, all from the same unidentified number. My heart pounds, and I try to look away. The messages start coming through in Dutch, and I only catch a word here and there.

Baby.

Marriage.

Wedding.

Inheritance.

Responsibility.

By the time Matthias is done talking to the owner, my body has grown cold. What the hell is happening? What has he done or said—or gotten himself into?

He takes my hand again, but this time, it feels like led in mine. There’s no thrill when he puts the bag of lingerie in my hand

He walks me out into the night, and I can feel that the temperature has dropped. Stars are coming up on the horizon, and the moon casts an eerie glow over everything.

“Matthias, we need to talk.”

He looks at me and nods, and we walk back to the hotel.

Chapter Eleven

Matthias

“I shouldn’t have left my phone there. I don’t want you to be concerned with any of this, Mallory.” Her eyes are wide. It’s not concern I see when I look into them. It’s fear—and I think that fear revolves around me. With another girl, it might not matter that much. I’d send her on her way and tell her we had a fine time, but I need to deal with my family now. Goodbye. As simple as that.

“I didn’t mean—I didn’t want to look at it. The message that came through—”

I scrolled back through the messages to see what my mother sent, and this time, my father too. One message after the next, outlining the plan they have in place. They’ll relieve me of my marital duties if I only come home, marry this girl, and consent to get her pregnant as soon as possible. Then I can be an absentee prince until my father draws his last breath. It would be acceptable if it weren’t for the last part—ruling the kingdom isn’t in my plans, and it never will be. The marriage part would perhaps be acceptable, yes. Disgusting—certainly. Morally reprehensible—perhaps. After all, there’s another person involved—whatever girl with royal blood they forced this same idea on. She’s there too. She’s, in fact, an essential part of the plan.

I shake my head. “It’s not what it seems.”

“Do you have some pregnant wife in another country?” Her eyes grow even wider when she says this.

I laugh, but the sound is dark when it comes out of my mouth. That’s what my mother is planning for me, yes. A princess, locked in a tower. Almost too cliché for words. “No, I don’t. I’m not married.” I stop for a second and think of what to tell her. I settle on a half-truth, one that keeps her next to me until she leaves. “My parents come from a powerful family. They’re a little—old school. Is that what the American expression is?”

She gives me a half smile and nods. “I guess so.”

“They want me to come home and enter an arranged marriage. Some girl they picked who agreed to it because of the money our family has. The buildings and corporations they own, that sort of thing. It’s not hard to find someone like that. This is just the most recent one they’ve found. The most recent time they’ve done this—exactly this.”

“And that’s not something you want?”

“No. It’s not.”

Her face is pale and thoughtful. “You don’t want to be married. That’s not you.”

It hasn’t been. Not the way they want me to do it, if at all. “No, not really.”

“It’s trips and dinners and buying expensive things—that’s you?” She cocks her head to the side. It’s an odd question, really. With an odd answer.

“No, that’s not me either. I’m usually alone. And I don’t often see the same women. I keep my body clean, my life clean, my travels clean. And I’m not often with any one person.”

The look in her eyes tells me exactly what she thinks of what I’ve just said. I should have learned by now that any woman—no matter how short a time she’s in a man’s life—wants to hear that she doesn’t fit the mold. That she’s not the same. That if circumstances were different, I’d never leave her.

That she’s special.

And isn’t she? Mallory is. I sit there in our quiet hotel room, as sure of this as I ever have been of anything. I’d be deluding myself to say that she’s not in the least bit different from all the other women I’ve met and kissed and taken to my bed over the years I’ve lived out of my parents’ palace.

I took her here, didn’t I? I unwittingly involved her in a part of my life that’s turning out to be something of a mess. For a moment, I feel disgusted. I know how my mother and father are—and if they knew that the distraction that brought me to Brussels was a woman, they’d do anything to take her away from me. To punish me, to make a point.

Have her arrested, taken, or worse.

“I know that,” she says after a long pause. “And it seems like I’ve stepped into the middle of something you need to deal with alone.”

“These things can wait, at least for a few days.”

“We’re safe?”

“Safe and sound. I might move us to a different part of the city so I don’t have to talk to my family. But trust me, this can be dealt with when I get home.”

She nods. “To Amsterdam. That’s your home, isn’t it?”

“Such as it is. I grew up somewhere else.” I stop myself before telling her exactly where. Matthias is a common enough name in this part of Western Europe, but there are rumors and stories about the prince who left the North Islands nine years ago and hasn’t been home but once. His name is Matthias, too. And I don’t want her making those connections. Somehow, it doesn’t feel right for her to know. Not right now. Not ever, since she’s leaving so soon.

“And we’ll stay here for three more days, and I’ll leave from Amsterdam. Just like we planned.” Her voice is soft and small, and I want to do something to assure her that doesn’t have to be the plan. She could come with me to Asia, or we could go back to America and travel, keeping on like this for as long as we wanted. The thought is more than appealing—it sparks something inside of me that I’ve never felt. An opening in my chest, a piece of me lighting up that didn’t exist before.

But I’m a reasonable man, and a practical one. I need to face my family, get out of the marriage, and leave Mallory to her studies. That’s her dream, and running from a man’s insane family isn’t part of what she wants.

“Yes. To remain on the safe side, we might leave from here. I can take you as far as Paris, and you can go where you choose from there. Paris—or is it Rome?”

She takes out her phone and checks her email, looking through what might be letters from different places. I don’t lean over to check what she’s looking at. It’s not my style, even though there’s a piece—a large piece if I’m being honest—that wants to know.

“I haven’t decided,” she says, clicking off her phone and tossing it on the bed. “I’m leaning towards Rome. And there’s one place in Florence too. Another in Gibraltar.”

“You must be very talented. So many choices. I have to say I’m jealous.”

“Why would you be?” She kicks back on the bed, and I watch her take a deep breath. She’s trying to relax her body. And I sit back, attempting to do the same. “You drop handfuls of money everywhere we go, like it’s nothing. Women come out of the woodwork at every restaurant and pub, at every store. Have you slept with them all?” I open my mouth, but she puts up her hand. “I wouldn’t blame you. You should. That’s your style. I’m better off in one place, doing one thing. For what it’s worth, I don’t think I’ll get married either. I hope you sort it all out, the thing with your family.”

She doesn’t comment on how it’s strange, a man tangled up with arranged weddings and the promise to make an heir in 2016. She just lies back, hands behind her head, and she closes her eyes. I go to her, lying next to her in bed for a while and kicking off my shoes. I have half a mind to rip her pink dress away and lose myself in her body, but exhaustion sweeps over me. There’s plenty of time left for that sort of thing, and for now, I just lie next to her, my hand on top of hers until we’re both sleeping.

When we wake in the morning, she’s still wearing the dress. She climbs on top of me and pulls it off, shushing me when I begin to speak. Instead of talking, she unbuckles me and slips my length inside of her as she undoes the buttons of my shirt and places her hands against my chest. She looks down at me, eyes rolling back in her head as she comes, shaking against my cock. When she tightens against me, I come inside of her, fingers gripping hard against her waist until they leave bruises.

The marks are temporary, but for now, the bruises make her mine. That type of tattoo will fade with time, and she’ll forget who I am.

I enjoy it now, because it’s what we have.

Chapter Twelve

Matthias

Things don’t change after that—not as much as they should. Our time in Brussels is filled with walking through galleries and museums, going to restaurants at night, and Matthias, pushing me further than I’ve ever been before, physically and emotionally. I keep my mouth shut when I think about my desire for him—a want that might extend past this trip. This isn’t how I had thought my trip in Europe would end.

Feelings fade with time, I tell myself. I can remember this, but that doesn’t mean I take Matthias with me. Only in memory.

On the last day in Brussels, I wake before Matthias in the apartment he rented. It’s in a different section of the city than the hotel, and that alone reminds me that I’m with a man who has his own demons to face. I’m a distraction. He might never use that word, but I have no illusions—he’ll forget me when I’m gone.

I watch him as he sleeps, naked, next to me. My body tightens with the now ever-present need I feel when I’m near him.

Down girl. You’ll need to retrain yourself. Matthias isn’t coming with you, and no matter what he says, he won’t be visiting you again.

Instead of looking at him longer, I break myself away and pick up my phone, scrolling through the letters I’ve received from fashion design schools all over Europe. There’s one email from an old acquaintance of mine, Emilie. I click it open, and she asks if I’ll be at Studio Berçot in the fall. If so, she’d like to rent an apartment together. She has a place she knows in Paris, and that’s somewhere I go.

Will I be? It’s one of the things I’ve been stalling on all summer. It was a decision I’d been looking forward to for the past four years, and now none of it seems to matter.

Paris. It’s beautiful this time of year. It’s beautiful all year—and Studio Berçot has a reputation that equals or surpasses any of the other schools. I’d planned to spend this week researching and writing to professors, making a final decision with care. Lying next to Matthias, it seems that Studio Berçot is as good a place as any.

I get up and send an email from my laptop to the Studio, notifying them that I accept. It’s up to the wire for every school I’ve been accepted to—and this is the last day for the Studio. After that, I email Emilie. It’s better to have a place to live than not—and it saves me the trouble when I know I’ll be focusing on getting Matthias out of my mind.

I make a note on my calendar to renew my birth control when I get to my new home. There’s enough that’s complicated right now—I don’t need another thing I never planned.

The thought wrenches my gut for some reason. I look back to Matthias, and he stirs in his sleep, turning to me and opening his eyes. “You’re naked and typing away at your computer. It’s a vision I like to wake up to.” He makes his fingers into a square and pretends to take a picture of me.

I smile and close my laptop. Everything is sent. My tickets to Paris are bought and finalized, and I won’t need to make any plans from there. Things are settled, save for the man looking at me. “Unfortunately, this is the last day.”

“It doesn’t have to be. You gave me your number, remember? After I deal with my family and tell them to fuck off once and for all, I can come to you. You said yesterday you were thinking of Rome?”

I nod, biting the inside of my cheek. My heart drops. I’ve imagined it, of course. He could come to me, and we’d repeat these days again. But even as he says it, I know it’s not a reality—or even a promise.

“Still not quite decided,” I say. “But maybe somewhere around there. I’m making sure to get to Paris first. There are schools there, and I need to—I need to look at them.”

I stumble over my words, but Matthias doesn’t seem to notice. He reaches his hand toward me, beckoning me back to the bed. I fall in with him, and his hands travel over me, his lips meeting one breast and then the other, until the soaring exhilaration of being in his arms takes over, and I no longer feel the heavy guilt of lying to him. I kept my truth for myself, and it makes no difference. There won’t be a call. Maybe a few text messages, a sentence or two to tease me and distract me from my studies.

“Mal,” he moans as his lips travel the length of my body and down my thigh. “You smell so sweet. Not as sweet as you taste.” Before his lips journey to my sex, he looks up at me, his brows slightly furrowed. He spreads my legs apart with exquisite, purposeful slowness. “I’ll just look forward to having this again.”

I don’t respond, but I watch him as he lowers his mouth between my legs. I should tell him. That I want this, too. It would be normal—to share with him that his lips meeting my flesh is everything I never knew I wanted. He’s taken me, made me into a different person.

I’m grateful for it, I think, as he pulls my clit into his mouth and sucks it gently, tongue swirling over its tip. Arching my hips to meet him, bringing my hands to my breasts, I whimper and sigh, letting the growing wave wash over me. Just as I’m about to come, he moves lower, pressing his tongue inside of me before moving to my clit again. The tide sinks and rises to a higher crest, my core growing tight as he brings me to the edge and backs away again. When I come, his tongue is flicking over me with attention to my every movement, my every desire. My hips move against his face, and I cry out his name. In that moment, I almost tell him I love him, but I feel like I hallucinated the words, like they couldn’t possibly be real.

I was just testing them out, deep in my head.

For a moment, when he pulls away, I wonder if I accidentally said them, or if he could somehow hear what I was thinking. Instead, he smiles and kisses me, and I taste myself on his lips. He cups one breast and then the other as his tongue meets mine, and I want him inside of me again. I find myself throwing one leg over his torso, begging in his ear for him to take me again, to fill me.

But he shakes his head. “On the train. Like you promised. I’ll have you once and then again. And I don’t care who sees us.”

The thought, heady and hot, stays with me as I allow Matthias to dress me. He selects the short skirt he bought for me, and he refuses to let me put on panties or even the bra we bought at the shop in Brussels. I’m bare beneath the silky blue shirt he selects, my nipples growing stiff as we walk out into the cool morning air with our bags.

He gives me a look and brings one hand to my neck, letting his fingers roam over my skin. “I could fuck you right here if I wanted to,” he whispers. “And you’d let me. That’s how much you’ve changed, my innocent little American girl. So far from home.”

His hand falls to my waist and then wanders over my hip, stopping at the short hem of my skirt. I grow wet again under his touch, but I don’t feel shame. Instead, I lean forward and kiss him again, pressing into him and taking pleasure at the feeling of his cock growing hard against my thigh. “Take me to the train. You can have me there.” I look up into his eyes. “Promise me you will.”

“My pleasure, princess. I’ll fuck you senseless.”

He takes my hand and leads me to the station. A few eyes linger on my breasts, and Matthias puts his arm around my waist possessively.

We walk onto the train and into our semi-private car, hoping that no one else comes by.

Chapter Thirteen

Matthias

She sits down next to me, the beautiful girl I met in Amsterdam. Instead of days, it feels like weeks ago now. Maybe months. I’ve never been with a woman more compatible with me, her body responsive to every touch, her round, pink cheeks and distant, deep-set eyes betraying every emotion. There’s more to us than just this week. It’s become clear to me, as it is to her. She won’t say it, but I can read what she’s feeling when she looks at me.

I’ll come and find her when she’s in school, convince her that I mean what I say. She doubts me now, but I’m a man who’s true to my promises. I’ve just never made a promise to a woman before—and that’s because I’ve never met a woman quite like her before.

“My trip is almost over. Or I guess it is, for real now. I’ll be in school this time next week.” She doesn’t say that she won’t see me again. She’s made it clear enough that she thinks I won’t deliver, that I’ll forget everything about her.

‘There’s another one around the corner.”

“Another one—another one of what?”

“Another time to see you, lieverd. You’ll tell me when you decide, send me an address when you find one. I’ll step down from my family—”

“What do you mean, ‘step down’?” She looks at me skeptically, as she should. Yet another slip-up. I’m running out of reasons to keep the truth from her, but it seems now that she might not want me the same way if she knew. My medieval family, trying to force me to do something that will take me away from my life forever.

And now, perhaps, I want Mallory to be part of that life.

If she ever knew. If they ever knew. She could well be in danger.

The train begins to reach full speed, and I put my arm tighter around her. I’d die if they did something to her. When I return, I think, I’ll find a way to tell her. And I’ll find a way to keep her safe, her identity hidden. Maybe if I abdicate once and for all—if they let me—they won’t even care.

“It’s just an expression. What I mean is I can’t do what they want, and I won’t.”

“Get married? Have a family?” She looks to the window as she speaks, her voice fading as the rush of the train surrounds us.

“I’d do that with the right person. Somewhere down the line.”

She doesn’t respond, leaning her head against my shoulder as we pass through green hillsides. “You owe me for my train ticket from Amsterdam. This wasn’t the plan.” She turns to me and gives me a half-smile.

“I’ll pay you back when I see you again.”

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“What? That I’ll pay you back? I will.”

She moves so that she’s on my lap, her legs spread across mine. I groan slightly. The edge of her thigh presses against my cock, and it’s all I can do to think or say any words. I’m growing hard.

She kisses me lightly on the lips. “That you’ll see me again. It’s okay if you don’t. That’s never what this was about.”

“Mal—” I think of telling her that she means something to me, something real. That I mean what I say. But she doesn’t give me a chance.

Instead, I feel her fingers fumbling with my jeans, the zipper sliding down. She takes out my cock, and all my blood rushes to the points where her fingers touch. I groan.

She lifts her skirt and moves until she’s on top of me. She hikes up her skirt, and I see that she’s trimmed and shaved her pussy. I realize it’s for me, for this day, for this moment. Someone walks by the outside of our door, and I swallow hard, blood rushing to my cock. My center grows tight, and the only thing I want now is this woman, on top of me.

“Just fuck me now, Matthias.” She looks into my eyes when she says my name and lowers herself so that her wetness begins to encase my cock. The head slips inside, and she angles herself so that she can take me in. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. I understand. People leave. It’s okay that they do.”

I don’t say anything, because she’s lowered herself to the base of my cock, and she’s moving against me in a slow, gentle rhythm, sighing as she grinds her clit against me.

“Fuck,” I groan. I’m bare inside of her again, fully aware of every centimeter of her skin.

She increases her speed, whimpering each time she raises up and lowers her supple body down onto my cock.

“Matthias,” she sighs, one hand going to my shoulder so she can ride me faster. “It’s so good—oh God—” She moans, unable to finish her thought. A couple walks by, and I see the woman looking inside our car. She quickly looks away, and a surge of excitement rolls through me as I grip Mallory’s waist.

“It is good. You wore your skirt for me, got wet for me. Wanted me.” I clear my mind and watch her as she moans, moving her hips over me. She’s reckless, uncaring. I’m close to coming inside of her, and I bite down on my lip to stop. I want to watch her as she comes. The flush starts to rise over her body, and I see her growing pink. Her stomach tightens, and she cries out, wild, as she thrusts herself down. I can feel her swell and clench against me, and it sends me over the edge.

“Fuck, Mallory,” I mutter. She comes hard against my body. She shudders endlessly, and I’m not sure if she’s coming again, but she keeps on, drawing me closer to the end. Before I come, I flip her over and push her against the seat of the train car, spreading her legs wide and thrusting hard. I push her against the seat right next to the door.

“Someone’s going to see,” she says. Even as the words escape her lips, she tilts her head back, closing her eyes.

Her breath comes in shorter and shorter gasps, and I grind my hips into hers. “Don’t care.” I flip her shirt up over her breasts, sweeping the backs of my knuckles over them. She wraps her legs around me, and whispers in my ear. I can’t tell exactly what she’s saying, but the sweetness of her voice propels me forward, and I fuck her harder.

She comes again, legs shaking. “Come inside of me. Please come inside of me,” she mumbles, mouth open.

I push into her one final time, letting the surge take me over. “Greedy girl. I’ll give you what you want.” I unleash inside of her, filling her with my essence. I’ve never recklessly taken a girl bare before, but from the time Mallory climbed on top of me in the apartment I rented to escape my family, I couldn’t refuse her. I don’t want her any other way. No barriers, nothing preventing me from feeling her tight, wetness around me. She’s so warm, so deeply soft.

I wasn’t even sure I cared when she assured me it was safe. The idea of filling her drove me to some biological need, and I couldn’t help but do exactly as she wanted.

I trained her to be mine—and now she’s taken me as hers. Left her mark the same as I’ve left mine.

I groan deeply and thrust into her a final time.

The train compartment is filled with her delicate scent, and I pull her back onto my lap, holding her there and kissing her for a long time after. I stay inside of her for a while.

When she lets go of me finally, she pulls on a pair of panties from her bag and shrugs when I frown. “We’ve entered France. The trip is over.”

“For now,” I say. “Where will you be?”

“Matthias, let’s not prolong this. You’ve got things going on with your family. And I know you won’t give a thought to me once you’re gone—”

“I will. But I understand if you don’t believe me. I’ll prove it to you.”

She’s standing now, watching the world pass by from the train. “You don’t have to. You told me what this was—”

“It’s not what it was before, Mal. It isn’t. It’s something new, something different.” I stand with her and catch her hand. I can see Paris rising in the distance, and it feels like an ending, something depressingly final. I have her number, but she’s cagey about telling me where she’ll be. I understand that too. I didn’t exactly tell her we’d be in a relationship forever. Standing with her here, I can feel my mistake sitting between us. Still, I can’t muster the words to tell her that I was wrong.

“Thank you. I think. That’s a compliment coming from you, isn’t it?” She turns to me and lets me hold her for a moment.

“It is, I guess. But I mean it.” My phone has been off this entire time, and I can only hope that my parents and their men didn’t catch sight of us across Brussels. I don’t know how I’m going to work this out, but I will, even if it means giving my parents a male heir through this girl they’ve picked for me. Maybe they’ll leave me alone after that.

I’m still holding Mallory close when the train pulls into Paris. I only leave her to get the rest of our luggage for a moment. When I come back, she looks slightly guilty. She bites her lip and looks out the window.

I help her off of the train, pointing out the stations of the metro that will take her where she needs to go. She has another godforsaken Air BnB rental, but I keep my mouth shut. She doesn’t need me to flash anymore euros in front of her. For now, she just needs to be on her way to wherever she’s going.

I watch her as she goes, my heart heavy.

She’s a girl I’ll come back for, the only one I’ve ever been able to say that about.

Chapter Fourteen

Mallory

Emilie walks around the apartment, back to her favorite topic. It’s been two—no three—weeks since I moved in with her, and she grills me about Matthias every chance she gets. She’s doing far better than I am in graduate school, so she has the luxury of speculating about my romantic life. I don’t. I made sure of it before I left the train—I deleted my number, and Matthias never even asked my last name.

I’m fairly certain he’s never asked that question of a woman before. Why would he need to?

I think of him, boarding a plane for wherever his family is, and “stepping down” from their wishes, whatever that means. His words were so different that last day, so sincere. But men like that—Kim always told me—they don’t come back for you.

In the past few weeks, I wonder if that’s because Kim’s boyfriend left when he found out she had multiple sclerosis. Maybe she just thought men like that leave. Maybe not all of them do.

Like I said, I don’t have the luxury of pondering it.

Matthias doesn’t have a way to find me. And I need to forget him. What good does it do to focus on someone who might come back—but who would definitely break my heart?

He’s the type of man for a fling. Have a fling. Do the things I don’t get to do anymore, Mal. And don’t let your heart get broken—it’s all you have. Get married, sure. But wait until you’re thirty. In the meantime, do every dirty thing you ever dreamed of.

Except, Kim, I never dreamed anything dirty until I met Matthias.

Kim’s voice rings in my head, and Emilie’s kitten heels click against the floor. She pours two glasses of wine, sitting one down on her side table and one on mine. “So this guy, he said he doesn’t want anything to do with his family. But he sent you away so he could deal with them?” Emilie says it contemplatively, taking a sip of her red wine. I can’t believe she’s still asking me about him.

I sigh and put down my sketchpad. There’s a half-drawn design on my iPad and a second unfinished sketch on paper. I’m surrounded by discarded ideas, on our crushed velvet couch, decadent purple in color. When I’m frustrated like this, I try to remind myself that I was lucky I knew one person at Studio Berçot, and now that acquaintance has turned into a friendship. It’s comforting. The couch, the tiny apartment, the wine Emilie brings us from her parents’ vineyard in Montpelier. She’s always been an only child—I guess I am now, too.

I like it here. I do.

But there’s something missing. Sometimes I think it’s my sister. Other times, I’m not entirely sure. That feeling that came over me the last day on the train—the one that made me delete my phone number from Matthias’s iPhone—sometimes I think that’s it. The feeling where I thought I might be in love.

“Yeah, I don’t know Em. We’ve been over this.” I look at Emilie. French, raised in Montreal, far worldlier than I’ve ever been. Still, she’s attached to this idea that Matthias’s journey with me was somehow romantic. “He said they wanted him in an arranged marriage. They want an heir. I can’t begin to explain strange European people or their traditions.”

“I’m not strange.” She says it haughtily and sits down.

“You’re Canadian, mostly,” I say with a smile. “That’s a whole different ball game. And you went to college with me at Parsons. You’re—North American. It’s your family that’s strange and European.”

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, granted, they are strange. Always traveling and doing weird things with their money. Like sending us wine. I can’t argue with their strangeness.”

“Whatever the case, there’s a whole world of difference between you and Matthias. His family is like, weirdly rich. I think they’re in a whole different category. And for some reason, I have a feeling that money is older than Amsterdam itself.”

“What gives you that feeling?”

“The weird shit about an heir. The fact that Matthias was so dead set against marriage. It’s like it was conditioned into him his whole life. And families don’t just do that, not unless there’s something to lose.” I think of him, green eyes on mine, closing them as I take him with my body.

“Matthias,” she purrs. “Even his name is sexy.” She perches up on top of the other faded pink couch we got from the previous owner. It sits across from the velvety purple couch. Garish, ghastly, totally perfect for a little apartment in Paris. I keep waiting for bed bugs to crawl out of it, but there haven’t been any.

Lucky. Comforting. This is what you wanted, Mal. Freedom from your grief, a friend, a life, a home.

But no Matthias.

Emilie slides down onto one of the fat cushions and takes up her tablet, fooling around with patterns and colors. The rest of the apartment is taken up by the sergers and overlock machines Em has collected, and the wide design and cutting tables I bought secondhand as a contribution. The kitchen cabinets are all filled with fabric Emilie scored in Los Angeles this summer.

My friend escaped to Cali this summer, and I went to Europe.

At least she got fabric. I got Matthias. And now he doesn’t even have my number anymore.

“He was, in fact, sexy.” I sit with my sketchpad on my knees, staring out into space as the afternoon light filters through the tall Parisian windows. It’s truly autumn now. The light is golden in the afternoons, and wind whips through the streets so that we have to close our windows at night. “The sexiest. And I won’t be seeing him again.”

Emilie doesn’t look up. She downs another gulp of wine and keeps staring at her tablet. She picks up a piece of fabric with gray and blue swirls from the coffee table that sits between us and feels it in her hands, draping it over one arm and swinging it back and forth. “That’s up to you, ma chère. You’re the one who erased your number from his phone. That’s a thing I’ll never live to understand. Don’t come crying to me in January when you’re lonely and need sex.”

She finishes the wine and piles the fabric in a heap beside her. My wine sits untouched on the side table next to me. It’s been sour on my stomach in the past week or so, no longer tempting me. But Emilie keeps pouring it, and when I leave it, she drinks it herself. Neither the alcohol nor the calories count when it’s my wine, apparently.

“I won’t. And I won’t be. I’ll be immersed in making a collection for the spring. Trying to catch the eye of the great Parisian designers, and all that.” I say this all grandly, with a big sweep of my hand, but Em doesn’t notice. She’s immersed in her design app again, occasionally stopping to drape fabric over her arm and her ample bust.

“You will cry for sex. We all do, eventually. I’ll find myself a fine European prince over spring break, when there’s time for things like that. But when you should have been designing and collecting fabric, you were out canoodling around and buying fancy lingerie with some rich boy.”

I blush. “It wasn’t like that—”

She looks up and winks at me. “I know that’s what you think. I want you to admit what it was, though. I see you staring off into space, and I think, ‘My friend, she’s here. But she’s not really here. What happens when she needs to present a design to the professors?’ Since we got here, you’ve sewn one dress. And it looks shockingly similar to that pink one you say you wore on your date with Matthias.”

“It wasn’t like that either, Em. Not the way you’re thinking.” It was something fun, tinged with regret at the end, but still, it was just fun. Maybe I got a little carried away, but why wouldn’t I? A man like that has never shown an interest in me. And there he was, telling me I was the sexiest woman he’d ever seen, that I fit with him perfectly. Of course, I got carried away. But he was what he was. And I won’t submit myself to him just to get my heart broken. That’s not part of the plan.

Kim had told me to meet someone and go on an adventure. I’d done that, and the someone happened to be Matthias. Being attracted to someone and thinking of them after you’ve slept together—after you’ve spent a week sharing the intimate details of your lives—doesn’t mean anything at all. Not really.

Two more months, and he’ll be a faded memory.

Right now, the images of him are vivid, so vivid that they’re almost painful to me. When I close my eyes at night, I recall the feeling of tracing over his muscles with my fingers, the ever-present scent of his skin, rich and masculine. Just because I turn these thoughts over in my mind doesn’t mean I’m pining away for a man.

The relationship wasn’t real. It was a myth, a fairy tale. Something I did at the end of the summer.

I’m two weeks into the fall semester at Studio Berçot, and I only think of him at night. Sometimes, when I’m in the shower. And if a lecture is particularly boring or if I already know the skill, I might let my mind wander to the feeling of his hands on my breasts, his mouth, lingering between my legs. Or the way, in the last few days, that we traveled around Brussels, using each toy he’d bought for me in Amsterdam. In bed, once. Against a brick wall in an alleyway outside of a four-star restaurant. Inside the dressing room at that same lingerie store, when the owner was getting something for us from the back.

I shiver.

If I admit it for this moment, on a sunny Sunday afternoon before Emilie and I start making omelets for dinner, it is sometimes like Matthias is still with me. His cock, pressing insistently against my leg, hands ripping away clothing, burying himself inside me like a man possessed, desperate.

I have to keep reminding myself that it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t like it seemed at the time. It wasn’t anything like love. That’ll come later for me, after graduate school is done and I have time to concentrate on other things. Even if I hang on to the image of him in the darkest part of night, it doesn’t mean that he was anything more than a short summer romance, destined for stories told between girlfriends, over glasses of wine. Just like this.

“I’m sure it wasn’t like that,” Emilie says, interrupting my reverie. “Not with the way you’re looking right now. With the absent stare and all that. You’re chewing on your lip. The bottom one is delightfully pink. A good contrast, Mal. You’ve been pale recently. Lovesick.”

I ball up one of the designs I’ve been working on, and I hurl it at her. She ducks, and it misses her by an inch.

“I’m just adjusting to living in France. It’s culture shock or something.”

“Sure, Mallory.” She rolls her eyes dramatically and winks at me. “Maybe it’s adjusting to the fact that you’re no longer a rich nobleman’s center of attention. But I’ll drop it—I promise.”

“A nobleman—probably not. There wasn’t much noble about him. That’s for sure.”

She chuckles. “They’re hiding in the woodwork all around Europe. It’s not fashionable to actually be noble these days, didn’t you know?”

I have another balled up piece of paper ready to launch at her, but we both dissolve in laughter, and I throw the paper in the trashcan instead. “Okay. We can just forget it all and make dinner. Right?”

“Right.” She hops up and starts in on dinner, shoving stray bits of fabric in kitchen drawers and open cabinets. The smell of omelets cooking—the only thing we can cook these days since the refrigerator is the only place not overflowing with fabric—usually sparks my hunger. But today, it seems to make my stomach flip instead, and when I go into the kitchen and sit at our little table, I eat toast instead. Emilie raises an eyebrow, but she doesn’t say anything.

I feel unsettled more than anything, like there’s something I should be doing. To tell the truth, there are many, many things I need to be doing. I need to work on the designs that sit, discarded, on the table next to the purple sofa. I need to meet with my advisor about my winter project.

And I need to forget about Matthias.

After Emilie puts the dishes away and goes back to her couch full of fabric, I take out my phone and scroll through my contacts to Matthias’s number. I deleted myself from his life, from his thoughts, but I didn’t take him out of mine. The numbers sit there, blurring on my screen before my eyes. Suddenly, I feel very, very tired. More exhausted, in fact, than I’ve felt since the day after Kim died. I’d been up at the hospital with her all night, running interference with the nurses and the front desk receptionists to make sure that none of my family came to find her. She had a strict no-contact policy at the hospital—the only person who could come see her was me. And I was there, day after day, night after night. That fatigue settled into my bones, combined with a grief so deep and piercing I could barely see to finish my work for school.

What I’ve been feeling in the past week is vaguely reminiscent of that time, bringing me back to Kim and the smell of antiseptic in the hospital. Maybe I’m lovesick, like Emilie says. Maybe it’s just the change—the change from living in Florida, kowtowing to my mother’s needs to traveling Europe to coming here and having no contact with home at all. As Emilie said last week, that might be enough to exhaust anyone.

I walk to the living room and sit back on the couch, dizzy, closing my eyes and leaning my head against the tall purple cushion. A wave of undeniable nausea hits me, and my stomach turns when Emilie starts cutting garlic and onions in the kitchen.

There’s an ache deep in my hips, like something is in there, suddenly expanding.

It’s funny—it seems the time change and all the travel messed up my body in more ways than one. I haven’t had my period all summer long.

My eyes pop open, heart racing like it did when I saw those text messages from Matthias’s mother and father.

It’s not possible.

It’s not even a little bit possible.

I think of Kim telling me in hospice care that I’d need to carry on without her, have the family she didn’t have. She had laughed and told me just to have sex for a while, not to worry about all that other stuff. It had seemed years—lifetimes—away then. I’d imagined that I’d feel excitement. Instead, there’s a deep, cold, chilling fear.

“Emilie?” My voice cracks when I speak.

“Hm?” She’s busy at work on hemming one of the designs she made last week. “I left the omelet on the counter in case you were actually hungry—”

“Em.”

She looks at me this time. We’re not close friends—not yet—but she’s the nearest thing I’ve got. And if I went outside by myself to get to the pharmacist at this time of day on a Sunday, surely she’d know. Or she’d wait at the door until I came back, hands on her hips.

“Is there a single pharmacy open in Paris on a Sunday?”

“I don’t know. There’s the little grocery store down on the corner. I think that might be open until eight tonight. Why? What do you need?”

“A pregnancy test,” I whisper, thinking back to that last time on the train. It was only three weeks ago. I do the math in my head. I will have skipped two periods this summer. The second one would have been due last week. “It’s probably nothing—”

Emilie hops down from the couch and grabs my hand pulling me off the purple sofa. Her eyes linger on my unfinished glass of red wine, and my stomach turns again. Is it that same fear, or is it something more biological?

Like my need for Matthias that last time. Like his need for me.

Silently, she leads me down the stairs and out into the street.

The windows to our apartment are still open. It’ll be cold inside when we get back.

Would a pregnancy test show anything this early?

And what if it does?

Emilie holds my hand as we walk down the street, and for once, I’m grateful that I allowed one person to be my friend. Even if I don’t have Matthias, I have someone to walk me to the grocery store, and then to the chemist.

I pick up a single test, and Em picks up a second one, putting it in my hand and closing my fingers around it. “You’ll want to see it twice, if it’s positive. To make sure. Same if it’s not. Trust me.”

I walk back, my arm in Emilie’s, leaning on her shoulder from time to time and clutching the small bag with two home pregnancy tests. Before we go back upstairs, Em pulls me into a small brasserie near the apartment. We eat hot steak frites. I didn’t realize I was hungry before the crunchy, oily taste hits my tongue.

When we go upstairs, I’m full and nauseous.

It’s not a good sign.

We go in.

I take the tests with me to the bathroom.

I can’t think of anything to do with the damn tests. Instead, I think of Matthias. How the apartment is colder than it should be. How I need to ask Emilie if I can borrow some of that blue-gray fabric with the swirls.

I freeze where I sit, holding the first test, still in its package.

It won’t be long now, and I’ll know.

Matthias’s number is still on my phone.

And maybe I should delete it before I give him the one thing he never, ever wanted.

An heir.

Chapter Fifteen

Matthias

I scroll through my contacts again. Just like it was last time, Mallory’s name is gone. I can’t say I blame her. I don’t at all, not really. It made me angry as fuck the first time I saw it. I flew into a rage in the white marble room at the palace my mother insisted on revamping for me and my new bride.

Fiancée. Betrothed. Whatever she is. Caryn, wispy and beautiful and ginger-haired. Like an angel really, except one who’s been caught in my mother’s grasp. A princess kept in her own high tower at the other end of the castle. I guess they don’t want me accidentally fucking her and taking her virginity before we’re married. Caryn certainly has given me the eye when we’ve been at dinner. The past month, she’s made it very clear that she’s both ready and willing to do whatever I want of her as my wife.

I admit it. She’s my type. More than any of the other women my mother has paraded before me.

It might even turn me on—in another life, the one from before—that they’d found a woman more beautiful than I could have imagined, and they made sure she wouldn’t care about my lifestyle. The others, they were so formal, so drawn to the idea of marrying royalty. For Caryn, I think she feels that same draw, but with none of the formality the others expected. It’s all I could have hoped for—if I was in fact to follow my parents’ plans.

I won’t. That’s not what I’m here for. But when I walked into their home again, my mother went into a panicked, angry uproar, talking about my choices to be with a parade of women, each worse than the last.

And this last one, she was American, wasn’t she?

That stopped me cold. They knew. They had seen her. Right now, whatever they’re thinking is just a threat. But I don’t know how much they know, or if she’s in any danger where she is.

So, I’m here now, dining with them, taking walks with Caryn, spinning through the days on the quiet palace grounds. It’s all I can do.

We know you were with some girl, Matthias. My mother hissed the words. We can find her quite easily, and the outcome for her wouldn’t be entirely pleasant. Not if you don’t do as we say.

“It’s ironic,” I say to the white walls of my marble room. “They can find her. I can’t. Not from here.” It’s white like my apartment back home, but there’s no way I could ever feel comfortable in a place like this. No way at all. It’s too sanitary, too neat. My childhood room was torn apart when I left, and this is all that stands in its place—a neat palace room, its contents tightly controlled. If Mallory knew, would things be like they were before? I think of her, riding me, her body moving rhythmically against mine. I could have said it then, when she asked me to come inside of her, begged for it.

Don’t go. Come with me. We’ll go somewhere we can’t be found.

But there’s no such thing, not when it comes to my parents. If I went right now, by myself, I might be able to hide for a time, as I’d planned. With Mallory, I’d be a walking target. A missing prince, with his American mistress. The media could put any spin on it they pleased, especially with my betrothed waiting back at the castle.

Yes, it’s good that Mallory deleted her number. One less way for the poison of my family to creep into her life.

There’s a soft knock at the door, and my heart stops for a second. If it’s Caryn, I might be forced to talk to her myself. Every time I’m with her, there’s someone else around, preventing us from touching, from kissing. But it’s three in the morning here, and if she comes into my room now, there’s only one reason she’d be here. In any other season of my life, I’d be happy to welcome her. As it stands, I look at her and feel nothing, less than nothing.

At night when I sleep, Mallory weighs heavy on my mind.

There’s a wedding planned for a month out.

Photo opportunities for the prince and soon-to-be princess, the first photos of me that I’ve consented to release since I was fifteen years of age.

And Mallory, she’ll see them. The world will. My wedding—my life—will become public property, just like the princes’ lives over in England.

She’ll never know the time I’ve spent thinking of her in these hidden weeks, locked up in this castle, forced to spend time with a girl that’s nothing like her, a girl who only wants to become a princess and immediately get pregnant with my child.

There’s another knock, louder this time.

“Who is it?” I say after a minute of sitting on the edge of the bed.

“It’s Adelaide. Let me in. I have something to talk about.” A soft, accented voice comes through the door. She speaks in English only rarely, and only to me. Just turned eighteen, my sister, another pawn my parents like to move from place to place. After I’m married, Addy is next at the altar. With her decidedly meek nature, she’s quite likely to go along with every part of Mother’s plan.

“Come in,” I say, switching to Dutch and walking over to the door. When I open it, she stands there, her small body clad in a white nightgown that might have cost Father thousands of dollars on his last trip to Paris. She brushes a pale, blond lock of hair behind her ear and tiptoes in, looking into the hallway behind her. Three years, and she’s grown into a woman. Whenever I look at her now, I’m overcome with heavy sorrow. She’s old enough to get it now—and that in itself is sad.

“No one saw me leave my room,” she says, taking my arm and pulling me over to the couch. For a tiny thing, she’s strong. I wonder if she’s taken advantage of the judo lessons I attended when I was a boy. It doesn’t match her quiet little personality, but then again, coming to me secretly in the middle of the night doesn’t either.

“You’re getting to know the game, Adelaide. Aren’t you?”

She lifts an eyebrow. “What kind of game is that?”

“The game where Mother and Father have us both locked up in the palace. They couldn’t be happier now, could they?” As I speak, my voice lowers into a whisper. It does that automatically, almost without my thinking about it. Nothing scares Matthias the gambler, the bad boy, walking the streets of Amsterdam. Thinly veiled threats and promises—those are the things that scare me now.

“That game. Yes. They decided not to let me go to college at St. Andrew’s, you know. I tried to convince them that I needed to learn better English, but you’ve scarred them against letting their children leave the country.” She shrugs. “But I’ve got plans of my own—”

“What are those?” This isn’t the sister I left all those years ago. When she looks at me in the dim light, I see that her eyes have hardened. For the past weeks, she’s been playing it up, pretending to be as mild and obedient as she ever was. I see someone different now.

“None of your concern. Not right now. What I am concerned about is you. I make it my job to be innocent and listen sweetly to everything Mother and Father say. So I know about your girl—”

“There’s Caryn. There’s only Caryn. Right now.” I back away slightly from Addy. I don’t want her knowing Mal’s name, either. If I’m the only one who knows, Mal is far safer.

Addy laughs. “No. That’s not true at all. There’s nothing between you and Caryn.”

“She seems pretty invested in being a princess.”

“She does do a good job acting like that, it seems,” Addy replies with a cryptic look. But then she leans in, her eyes serious. “I’m talking about the girl in Brussels. The one who was with you when Cheon came to find you.”

That fucker. He was sent by my parents. I goddamn knew it.

“There wasn’t a girl in Brussels. No one special, I mean,” I say, stumbling over the words. I’d predicted I’d have to come here, certainly. But even when I was leaving Brussels, I never expected I’d be pushed this far, expected to go through with the plans as they were set out. They had nothing over me, until they got word from Cheon about a girl, a girl I’d spent a week with. Fucking her every night, sometimes twice, molding her to my every whim, and growing to know her like I’ve never known anyone.

If I’d stayed any longer, I might have fallen for her.

It might have just been a guess on their parts that she was special.

“You’ve never spent a week with anyone.”

“How do you know, little chick? You just graduated high school.”

“I make a study of looking like I don’t know a damn thing, Matthias. But I know plenty. I know you don’t want to be here, and I don’t either. But you don’t want this girl hurt. They know her name, you know.”

“How’s that?”

She shrugs. “They have ways. And I know something else too. Father isn’t well. You may have to take the throne earlier than you thought. He’s talked about stepping down when you marry Caryn and succeed in getting her pregnant. However that happens. You know they’ve already sent her to three fertility specialists?” She sneers when she says the last part, like the whole thing disgusts her. It should. But it still shocks me to see her face like that.

“No, I didn’t know that.” I chew on my lip. The very idea of it is repulsive. No one’s said the North Islands is a progressive country. It sticks out in this part of Europe as positively medieval, with the church ruling every one of its citizens—and its monarchy. Male heirs are valued above all else, and I’m the only one. They need another to make their plans work.

“Believe it. You need to get the hell out of here.”

“And where is it you suggest I go? They’ll find me in Amsterdam. They’ll find me anywhere I go. And if what you say is true—”

“It is,” she says simply.

“If it is, then they’ll find Mal too.”

“Not if you find her first.” Addy smiles a sweet, secretive smile. She draws something out of one of the pockets of her nightgown.

“What’s that?” I reach out, grabbing for the paper.

“I need a promise first, Matthias.”

“What’s do you need?” My heartbeat quickens. Whatever that paper is—I can see now that it’s an envelope with my name on it—it has to do with Mallory. It’s her handwriting. I saw it only twice, but I memorized it, the loops of her letters, their jagged look.

“I need you to remember me. I’m not going to be a part of this monarchy, not until it’s quite significantly changed. There are plans we need to make. And there’s your future to consider. Your heir.”

I notice that the tattered envelope is slightly open. “I’m not marrying Caryn. And I’m not giving her an heir. I just haven’t figured out how to avoid that quite yet.”

“I know,” Addy says. I reach for the envelope again and she pulls it away.

“Then what in God’s name are you on about?”

“Promise me. I don’t want to be married off, not any more than you do. But there are things we can both do to protect ourselves, and for that, you actually need to take the throne.”

“Addy—no—I can’t.”

“There’s a provision in the constitution, such as it is,” she says, transferring the envelope to her other hand. “It says you can marry a commoner and still take the crown. And once you’re married, you can take the throne if father is ill. And he is.”

I shake my head dumbly. “What are you saying? And what’s this shit about an heir?”

“I have friends who work in the palace. In the wrong hands, this letter sent to your apartment in Amsterdam would be disastrous. But in your hands, I think it can do a world of good. For you, for me. For Mallory Jane Matthews. And her child.”

She shoves the paper in my hand.

Matthias, it starts, in the sloppy cursive of Mal’s handwriting.

I really hope this letter finds you well. I think of you often, but I know there’s no real relationship between us. I thought I’d inform you that I am six weeks pregnant, but I don’t expect a thing from you. I just wanted you to know. I’ll call you when the baby is born. I do promise that. It was so sweet while it lasted, and I’m so sorry this thing happened.

—Mal.

I turn the envelope over in my hands, the paper shaking. It’s postmarked from Paris, but I can see that Mal went to the central post office to mail it, giving me no indication of where she might be, or which school she chose in the sprawling, crowded City of Lights.

“Paris?”

Addy nods. “Congratulations, Matthias. You did exactly what Mum and Dad wanted, but not with a girl they picked. How do you feel about that?”

A surge of fear rolls through my body—not because of the pregnancy, the one thing I feared for years. It’s for Mal. And the baby. Can they even call it a baby yet? Or is it still hypothetical? A piece of Mal’s body.

Even if Addy hid this from the palace, it’s only a matter of time before my parents find out. The letter is postmarked two weeks ago. She’ll be showing soon. And I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that they have someone watching her. Or they will, once they find out where she is. And there’s very little doubt that they’re looking.

“I’ve never tried to find anyone before.”

“How hard can it be? The city is finite. Finding a pregnant American girl should be easy.”

“And convincing her to marry a prince for her own protection?”

“That one is up to you.”

Chapter Sixteen

Mallory

“Do you need to puke again before we go?” Emilie looks at me from across the room. I’m still working on the skirt and draped top I’m supposed to make for my class. Ready to wear. Simple, appropriate, expensive looking. Sometimes I think I should have stayed in the States and auditioned for Project Runway instead of going to graduate school. I wouldn’t be pregnant, living in a tiny apartment, and wondering how to squirrel away my sister’s money for the rest of my child’s life.

My child. My hand absently goes down to my belly.

“No. I think it might be just about cleared up. The sickness. They say it takes a turn right before the second trimester.” Twelve weeks. A scan this morning showed a perfectly formed body, a heart with four beautiful chambers, ten fingers, ten toes. The next scan will show us for sure, but the tech said she thought it was a boy. My boy. Emilie started work on a wardrobe for him, using scraps from her projects. I tried to stop her, but she declared I didn’t need to spend a dime on baby clothing, not when we know how to make clothes. And I’ve been too sick to try.

“You’ll be showing soon. You need to make an impression at the brasserie today so you can stay there.”

“And save money. And get a new apartment. And figure out how to hire a nanny.” And when he’s born, I’ll send Matthias another letter. Right now, he doesn’t need a damn word from me. He’s got enough to deal with—and I know I’ll be the last thing on his mind. He made that clear when we parted ways. I don’t know what kind of child support he’s required to give, or if he’ll sneer at me and demand a paternity test.

I’d rather spare myself the pain. I half-considered leaving an email or phone number at the bottom of the letter. But a man dealing with his own problems shouldn’t be expected to connect with his pregnant—what? I’m nothing. Not a girlfriend. A friend maybe. An acquaintance with a new-found penchant for public sex, and the idiocy to forget to renew her birth control the week after she left Brussels.

But God, it felt so good. He felt so good. His length buried deep inside of me, nothing between us. I didn’t even think of the danger then. Just trusted him when he told me he kept himself clean, and he’d trusted me when I told him I was on the pill.

I betrayed that trust, didn’t I?

I didn’t follow through on picking up Plan B. And I waited three days to start a new pack of birth control when I got into Paris. I went years thinking that my own caution would always take care of me. But it only takes once to slip up.

I put the finishing touches on the shirt and put my hand on my belly again as I stand up. There’s not much of a bump growing there yet, but I can feel my body starting to change, my hips shifting, belly tilting forward. The drunk, sick feeling of my first trimester is starting to wear off.

If anyone had asked me a year ago if I would have considered terminating an unexpected pregnancy, I would have said yes. Yes, I’d consider it, without hesitation.

And if the follow-up question had anything to do with my being excited or looking forward to something like this—I’d have said no. Twenty-three, heading into graduate school, heading into a career. No, I’d never be so foolish.

But I do look forward to it. As Kim’s death has sunk in over time, I feel in my bones how important family is—how important I am. And now, how important I could be in a child’s life.

I throw the skirt onto the overlock machine. “There. C’est fini. I’m ready for the brasserie. I can serve food in the evenings, make clothes to sell all night, and ace my classes during the day.”

“And you’ll sleep when?” Emilie takes my arm. “You can use some of that money your sister left you to put a down payment on a real apartment. And I can move in with you, and you charge me rent. How about that?”

“I still need the money from the brasserie. And I need to start my own brand long before I graduate if I’m going to be a mom, too.” She walks me downstairs, and I wonder how long it will be before my body is unwieldy. Maybe weeks. Maybe months. I don’t know how these things go.

“But we should still consider the apartment.” Emilie tosses her blond hair over her shoulder and hands me my sunglasses from her purse. When we’re at the door, she fixes my scarf, and pulls my deep plum blazer so it closes beneath my breasts. “You’re a sexy pregnant woman, Mal. Show it off to the guy who owns the brasserie. We’re going to get you this job.”

“He said it’s all mine.”

She pulls me out of the door beside her. “I think it can be. But you need to do well this evening, and it doesn’t hurt to show your figure. Hell, this man might like pregnant ladies. You can never tell about these shop owners.”

“So you say.” I laugh out loud, and she puts my arm in hers.

“We’ll make it. Both of us,” Emilie says.

“You keep saying ‘we,’ Em. I’m just some American girl you barely know. And I’m knocked up. And I have baggage. I might flunk out of school. I might never make a name for myself. I might hold you back and—”

She turns to me and puts her hands on my shoulders, stopping me in the middle of the sidewalk as people push past us. “There’s a ‘we’ now, because you’re my friend. You don’t have family. I’m an only child, and I don’t have much either. So, we can be family in a big new city. Mm?”

I nod, tears stinging my eyes. “Okay.”

“And I’d wager you haven’t seen the last of Matthias.” She walks me along to the brasserie, leaves falling around us.

“Oh? I think he’s got enough to deal with on his own.”

“Some guy was by asking about you when you were in class this afternoon, and—”

My heart stops. “And what? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“You were working on your designs, finally. Can’t a girl get a break around here?”

I shiver involuntarily, and Emilie pulls me down the street. I didn’t leave enough information for Matthias to find me, did I? He may know from the postmark that I’m in Paris, but that’s the only information he has. Matthias even told me it would be best if he had no idea where I was. I think back to the comment, his voice echoing in my head. At the time, that had merely seemed hurtful, like he wanted nothing to do with me. But could it have been something more?

I can only hope the man asking for me was Matthias. The alternative is too scary to consider.

“What did the guy look like, Em? This is important.” I whisper the last words as we approach the brasserie. There are a few people outside, eating fries and drinking coffee. One of them has a steaming soup. The smell from it almost knocks me out, but it makes me hungry at the same time.

“I dunno. Tall, handsome. Blond. Wearing a long coat even though it wasn’t that cold. He didn’t leave his name.”

“What color were his eyes?”

Emilie looks at me and takes my hands in hers. “Mal, why wouldn’t it be Matthias? Or someone else you already know? Maybe a friend from home visiting Paris? You can’t really think that someone from his family—”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about them. I don’t even know if I want it to be him. That would mean that we’d have to talk about all of this.” I gesture broadly to my abdomen, which hasn’t quite started straining against my jeans yet, but there’s a tight firmness there that didn’t exist last week.

“Yeah, well. You know that’s coming at some point. Maybe you misread him when you were traveling together. Maybe he’d want to be part of your life—”

“You’re talking like it’s definitely him. And you don’t even remember what color his eyes were.”

“I do,” she protests, chewing on her lip. “I think they were blue. I’m not sure. But whatever it was—it was probably him, don’t you think? He might be back.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“Mal, we need to get you inside that restaurant so you can work and get that steady income you’ve been talking about.”

“Just tell me what you told him.”

“Relax. I spared your privacy. I said that you lived in this apartment but you were looking for a new place. I left it at that. I know how you are about people, Mal. I’m not stupid. You can text him. If he’s here, you can meet somewhere neutral. It doesn’t have to be painful or awkward, and he doesn’t need to know where you live. We can start looking for a new place now. Okay? You’ve got the ball in your court, and you can do what you want. Now go inside, okay? Go to your shift, kick ass, and you can think about it when you’re serving up steak frites and practicing your French.”

I nod warily. I wish it were that simple, but Emilie doesn’t know Matthias. She doesn’t know how he told me repeatedly that he didn’t want a family or a marriage. Or even a long-term relationship. He couldn’t have made it any clearer. On top of that, his family. Anything that could get a man to move that quick could easily be dangerous.

And I know nothing about them.

Matthias said it was better that way, but now I’m carrying his child. He knows it—does that mean they do, too?

I walk into the brasserie, nearly shaking. The manager greets me kindly and steals a look at my growing breasts as he talks to me about the menu and the schedule of daily specials. I nearly burn myself trying to work the coffee machine, but after an hour of work, I fall into a rhythm, letting the noise of the cafe drown out my thoughts until I’m moving by instinct. When I leave, the manager smiles and compliments me, and I nod and smile back because it’s what I’m supposed to do.

All the while, I go over the images of Matthias in my head, trying to match him up to Emilie’s description. Her details were so vague that I come up empty each time. There are no more pictures of him on my phone—I deleted them all shortly after I found out I was pregnant. And the lines of his face are starting to blur.

As I walk home in the darkness, hands shoved deep in my coat pockets, my throat tightens. Tears sting my eyes, and I start to cry in earnest, the wind whipping around me.

None of the passersby pay attention to me. No one stops to lend me a shoulder. Em is back in the apartment, probably sewing, waiting for me to come back. But while I’m anonymous, I let myself think the things I’ve been avoiding for the past months, as summer truly turned to fall and I settled into my new life.

Matthias, I miss you. It’s a blasphemous thought. I’m not supposed to miss someone I barely know, someone who made it clear our relationship was casual, that we weren’t really meant to be.

I miss him, and maybe something more. There have been men who’ve asked me out—friends of Emilie’s, one or two of the straight guys from my classes. I turned them down immediately, even before I knew I was pregnant. They weren’t Matthias. They didn’t look at me the way he did, like he wanted to know me, the small details of my old life, like those things meant something to him.

I wonder as I walk up the stairs to our apartment if things would have been different had Matthias and I met in a different time, a different way. Maybe I owe it to him to text or call.

Midway up the stairs, I take out my phone and look at his number again.

I click my phone off and stand still for a moment. There’s a change, a shift in the air. Our apartment door is slightly cracked.

Emilie would never leave the door open, not at this time of night, and not in the part of town where we live. I shift closer, tiptoeing up the stairs so I’m standing just below the entrance to the apartment. There are voices inside, Emilie’s sing-song French ringing through the space. I can tell she’s speaking louder than usual, and there’s an edge to her voice that I can’t quite place.

“She’s not here right now, no. I don’t know exactly where she is,” she says. I can tell she’s angled her body toward the door, that she’s speaking directly to me. “She went out, and she didn’t say when she’d be back.”

There’s a male voice that responds, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. My heart skips a beat. It might have been the main from earlier today. It’s definitely not Matthias’s voice. The cadence and tone don’t match, and there’s a gravelly undercurrent to it that makes my blood run cold.

“I’m quite sure she won’t be back until after midnight. And she’ll be tired. I don’t think she’ll want any company. In fact, I bet she’s spending the night at school tonight. She said she had some projects to work on, and she needed the studio.”

There’s more rumbling from the man, and I pick up that he’s asking about the pile of baby clothes Emilie has made.

“Those are for a friend,” she responds. “Mallory’s not—no—and I don’t see why it’s any of your business.”

There’s a pause, and I can’t tell if anyone is speaking.

Blood buzzing in my ears, I back down one step and then another.

“I have the police on speed dial, right here. They’re down the street. Now, I’d ask you to get out before I call them, or I think we’ll have a problem. I don’t want you here.” There’s another pause, and I hear shuffling in the apartment, a muttered apology from the man, a promise that he’ll return.

“Well don’t come back tonight. Mallory, no matter where she is, is not coming back here tonight.”

Before the man makes it to the door, I’m at the bottom of the stairs and at the door. My heart pounding hard, I run back in the direction of the brasserie, phone clutched in my hand. I back into a shallow alleyway beside the restaurant, leaning against the wall, and I take the phone in my hand, bringing up Matthias’s phone number again. This time, I call.

The phone rings once, and a frazzled voice comes through on the other end of the line.

“I know you’re probably in Amsterdam—and you probably don’t want to hear from me—but I need your help—”

“Mal,” he says, his voice tired. He sighs deeply, with what sounds like relief. “Thank God.”

“I’m sorry I called. I know I said I wasn’t going to, but there’s some guy at my apartment, and I don’t know anyone else on the entire continent. And I’m pregnant. You know I’m pregnant, right?” The words tumble out in a rush, and I hear Matthias on the other end trying to get a word in. I stop speaking. My pulse races.

“I’m not in Amsterdam, Mal. I’m in Paris.”

I hold the phone away for an instant, staring at it, like it might be lying to me.

“Mal?” His voice is hoarse and worried. “Mal? Answer me.”

I sink down to the ground, jeans against the cold pavement.

“I’m here,” I say, after a minute, maybe more. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

I let the tears come, and he stays silent, just listening.

Matthias is here.

Chapter Seventeen

Matthias

I pace the apartment floor. It’s nothing like my real home in Amsterdam. The floors are worn and sag in the middle, and the windows are painted shut, which doesn’t make much sense for a place like Paris. Whenever I’m here, I see people with their windows open the entire season of autumn, in winter until the deathly cold and rain take over, and again in spring.

I think of Mallory’s rental back in Amsterdam. I never saw the place but briefly, but it was nicer than this. In the past two months, I’ve thought of her again and again, staying in tiny places, fitting herself in, trying not to be noticed.

Here I am, blending in, trying not to be noticed, on the run from something far more dangerous than my past.

This was the only place I could find on short notice that would take cash by the day. No questions asked. I can only hope that my family—or their henchmen—don’t approach the dodgy little owner. This type of individual always sings for the right price. And I’m sure my parents have more cash on hand than I have.

The phone is off, battery discarded in a dumpster. Mal only has directions here, and I can only hope she makes it in one piece.

There are soft steps on the stairs, coming up from below. When the steps reach the old, wooden door, I go to it and open it before a knock even comes through.

“Mallory,” I say, pulling her into my arms. “I had no idea where you were, not a damn clue. Why didn’t you give me your address in that letter?” I breathe the words into her hair, taking in her scent. Her arms are around me, but loosely, and I pull back, looking into the blue-gray eyes I’ve thought of every day since I left her in Brussels.

“I didn’t—I didn’t think you’d want to see me.” Tears come to her eyes as she stands there, solemn, in front of me. These aren’t the first of tonight’s tears—it’s easy to see. She’s already been crying, and I wonder if it’s because of me. I was the one who told her that we needed to part, we needed to stay away. She doesn’t yet know all the reasons why.

“I told you I wanted to see you again, Mal.” I tip her chin toward my face and kiss her. Her eyes are filled with tears, mixed emotions of guilt and relief crossing her face. I notice that there are pale freckles covering her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, and I wonder if they appeared there because of the Parisian sun in the fall.

I remember telling her I would see her again. But the message I gave her with each one of my actions, with all of my old stories of wandering the continent and taking tourist women home with me, I’d told her the opposite.

And the baby. That wasn’t something I’d wanted—no. But with Mallory standing here in front of me, warmth takes over my body and expands through me like nothing I’ve ever known.

This is right. This is what I want. This is everything I never dreamed, circumstances be damned.

“You didn’t want anything more than what we had.” She says the words simply, directly. And they sting.

“I know what I said.” I take her hands and lead her to the faded leather sofa in the corner of the dusty little apartment. “But I haven’t stopped thinking about you since you left.”

She sits down and pulls her hands to her lap. She’s wearing jeans and the same purple shirt she wore on our trip to Brussels. Her letter told me she was carrying our child, but she doesn’t look any different. Just like the Mallory I sent to Paris, stupidly, without me. The Mallory I lost. Inside of her, there’s a life that’s hers and mine, an extension of ourselves.

“That’s a nice thing to say but—” She looks at me and bites her lip, pulling her jacket tight around her so that it sits just under her breasts. With a glance, I can tell that those are rounder, firmer. I want to reach out and touch her, eliminate the space between us, but the time and space between us make that feel impossible.

“But it’s true.” I want to lean in, to kiss her, to peel off her clothes and take the time to get to know her body again. Instead, I take her hand in mine. She doesn’t squeeze my fingers in return. Her long artist’s fingers sit in mine.

“There are complications, Matthias. This isn’t just a week of fun anymore. There’s your family—is it your family? The man in my apartment? Like you said? I thought you might not be serious. People don’t do this kind of thing, do they? Come by and intimidate and make demands? This isn’t real, is it?”

Her voice speeds up as she speaks, and I raise a hand to stop her. “It’s real. And I do have reason to believe it’s them.”

“That’s why you came?”

I nod. “Partly. And you’re…” I almost can’t say the words. Mal just appeared here after I’ve spent days scouring the city, going to each of the graduate schools with her name and asking the administration if she was enrolled. As it turns out, most people in school administration won’t accept bribes for information—even in France. The whole night feels surreal, and here she is, wide-eyed and scared, and somehow more real than she ever was during the days we spent between Amsterdam and Brussels.

“I’m pregnant. I’m going to assume that’s one of the reasons you’re here. Or no?” She speaks slowly, diplomatically.

I feel a rush of protectiveness, all at once. This woman, she trumps every other girl I’ve been with, and I can’t articulate all the reasons why. And she’s carrying my child—mine and hers. An indelible tie that binds us together. I’d have thought it was impossible to feel this way. But I’m feeling it, deeply, as I watch her sitting across from me. I take my hand to her hair and run my fingers through it. She sighs softly, the sound sudden, like she didn’t expect it to escape her lips.

I sigh. I’ve been toying with my thoughts for a solid week now, on the flight here, on the train. And I come back to one single thing—I don’t want to lose her. I’ll do anything to keep her, and more than that to keep her safe.

“Matthias,” she whispers. “Answer me. This wasn’t something I was going to talk to you about until he was born. Or at least until I made it to the third trimester—or I don’t know. It hasn’t seemed real enough yet. And I know—I really do—that this isn’t part of how you envisioned your life.”

I bring my fingers to her chin, stopping when she pulls away from me slightly. “Sometimes there’s a better life than what you envision. And maybe this is the one for both of us.”

I wait, watching. Her dark eyebrows are knitted together, tears drying just below her lash line. But she moves closer to me and takes my other hand, grasping it. This time, I bring my lips to hers, and she yields to me, her mouth melding with mine, the feeling of it at once gentle and brutal. I’ve kissed many women, and I’ve met maybe a thousand in my time. But none of them have been Mallory—with her sweet warmth, her laughter, the aching need of her body when it collides with mine. As I kiss her, my tongue darting against hers, I think that she’s someone I want to know, that maybe I had a longing in my life all along, and it was Mallory that made me see it. She sighs into me, a tiny whimper, and I can feel the fear and hesitation in her body. I pull her close, pushing her jacket away from her shoulders and bringing her onto my lap to straddle me.

Panting, she pulls away from me. “Is that true, Matthias? Or are you just saying it because it sounds like what you should say? Because your family has decided I’m important enough to hunt down when I’m keeping entirely to myself?”

“It’s true,” I say without hesitation. I pause, bringing my hand to her belly where her low rise jeans are buttoned. I place my hand there, and I can feel a gentle swell. Not enough for anyone who didn’t know her to notice, not enough for her to get questions or concerns wherever she goes. But still, I smile when I touch her there. “It’s not something I thought I wanted. But I think of you, and I think of this child. And I want to protect both of you. I almost went insane when I got your letter and didn’t know where you were. I don’t want to be without you.”

She looks at me sadly. “You say you want to do the right thing. What’s the right thing? There’s no one right thing, is there, Matthias?”

Mal looks the same as she did when I first met her, round-faced and dark-haired, smart, curious eyes. But there’s deeper maturity there, like all these thoughts and all the days we spent apart brought on a piece of her adulthood that had stalled when her sister died.

I kiss her lightly on the lips again, pulling away after I do. “I knew when I met you that I wanted you. More desperately than I’ve wanted anyone. When you left, and I knew I wouldn’t see you again, I went home and met the woman my parents want me to marry. She’s from the family they selected. She’ll do as they please, and she seems more than willing to let me lead my own life and do exactly what I want—”

“Do you want to marry her?”

“No. I didn’t think I wanted to marry anyone. It was always something my parents wanted for me, so I never had it on my mind. But Mallory, now, I don’t feel that anymore—” This is the truth.

“Matthias, what are you saying?” Her eyes grow wide, and she shifts away from me, almost imperceptibly. “I’m glad you’re here but—”

“Stop, Mal. Let me say what I need to say.” As I think through what I discussed with my sister, all the words and promises that would save both me and Mallory, I realize I believe each one of them. I may not have wanted a real life with anyone—but that was before I met Mallory. She makes it all seem possible. Is that love? The heat I feel when I’m with her? The impulse to ask her every secret longing she’s ever had, to listen to her speak. “Mal, I want to marry you because it’s right for both of us. I want to provide for this child. I want to keep you safe. And I want to wake up next to you every morning.”

She turns her head away. Her face, even when she’s sad, betrays this pure beauty, this vulnerability. It’s something I haven’t seen many times in my life. I ask myself—even if my sister hadn’t come to me with that letter, even if my parents weren’t going to find Mallory or threaten her, even if she wasn’t pregnant—would I want to wake up next to this woman every day?

The answer is instant. I would.

She turns to me. I want to tell her I love her, that all the things I was before aren’t real.

“Is that enough, Matthias? Enough to build a marriage on? What is this, really? My roommate keeps telling me that there are old families that do things like this—force their children to marry to keep up a bloodline. But they’re all noble. Royal blood, and all that. Are you doing this to keep me quiet or—what? I know you’re here because you say I’m in danger. But I don’t know the nature of that danger. I don’t understand it—”

“My family is—” I pause. There’s a long history that revolves around a powerful, controlling monarchy that’s not kind to its citizens or its children. They’ll do anything to keep me from marrying a commoner, whether it’s legal or not. And yes, the danger is deeply real.

I imagine Mallory fleeing, running back to her home country or, worse, straight into the North Islands militia. The thought leaves me speechless.

“Matthias, it’s time to tell me who you are. Or I go. It’s not just you and me anymore. There’s someone who’s far more important.” She bites her lip, like she’s shocked at what she just said. But I just nod. For the first time in my life, I understand.

“I love you, Mallory. That’s why I want to marry you. And I need to marry you now because my family is very old, very powerful, and utterly ruthless when it comes to making their children do what they want.”

She’s quiet, studying me. Where my fingers touch her wrist, I can feel her pulse racing. The color rises in her cheeks, but before she feels like she needs to respond, I begin the long story of my family. Her hands stay in mine, her body angled over my lap. It’s no fairy tale. The events might be the same in any dysfunctional family, but with my mother and father, there’s far more money and power involved. She grows pale when I tell her about Adelaide and the way they keep her locked in the palace—maybe she imagines herself in the same position, unable to escape, to do what she loves.

With this marriage, I can protect Mallory and our child. But with it, she also must give up the plans she had for her solitary life, at least for now.

If she makes this decision, she chooses to face my family head on, to become a part of something that might damage both of us. And if she doesn’t—it’s a devil of a decision. Because of me, she and our child might be in real danger.

When I finish, I tell her again that I want to be with her, forever, if she wants that too. She answers with a small nod and asks me to take her to bed.

Instead of spoken answers, she gives me her body, and I come to know it again. And this time, I’m quite sure I’m making the right choice.

Chapter Eighteen

Mallory

When I wake that next morning, nothing has changed. It seems like it should have. After all, I agreed to marry a man I barely know. And I’m carrying his child. I move a hand to his muscled shoulder, and he stirs in his sleep. What we have when we’re together—it’s incendiary. I wasn’t imagining it. All the time spent thinking about him, I didn’t dream it.

There’s something there, but I don’t think either of us knows what it is. We haven’t spent enough time figuring it out—and I’m not entirely sure that’s how a marriage should go.

He told me he loves me, but the words felt rushed. And I had no idea how to respond. It’s a word I’ve toyed with in my mind a thousand times, but when I think of the Matthias that I know, reckless and wild, the word seems wrong, like it doesn’t fit.

This night, this morning. This proposal. None of it happened how I imagined it would.

I wasn’t one to flip through bridal magazines and make plans for the perfect wedding. I didn’t ooh and ahh over dresses the way my sister did. And the relationships I had—well, they weren’t exactly romantic.

But if someone had asked me, I would have told them that the man I’d choose to marry wouldn’t be asking me to protect me from imminent danger. It would be a mutual decision, one that we came to together, after about a year of dating. Maybe at the age of thirty.

Instead, Matthias methodically told me about his home, the people under his parents’ control, and thousands of years of sanctioned bullying. He’s the first to break away—and if it weren’t for me, he might be able to.

He didn’t add that last part himself, but I’m sure it’s crossed his mind. It might be the first thing on his mind when he wakes up and sees me this morning.

But there’s no other choice for me, is there? I put my hand to my belly. I can feel it growing over the waistband of my jeans. Thirteen weeks this morning, with a real, growing life inside. Matthias assured me his parents or one of their people would find me, no matter where I went.

Soon, I’ll be feeling flutters.

Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.

I promise.

I have a sick, sinking feeling when I think about leaving the program, leaving Emilie, leaving the life I worked for. But this man—this prince—told me I could trust him. He told me that there would be a time when this was all over, when we could both be who we are. And we would do that together.

“Matthias,” I say, pressing my hand to his shoulder again. Despite the darkness linked to his proposal, I can’t help feeling the inward pull to him that I’ve felt since the first time I laid eyes on him. I swallow hard, fighting back tears. I test the words out in my head again.

I do love you, I think. Is that what you really feel for me? Or is it something you said to get what you want?

“Mm?” He turns over, eyes still closed. His face is smooth while he’s sleeping, the worry lines I saw last night vanished.

I lean down and kiss him, and his lips melt against mine. I throw one leg over his body and catch him in my grip. I can’t help myself. My body, close to his, responds, heat searing through my core, making its way to my sex. Throbbing, pulsing need. My body seems like it’s betraying me, making me want this man that I shouldn’t want. I need him. I want him.

Do I love him?

His eyes open, and he pulls me on top of his body. Tenderly, he touches my thighs. His hands travel over my thighs and up to my hips. One hand travels to my belly and touches it gently, almost reverently. My cheeks color, and there’s a different kind of heat in my body now, mixing with the desire I feel for Matthias. “Do you feel anything yet?”

“No. No flutters. Soon, though. Maybe. My mother said she felt both of us early, so maybe soon.”

“You said you had an ultrasound. Did you keep any pictures?”

His hand rests on my abdomen. I’m thirteen weeks this morning. It’s tiny, the life inside of me. But it’s beautifully formed, with a face and hands and feet. I saw it all, just before Matthias came. “I didn’t. I didn’t have anyone here who would care.”

“I do care, Mal.” His hands move to my waist and rest there. “I want this. I want to be a part of this. And I want you to be a part of my life.”

A thrill runs through me. “That’s what you said last night. But you also said you wanted to do the right thing. And that you and I needed to be married to protect ourselves. All of those things you said—they’re different things. They mean different things.”

“They’re all true. And I love you. I do.” He brushes the back of his hand over one thigh, closer to my sex. I’m aware that he wants me again. I can feel him growing hard against me, and my own need is growing, making my blood buzz, making it hard to think about the things we need to talk about.

“That’s what you said.” When I say the words, tears sting my eyes again. “I love you, Matthias. At least I think I do. But when I left Brussels, I thought I’d never see you again. I wasn’t prepared for this.”

“Neither of us were.”

“I’m not like that other girl,” I say. “The one who wants to marry you. I won’t share you with anyone else if we do this. I’ll do everything you ask. I’ll protect all of us. But I won’t share you. I won’t give you up. This is forever, for me.”

He nods and grips me by the waist, moving me over his growing length. I sigh, body aching for his. But I stop him, putting my hand to his tight abs. “I’m not sharing you with anyone either, Mal. And I’m not leaving you once we do this. This is real. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

He moves me again, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. I shudder with the same desire I felt when he first touched me. “Is this what we should be doing? What we really need?”

With concentrated slowness, he pushes himself inside of me. I’m already sopping wet, and when he thrusts from below, there’s no resistance. He groans deeply, and the longing I felt when I woke up next to him intensifies until I’m gripping his shoulders, moaning, riding him.

He looks me in the eyes, pulls me toward him, and kisses me hard, biting down on my lower lip. When he pulls away, he rolls me over in the bed and pins me to my pillow. “Yes.”

He brings his hands to my breasts, teasing my nipples, and then lowers his mouth to one, pulling it between his lips as he fucks me. Each thrust hits hard against my clit. I realize now that where I once felt he was too big for me; he fits me perfectly now. The tension in my body begins to build, bringing me closer and closer to the edge until my mind tips into oblivion. Pressure spreads through my legs and thighs, and I come hard, my body tightening around his. Shivers run the length of my spine, down to my toes, which curl against the plain white sheets.

Matthias rides me through my orgasm, and as I come down from my high, I realize that this sex is simpler, sweeter than it ever was before.

“Then I will, Matthias. I will marry you.”

We don’t speak anymore that morning. Instead, we eat a simple breakfast from a cafe downstairs, sitting inside. Later, we shower together and watch something on TV that I can’t quite follow. It’s in French, and I can’t quite follow it. The words are too fast and seem to blend together. Even though my French has improved, it’s not quite good enough for things like this. I wonder, while we’re sitting together on the old couch in the rental Matthias found, if I’ll need to learn to speak French like that—fast and fluent. Or if we’ll have to raise the baby speaking Dutch. Maybe I’ll have to learn that too.

I try to push away the rising swell of anxiety. I take solace in being close to Matthias. This seems to be the calm before the storm, the part before our plans become a reality.

Before we have to face all the things that are coming for us, just so we can be normal.

Maybe Matthias being by my side will make it all manageable.

But I have yet to see.

Chapter Nineteen

Matthias

For the next week, we keep to ourselves. In the mornings, I make phone calls to the Parisian government, leaning on personal connections I know won’t contact my parents. There’s the marriage license to sort out, the witnesses. And finally, finding a minister or justice who won’t balk at marrying two non-Catholics, one of whom is pregnant. Mallory tells me she trusts her friend Emilie enough to come by and fit her for a dress—something simple, knee-length, elegant. I know she doesn’t actually need it, the dress. It’s something to occupy her mind while she sorts all of this out. She throws herself into designing it, talking to Emilie, taking measurements. And I try to make sure no one sees where Emilie is going at any given time. Her roommate eyes me suspiciously any time she comes by, but she doesn’t say much.

She was right—the roommate. There are families here who are old and powerful and don’t stop until they have exactly what they want. They just don’t know they’re playing against me. They might not know me well enough—or Adelaide either—to figure out that no matter what happens, I’ll find a way to defeat them. And while I’m at it, I’ll keep this woman safe.

On the morning of the wedding, I get breakfast just as I usually do, hopping from cafe to cafe so no one will spot me in one place. I feel eyes on me, people searching me out for signs that I’m not who I say I am, that I’m hiding in plain sight and have been for years. It’s just my paranoia, a thing that’s steadily developed over time. It’s become more than I can manage, and today I’ll finally end it. With Mallory’s name on a French marriage certificate, our bond will be legal, here and abroad. And whatever happens, I’ll keep her by my side until she gives birth, and long after that.

Maybe, I think, as I go up the stairs to the apartment, we can have the life we’ve been hoping for after that.

“Mal,” I say as I open the door. “I think the minister said he’d come here—we don’t have to go anywhere to meet him. I gave him the rings yesterday for safe keeping.” I kick the door open with my foot, and I hear no response. When I go in, holding two coffees and the bag of pastries I picked up, the place is eerily empty, like all the life has been sucked out of it. One window is open, and the dingy gray curtain is fluttering in the breeze. It’s odd—we haven’t opened the windows since it got cold. And the wind coming through, it chills me down to the bone.

“Mallory,” I call again, my voice cracking. “Tell me you’re here!” I check every inch of the tiny one-bedroom apartment, my heart racing.

This is what it feels like to lose everything.

My mother’s voice rings through in my mind, echoing with a ghostly cackle.

Shit. They’ve got her.

I take out my burner phone and call Mallory’s number, hoping beyond hope that there’s a chance she’s safe. After five rings, there’s no answer. Heart pounding, I know that the next ring will let the phone go to voicemail.

But Mallory answers, panting and nearly out of breath. “Matthias?” I can hear a hint of fear in her tone, and it’s like a dagger to my heart. “There was a man—across the street. I think—I don’t know if—I went to Emilie’s parents’ apartment in the Northern part of the city. Could the minister come here? Would he? I got so scared.”

“We’ll work it out, Mal. I’m just glad you’re safe. God, I’m glad. Keep calm, lieverd. Text me the address, and I’ll be there.”

“I have the dress, and Emilie is here. She can be the witness. And if the guy—the minister or whatever—does he have the rings?”

“He does, princess.”

“Don’t call me that again, Matthias. You know this is what I want—just not that part of it. I can’t—I can’t do that.”

“I won’t. I won’t say it again, Mal.” My throat tightens. It was a simple impulse—a name I called her when we were running around Brussels, when all that mattered was the next restaurant or the next hotel where we might find respite. When I hang up, I realize that it was what I used to call the girls that I brought home to my house in Amsterdam. Mallory might have been that once, but she isn’t anymore. She’s far more.

I hail a taxi bound for the north side of the city, leaving the two coffees to sit and grow cold. I don’t have much, but I wear a button-down shirt, the one I wore when I first met her. And jeans, faded and worn, grown soft with time. It’s not the royal wedding my parents had always planned. But my instinct tells me it's better.

A friend’s parent—when I was off at boarding school—told me that it was never the wedding day itself that counted. It was the marriage. I might have been jealous of his parents—rich, yes, for everyone there was. But they had a genuine relationship, and here they were, telling me I could have one too.

I hadn’t believed it.

But when I hand ten euros to the driver and get out at an old gray stone building that looks nondescript, anonymous among the many others of its kind, I know that I’m going to something far better today than what my parents had. I walk up the stairs after Emilie buzzes me in, and Mallory stands there in her pale blush colored dress, with a skirt of tulle that comes down to her knees. The ruffles at the top of the skirt hide her bump, but I know it’s there. Her face is even rounder too, her hips deliciously curvy. The minister might not notice, but I will. I put my child in this woman, and now I’ll have her for good.

“Don’t Americans say it’s bad luck to see the bride in her dress?”

Mallory shrugs. “I guess so. But we’ve had enough bad luck that I don’t think we can have much more of the same.”

“I wouldn’t tempt fate, Mal.” As I say it, I walk up to her and kiss her. She melts against me, and I feel the simple excitement of holding someone I love.

There’s a sound on the stairs, and the three of us jump at the same time, Emilie leaping up from her seat. She runs over to the door and looks through the window at the top. “I’d say it was the minister you hired, guys. Or was he a minister?”

“Non-denominational minister. Hard to find around here,” I say.

Mal laughs and puts her hand to her belly. “And possibly more accepting of this kind of thing?”

“We’re just a modern family, Mal.”

She laughs again, and Emilie rolls her eyes, taking a seat by the window to keep watch. Both of them seem nervous, rattled. I haven’t had a chance to ask who they saw, but it scared them enough to get away from the apartment.

The minister knocks at the door, and I show him in. He’s a short, angry-looking man—who looks like he might well have been a disapproving minister in a former life. He looks between the two of us suspiciously and shrugs. “This is the wedding party?”

“You’re looking at it,” I say. Mallory shrinks back, pressing her hips into the dining room table that takes up most of the space next to the kitchen.

A friend at city hall assured me this guy’s a type who’s easily convinced with a fistful of euros, so I give him a nice stack of bills. He glances at Mallory’s growing belly, but he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he slides the cash in his jacket pocket and puts the marriage certificate on the elaborate dining room table.

“Is anyone else joining us?” He speaks in heavily accented, halting English.

Emilie answers from her spot by the window, glancing down to the street as she speaks. “I certainly hope not. We’ve got some relatives in town we’d rather only see at the reception.” She looks over at Mallory and smiles.

“Thank you,” I say to her, looking back to the minister. He puts the rings down on the table and starts the ceremony with no preamble.

It’s not how I would have wanted it. I wish I could give Mallory the time to write her vows, and I’d love to take her somewhere tropical and warm for our honeymoon. Instead, we’re standing in the gray light of a Parisian apartment that doesn’t mean anything to either of us. As the minister recites a few brief verses about the sanctity of marriage, I take her hand and pull her close to me. The heat rises in her cheeks, and she leans against me softly. Emilie stands just behind us, silent. The whole ceremony feels ominous, like there might be someone lurking behind the closed door that leads into the foyer.

There might be. I wouldn’t be surprised by anything at this point.

“Do you, Matthias Albring, take this woman to be your wife?” The words echo through the room.

“Yes, I do.” I say it without hesitation. Danger or no, Mal is the one I want standing next to me.

“Do you, Mallory Matthews, take this man to be your husband?”

Mal nods, and then looks up to me. “I do.” There’s a quaver in her voice, but it’s not about the words she’s saying. It’s about everything that comes along with that—the dangers I’ve shared with her. I’m not sure that she really believes the depths of my country’s xenophobia or its casual fascism. But once she meets my parents, she’ll understand each and every one of my warnings.

“You may exchange the rings, and kiss the bride,” the minister says, beginning to pack up his bag, presumably for the next shotgun wedding he’s attending on this dreary Saturday.

“Isn’t there—isn’t there supposed to be more?” Mal stutters, looking around the room anxiously, like someone else might show up.

“I can say the whole thing for fifty more euros. But you got the short version.”

I nod to Mal, and she picks the plain gold ring up from the table, and she slips it onto my ring finger.

“The short version is okay by me, Mal,” I say, taking the platinum ring I had made for her, and putting it on her long, elegant finger. Sometime in the past twenty-four hours, it looks like she had time to paint her nails a pale pink. The platinum looks elegant against her pale skin, and it feels right that I’m doing this—in this apartment, in this place.

She looks at the ring and then glances back up to me. Her gaze, once unreadable, seems wiser now, reflecting the woman she’s becoming. “It works for me too, I think. I like the ring.”

“You may kiss the bride,” the minister reminds us. I need to be at Montmartre at noon, and I need a coffee before I get there.

I slip my arm around Mallory’s waist, drawing her close to me and bringing my lips to hers. Her lips are tender and sweet, the hint of berries lingering on her lips from her gloss. It’s a quick kiss, not intense like the kisses we share in private. But the meaning is clear—it’s a promise. That I’ll protect her and our baby, that she’ll stand by me as we navigate the uncharted waters of my family, that someday soon, we’ll be able to leave this behind us and become the people we were meant to be, standing side by side.

The four of us sign the simple document that binds us legally—the minister’s signature, followed by mine and Mallory’s. Emilie is the last to sign, and she leans over the table, pausing to look back at me. Her eyes are dry, and she furrows her brows in my direction, like she does each time she sees me. “I’d think this was all very romantic if you weren’t putting my friend in danger or taking her away to your weird little country.”

“I’ll take care of her.”

“I’ll be ferry-boating my ass over there if you don’t,” Emilie says, finally signing her name in large, winding loops. “And I’ll end you.”

“Em, it’s okay. I know what I’m getting into,” Mallory says, putting a hand on Emilie’s shoulder as she stands up.

The minister awkwardly leans over and grabs the marriage certificate, handing me and Mal our copies before taking his. “The one you signed last week is at city hall. I’ll get this entered into the records on Monday—”

“It needs to be today,” I say, handing him an extra hundred Euros. He scowls at me, and I give him another fifty. “And I’ll call your cab just to make sure you’re stopping at the hall of records before you get coffee.”

“Wonderful,” he says, waving a hand at us in annoyance. As Emilie walks him down the stairs to the front door, I call the taxi service and request one for the hall of records. Mallory and I watch through the front window as he climbs into the taxi, our marriage certificate in hand.

We sit, talking and eating ham croissants from the patisserie across the street. The three of us are on edge. But, finally, we get the call that the marriage certificate has been filed in the city of Paris.

Mallory and I are officially married.

And like she said, perhaps our bad luck is gone.

Chapter Twenty

Mallory

I’m fifteen weeks pregnant today.

Matthias’s family and their henchmen are biding their time—or they haven’t found us yet. His guess is that they know exactly where we are. Last week, we stopped hiding. And the next, we’re bound for the North Islands.

Best to face the problem head on.

It’s just past the beginning of my second trimester, and I have a small, round bump to show for it. Every once in a while, I feel something that could be a flutter, deep inside, behind the walls of flesh and muscle.

The semester at Studio Berçot is over, and the shoddy work I handed in somehow got me passing marks for the first—and last—term. It was a school I went to, I remind myself, because my friend had an apartment. And my sister told me that my future lay in going to Europe.

It turns out that she was right, but neither of us could have predicted what’s happened here, not in our wildest fantasies. I’m sitting in Emilie’s apartment, toying with the phone that Matthias got me from whatever weird underground friend he has in Paris.

It seems strange that a prince has gotten away with this kind of life for so long. And unfortunately, I was the one who made it catch up with him in the end. It wasn’t any of his gambling, or the debts he incurred in Italy or Spain, or the piles of cash sitting behind the door of a heavy safe back in Amsterdam. Something far more mundane got him caught.

Knocking up an American girl and perhaps, as he says, falling in love.

On good days, I believe it.

On days like this, I wonder why I agreed to the things he’s asked me to do, the life he’s asked me to leave. I put my hand to my belly, and I know that this was one of the reasons I said yes. This child will grow up, knowing his father. And I’ll be there to make sure he’s never in any trouble. It’s odd—I’d never thought much of being pregnant or getting married before, not in any real way.

Here I am. Here we both are.

I toy with the phone again and finally press call.

“Studio Berçot?” A chipper, Parisian voice answers.

“This is Mallory Matthews.” Or is my name Mallory Albring? It’s one more thing we haven’t discussed. “I’ll be unregistering for next term. Please cancel my tuition payments and my classes.”

There’s clicking at the other end of the line, and the lady on the phone assures me it’s taken care of.

Not for the first time, my heart races when I think about my future. The palace—which Matthias describes as cold and white—might be my home. And now that I’ve hung up the phone on the Studio, it feels like I’ve sealed my life, shut it down, like I’ve finally decided to become the thing I’ve avoided—tied down, shut in, and obligated to someone else.

Two someones. And Matthias’s family, too.

Lying back on the purple sofa in the apartment I used to rent with Emilie—it won’t be ours for much longer—I close my eyes and think of Matthias. Is love enough to warrant this change in both of our lives?

And more importantly, will it last?

He’s supposed to be coming over with lunch soon, and we’ll start packing for our extended visit to the North Islands, where Matthias’s family rules with an iron fist.

“It’s not the type of princess I wanted to be,” I mumble to myself. I sink further into the sofa and doze off. It’s unseasonably warm for the winter in Paris, and the windows are open. I hear cars on the street, zipping past. I’ll miss this. I’ll miss being in a place where my only responsibility is school.

And what would Kim think of all of this? It’s definitely more than a brief affair.

When sleep takes over, it’s a half-sleep. I’m aware of the apartment around me, the breeze blowing gently against my face, the warmth of the boiler below our hardwood floors. I feel what I think might be movement in the deep interior of my belly—a butterfly wing crossing over smooth muscle. Perhaps I dreamed it, but it feels like he’s there. In my dream, he’s a boy, small and tough, running along the street outside of my apartment, over to the park across the street. Matthias is there too, but he’s a man I met at a bar, or at school, not on the street in Amsterdam. He’s normal, and his family is too. There are no decrees, no hidden secrets within generations of families, ruling their children with harshness and royal requirements.

There’s a sound at the bottom of the stairs, and I wake slowly, coming to consciousness, piece by piece. My dream—or was it a vision of a shared future I won’t have? —fades around me like mist. I sit up straight.

“Matthias?” I call out his name, hoping he can hear me from the front door. Steps ring out, loud and clear, on the creaky old stairs that lead to our apartment.

“We haven’t seen anyone strange for more than a week,” I whisper to myself. “Not since the wedding. That means—”

That means precisely nothing.

The steps come closer, and I realize that there are two sets of feet falling on the wood. The sounds are heavy and ominous, nothing like Matthias and his quick, nearly silent footsteps.

“She’s in here,” comes a voice, speaking in French.

I shoot up from my seat on the couch, grabbing my purse and searching in it for the pepper spray Matthias gave me after the wedding last week. I’d joked it was my only wedding present, and hands shaking, I had shoved it into my purse. Matthias was serious when he gave it to me, even though I had every hope that I’d never use it.

“Are you sure?” There’s a woman’s voice, ringing from the bottom of the stairs. “This isn’t the type of place Matthias would go. Not the type of girl he should be seeing. But maybe he’s slumming with these low-life girls simply because he knows it frustrates me—” Her voice drips with disdain, and my blood runs cold.

Stepping slowly, holding the pepper spray in one hand, I inch towards my bedroom. The fire escape sits at the edge of my window. If I can just get over there—

There’s a knock on the door, and I hear one of the men fumbling with the lock. My heart pounds in my chest, blood sizzling in my veins, like there’s a fire deep within me. I tiptoe to my window and try to lift it, still holding the pepper spray. The damn thing is jammed, and it only raises about six inches before it sticks completely. On the street below, I see Matthias, his muscular form walking down the street with its usual swagger. He’s holding a small bag with the two sandwiches he always brings.

“Matthias!” I shout from the window. “Someone’s here! On the stairs!”

He looks around wildly, dropping the sandwiches once he finds the source of my voice, running for the building and pushing open the front door. I hear the scuffle of feet outside, and a click that sounds like the lock giving way. I lean the full force of my body into the window, pushing it up one more inch.

His family is supposed to meet us—yes. But not until we’ve done it on our own terms.

But we knew this was a possibility. And we’d become complacent. I try to force the window an inch or two more, but it won’t budge. There’s a tightness, low in my belly, and I put my hand to it. It turns to searing pain, and I double over, sinking down to the dusty floor next to the window. Tears come to my eyes, and I drop the pepper spray on the floor next to me. I feel something hot and wet between my legs, and I don’t want to look. I know it could well be blood, and I close my eyes, praying, hoping that it isn’t.

The door to the apartment swings open, and two men, clad all in black and gray, walk in, peering around the apartment. One of them makes a beeline for the bedroom, and he walks over to me silently. When he sees me crouched by the window, he yanks me up by the arm. I scream, the pain reaching a crescendo and making me go blind for a moment. There’s a trickle beneath my black skirt, and a drop of crimson falls on the floor.

“Matthias!” I shout again, and I hear more commotion outside of the door.

“Mother—have your idiots let me through.” He speaks in Dutch, and I realize I can understand it now—I’ve spent enough of my time listening to him that the words are beginning to come. Another wave of pain hits, and I clutch my belly, trying to get away from the tight grip of the man holding me. I can already feel a bruise forming where he’s holding me, and I cringe as the pain in my arm meets the low pain in my belly.

The man jerks me into the living room, where the other waits, arms crossed over his chest. “It looks like the girl is here. If this is her.”

I scream again, tears streaming down my face, pain creeping into my legs.

I hear feet pounding on the stairs, and Matthias appears in the doorway, rushing across the room until the second man catches him by the arm. Matthias quickly deflects his grab and turns to punch him square in the nose. Light footsteps follow on the stairs, and an impressive older woman with light blond hair walks through the door. Just as she appears, Matthias runs to me and takes me by the waist, putting my free arm around my shoulders.

“Let her go, asshole,” he hisses at the guard. “By royal decree or whatever the fuck you people listen to.”

The man still grips my arm, and the pain coursing through my entire body becomes unbearable. The taste of bile stings my throat, and my breakfast threatens to come up with it. “Please let go,” I pant. “I’m not going anywhere.” The words are a breathy whisper, and the guard doesn’t respond to my English.

“She’s pregnant. Let her go now,” Matthias says, the words sounding almost deadly from his lips.

Hesitating and looking to the woman at the door, the man lets go of my arm slowly. I collapse against Matthias, and he walks me over to the couch, helping me sit down. “Put your feet up, lieverd,” he mutters and hands me the water bottle sitting on the cushion next to me. “And drink.”

The woman, silent until now, steps forward, her eyebrows raised in surprise. “This girl isn’t pregnant, is she? I thought you took precautions with these types of things, Matthias. Well, it can certainly be taken care of. We have doctors to attend to this type of thing.”

If I could stand, I’d leap across the room and scratch her eyes out, but the pulsing pain keeps me where I’m sitting. Matthias opens the lip of the water bottle, ignoring his mother and gesturing for me to drink.

“Mother,” he says without looking up. “This is Mallory Albring—”

“Matthews,” I mumble, grabbing his hand and chuckling slightly. Suddenly, it seems funny that I haven’t changed my name. Neither of us talked about it—it’s another one of those things that a normal couple might get sorted right away. But the whole of the scene in front of me would tell any onlooker that we’re very, very far from normal. “I’m still a Matthews, Matthias. Never changed it.”

He kisses my cheek and sits down next to me, putting a protective arm around me. “The law of the North Islands, as a very astute young woman pointed out to me, allows for me to marry any woman.” Matthias first glances to me and then over to the woman he called ‘Mother.’ The queen of the North Islands doesn’t wear a black gown with a high collar, like the old Disney villains. Her style is fresh and very European, and her hair is cut short. I can even see some echoes of Matthias in her face and the tall, willowy frame of her body. The look she gives me is the only purely evil thing about her.

“Matthias, quit joking. This girl is—what? British? American? Some sort of college student?” She waves her hand at the mounds of fabric scattered over the tables by the living room window. “You know better than to marry someone of such low caliber. Caryn is awaiting your wedding. It’s scheduled for a week from now, and her fertility tests are highly favorable. Her family is old and noble, and she’s a far more appropriate choice than this—tourist child. I highly doubt the baby is even yours, if she is pregnant at all.”

Matthias stands, showing the gold band on his left hand to his mother. “We’ve been married for a week, and the child is mine. I trust Mallory. She’s my wife.” The emphasis he puts on the last word makes my pulse quicken, but my head is nestled back into the pillow of the sofa, and I don’t raise it. Even though the pain is subsiding, I still feel like death warmed over.

“It’s true,” I mumble, holding up the finger with my platinum ring. “So sorry I’m a street urchin and not a princess, your majesty. But we’re legally married, and the law says I’m under Matthias’s protection. Whatever your laws mean, anyway—”

“Shut up, girl,” the woman says, stepping in Matthias’s direction. “Is what she’s saying true?” Her voice cracks, and I can almost hear the heartbreak in it. I’d feel sorry for her, if anything she was asking was what a normal mother might ask. But it isn’t—and she had her two bodyguards come and harass me in my own home. Or my home, as it is, for now.

“Yes, it’s true. And looking at her, she needs to get the doctor. So if you’ll excuse me—I’ll be taking her to the physician and then to the hospital if she needs it. Unlike you, I care about my child. And I won’t see him harmed.”

“Him—”

I wave a hand at both of them. “We only think it’s a boy. The ultrasound said—”

Matthias helps me stand. “It doesn’t matter whether it’s boy or a girl. One is just as important as the other.”

My husband, in the face of his mother and the men she brought with her, helps me to the door and brushes past the queen without a second glance. The three stunned people follow us back down the stairs and out the front door. We leave them standing at the curb as Matthias puts me in a taxi and we speed to the hospital. I bury my face in his shirt and take in the scent of his musky cologne.

Despite the pain that still sits low in my belly, I laugh. As we approach the emergency room, Matthias laughs with me, though his laughter is tinged with concern.

As he helps me out of the cab, he sighs deeply. “Everything will be okay, Mal. I don’t know how, but it will.”

“I know,” I say. And this time, I mean it.

Chapter Twenty-One

Matthias

In the hospital, Mallory sleeps while we wait for an ultrasound. I wonder absently if my family has a hand in the doctors being so slow, but I’d bet that the speed is more likely related to the entire country’s penchant for being late and inefficient. I watch Mallory’s sleeping form and look down to her belly, which is swelling for real now. I touch it lightly, and she stirs in her sleep, rustling the hospital room covers.

“Matthias,” she murmurs, without opening her eyes. “Are your parents here?”

“My father is sick, or so Adelaide said when she called earlier. Mother is staying in a hotel in the center of the city, and she hasn’t said anything to me since I brought you here.”

“What happens next?”

“I don’t know,” I say simply. “We might have to stay here if you’re sick. I might have to go to the North Islands on my own to sort out exactly how I’m going to abdicate—”

“You don’t have to, you know,” she says, her words slurring together. The shot of morphine the doctors gave her must be working now. “Abdicate. You don’t have to do that, not for me. If you don’t want to. I know you might want to but—” Her voice drops off after her vague rambling.

“I don’t want to be king of that country. Adelaide is better off as queen. We just have to figure out how to make that happen.”

Mallory raises her lips in a half smile, eyes still closed. “Isn’t she eighteen, your sister?”

“Nineteen. And three times smarter than I am. At least.”

The doctor we saw before wheels in an ultrasound machine and sets up next to us, asking questions that neither of us can answer. Mal’s blood type, and then mine. Exactly what happened and how. Mal opens her eyes and looks at me, her eyes narrowing. She gently shakes her head and turns to the doctor herself.

“I was cooking and dropped a pan on my foot—”

“That doesn’t explain the bruising on your arm,” he says, nodding his head toward her arm.

“That’s from yesterday,” she says, not skipping a beat. “We like it rough.”

The old doctor’s cheeks color slightly, but he’s French, so he doesn’t give any more commentary. After that, he has Mallory raise her shirt. Her stomach, round now, shivers when he puts the gel on it. When the ultrasound wand touches her, she shivers through her whole body and turns her head away from the screen.

My eyes are glued to it, and I see an entire baby, full lips and a nose, a tiny mouth opening and closing, and a strong heartbeat, singing through the speaker.

“The baby’s okay,” I say, leaning into her ear to whisper. “I think you’re okay too.”

“Well,” the doctor begins, chewing on his lower lip. “There seems to be a bubble of blood beneath the placenta. It should resolve over the next few days. But I recommend your girlfriend here doesn’t run any marathons—”

“Wife. She’s my wife. We just got married.” The words come quick and sure, and I squeeze Mal’s hand. She slowly turns to look at the screen, watching in fascination as the baby kicks.

“Do you want to know the sex of the baby? Looks like we’re getting a pretty clear view—”

“Yes,” we both answer.

“Looks like you have a healthy baby boy here. You’ll need to get another ultrasound to make sure—but everything here says he’s healthy. There’s no need to worry about all this. New mothers don’t need to stress themselves about things like this.”

“Would travel be out of the question?” Mal asks, tears in her eyes. She’s still watching the screen. “We need to go see his parents and get some family issues worked out.”

“No,” the doctor says, turning off the ultrasound machine. “It should be fine to travel if you need to. Just take it easy while you’re gone. And you’ll need to decide just where you’re going to have this baby. Things start moving fast once your belly starts growing, young lady. Make sure you have a place you feel comfortable with. A city with a good hospital, an apartment or a house to bring him home to.”

Mal looks at me, eyes wide with worry. “I don’t know if we’ll be able—”

“We will. We’ll have a home together. It’s my only priority, Mallory. All the rest of this is noise. If I haven’t made it abundantly clear, I love you. And I love this child.”

The old doctor wheels away the machine, leaving us in the silent room before a nurse comes to discharge us.

“I know you do,” she says, leaning against my arm. “But it seems like there’s so much between now and then. Maybe you should just tell your mother you’ll let us go for now, and you can do this on your own. I might be a complication you don’t need—”

“No,” I growl. “You’ll be with me no matter what, Mal. I want my eyes on you every morning and every night before you fall asleep. It’s the best way for me to make sure you’re safe. And the only way I’ll feel comfortable until this is all done. You see what my mother is capable of now. She has no impulse control.”

Mallory makes a small noise, nuzzling in close.

“Just promise me again we’ll be okay.”

“We’ll be better than that. I’ll figure out a way.”

In a move that defies reason and logic—at least the faulty kind I relied on in my youth—my mother sends a car for Mallory. I help her in and hold her hand as we take the route back to her Parisian apartment. After I tuck her in bed to sleep off the morphine shot, I call my mother and tell her what’s going to happen next. I won’t know for weeks on end if any of this will work, and Mallory will be caught in the middle of it.

To my surprise, my mother just listens. Late into the night, after Emilie comes home and pours me a hefty glass of red wine, I book tickets to the North Islands. I’ve long refused trips on the family’s private jet, but I have enough money for first class, and this way, I avoid having Mallory anywhere near the people who put her in this situation.

“You better take care of her when you take her to your little fascist country,” Emilie says, perching on top of the couch across from me. “Mal just lost her sister—”

“I know. I do know her, Emilie.” I think Mallory’s friend expects me to scowl at her or say something sharp about my country and its colorful past. “I thought I could make her life better when I met her. She said she wasn’t looking for an adventure, though. And maybe I should have believed her. I could have stuck to being what I was forever, and I could have just let her go.”

Emilie is silent for a few seconds, and I can feel her eyes on me. I sip the wine and then gulp it. The alcohol pours through my veins, making my head swim. There wasn’t time for food today, so the effect takes me by surprise. I close my eyes.

“No. She needs you. I saw it when she first said your name. But you need to get this shit tended to quick. She’s no princess. She’s an artist. She’s independent and strong. She kept away from you because she thought that’s what you wanted. And now that you’re back—she’ll go to the ends of the earth to make you happy. You need to ask yourself if you’re taking advantage of that or if you can turn this around so that she’s not at the center of a total fucking crap show.”

“Such colorful language.” I take another swig of wine, sorting through all the things Emilie just said. I keep quiet for a while and finish my wine. Mallory has changed in so many ways—the path of her life, the level of her maturity, the way she views the world. When I watched her look at the ultrasound screen today, I saw a fierceness I’ve rarely seen before. “I know all of that. And I might be taking advantage of her. But the only way to have a life with her is to take the throne.”

“And then what?”

“I’m not entirely sure.”

“She’d die living there. Not physically, you know. I’m sure it has plenty of creature comforts,” Emilie says. “But raising a kid under the watch of your family—never being able to do what she wants. That’s not her. She says she’s this meek girl who always lived in her sister’s shadow. She had shit parents too. Her father is nowhere, and her mother doesn’t even speak to her.” Emilie pauses and looks at me, her blond eyebrows furrowing. “She doesn’t need another shadow to live in. I never thought you’d show up here, but you did. And now everything is worse for it. I’m glad you say you’re protecting her, but you need to figure out if you really are.”

I sit with Emilie’s words as she draws and later gets up to sew. Sometime around midnight, things start to fall in place in my head. Emilie goes to bed and leaves me with my thoughts. I peek into Mallory’s room, where she sleeps. There was blood today, scaring us both.

And I’d caused that.

Not directly, no.

It might have happened without my mother’s henchmen.

But it did happen.

I walk into Mallory’s bedroom, and I wake her up, fingers brushing her cheek.

“I have an idea,” I whisper. Her long-lashed eyes flutter open, and she props herself on one elbow, bringing one hand instinctively to her belly. “What is it?”

I climb into bed with her and tell her, whispering in her ear for a long time, until we both fall asleep.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Mallory

“You okay with everything?” Matthias leans over and kisses me, putting a hand to my belly. I can’t help it—each time he does that, the same heat comes back. The thing I felt when I first saw him, when he first sat down with me at that coffee shop, when he told me to come upstairs with him. I lean into him and throw one leg over his hips.

“Yeah. I am. Emilie’s going to be pissed at you. But she’ll get over it. When we have a real wedding—” I stop before I say anything else, blushing. It still pains me that I want something like this from Matthias. It’s like it still doesn’t feel real that he wants me—not because I have some low opinion of myself. But because it never seemed real, even from the beginning. And it all happened so fast.

“When we have a real wedding, we can do what we want. And Emilie can come wherever we are.”

“She can be my maid of honor. Or we could just have a honeymoon.” I toy with the idea in my head. Last night, Matthias told me that he’d like to take me somewhere warm, somewhere far away from anyone we knew, at least for a little while. “It could just be us, before the baby comes.”

The warmth of his bare skin presses into mine, and I feel safe for the first time since this ordeal started. It might be a false sense of security, gently lulling me into the dream that I might be with Macklin for the rest of my life. Until the baby is born. Until he grows into a toddler, and a little boy, and beyond. In a spacious apartment somewhere we decide, without anyone telling us what to do.

“It could be.” He brushes my hair back from my ear and kisses it gently. I can feel his hands, gentle at my waist. His cock is hard against my thigh, but he stays still.

“I asked the doctor—and the on-call nurse—if it’s okay to still have sex, Matthias. It’s fine.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Mal. Not you or the baby. Nothing’s ever been so important to me. I never had a family—not a real one. This is my chance to have a family with someone I love.” Tenderly, he leans in and kisses me, tongue touching mine, lips moving in unison with mine.

There were men I kissed before Matthias, but it seems like each kiss with him matters far more, like each touch of his body holds more weight than any interaction I’ve ever had.

I reach for his length, and find that he’s hard. “Just be gentle. It’s the last morning I’ll wake up with you for a while. I want this.”

Matthias groans and his hand moves between my legs, gently caressing me until I’m slick with desire. I close my eyes, losing myself in his warmth, the piney scent he somehow always carries with him. Fingers trail up my body and find my breasts, fingertips brushing over my nipples, sending a glittering flush through to my core. His touches are slow and steady, hands gliding against my sex, filling me with a slow, burning longing.

His thumb makes its way down my slick folds and back over my clit in repeated circles. With each small movement, he brings me close to the edge, hungry for more. “You sure you want this right now? I’ll be worried for you when I go back home—”

I put a finger to his lips and kiss him in response, moving my body so that his cock rests close to my entrance. I’m already wet enough that the head slips right in. I bring his face close to mine, wrapping my fingers around his neck and sliding onto his length. His moan meets mine, deeper and more powerful than my own voice. Lightning courses through my veins, filling me and spreading out to each and every cell, every fiber of my being. Wired—that’s the feeling he gives me, my husband. This is the man I was meant to find on the trip I was supposed to go on to get away from my family. Instead, I found one. Maybe it was a little unconventional, the way we got here. And we both know for sure that there are difficulties we still must face—but our connection is undeniable. When he touches me, hands at my waist, gently guiding his body inside of mine in a gentle, steady rhythm, my worries wash away and evaporate into an invisible mist around me.

Time slows down, and I hear him moan in my ear, the base of his cock meeting my most sensitive button with each thrust. Chills run up and down my spine, my orgasm coming slowly, surely, more steadily than it ever has before. The sweet rush comes over me in slow, rising waves. I cry out softly, toes curling, nails digging into his flesh. I can’t tell if it’s one orgasm or many, running together like the currents of a stream, leading to a greater river. I feel him shudder against me, thrusting deep inside one final time. He fills me and falls to the bed, pulling me into his arms and cradling me against him.

“I don’t want to leave you, Mal,” he whispers.

“I don’t want you to leave. But I want something better than everything that’s crashing down around us right now. I want a life—with you.” The light is filtering in through the window I couldn’t quite get open today, and I can just make out his green eyes in the darkness.

“I want that too. And I don’t want you rotting away in my country, waiting for something to happen to my father so that I can get away. That’s not you.”

“Emilie was talking to you, wasn’t she?” We keep our voices at a whisper and hold each other close.

“She was. But I already knew everything she had to say. I knew it because I know you well enough—maybe not as well as I should—”

“Not as well as you’re going to. We have time for that to happen. I promise.” Even though the future is uncertain, I instinctively feel that what I’m saying is true.

“But I know you, and I think I did from the beginning. We fit together because you are the person your sister wanted you to be. You are the woman I thought you were when I met you.”

“What’s that, Matthias? What kind of woman did you think I was?” I try to think back to that night, to the white skirt I wore, to the deep, internal thoughts that plagued me as I walked through the city lights of Amsterdam, ignoring everything around me. Until I saw him. Matthias, standing at the door to the bar. I lift my fingers to touch the place on his chin where the bruise once was. It’s long faded, just like that night. But it seems to me that those memories are indelible.

“Wild. Adventurous.”

“And out of place in a palace?” I think of Matthias there, wandering the cold, white corridors. So different from everything he is. He may have had parts of himself hidden, but he’s anything but cold.

“Maybe. But you should take that as a compliment, lieverd. I think you’d be out of place because you’d be so unhappy.”

“And Caryn? She’ll be there with you?”

“I don’t think I’m exactly her type, now that I’m thinking more about it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I nuzzle closer to him and press my face to his neck. I hope he’s right. I hope this works, that he’ll come home to me so that we can have a home.

“I think we’ll both find out.”

“And your parents? They’ll just leave me alone?”

“If I give them enough to deal with, they will. Remember, they think you’re coming with me on the plane.”

“I still can.” A chill runs through me at the thought of going with him, and I realize how much I’ve been dreading it, how it pained me to give up Studio Berçot, even if it was a last minute choice. “You don’t have to go alone.”

“I won’t be. There’s someone I’m counting on, and I think she’ll be the key to untangling every last piece of this mess. Like I said, she’s three times smarter than I am. But she’s like you, a little.”

“How’s that?”

“She’s spent too long in the shadows. I think this will be the leap she needs.”

“If you say so, Matthias.”

We lie together until the sun has come up over the buildings across the street, and the wind is blowing fast and furious against the glass, rattling the fire escape. Reluctantly, Matthias pulls away from me and slips on his clothes, looking back at me as he packs his bags and slings them over his shoulder. I wonder, watching him, if I will in fact see him again like he says. There are parts of the plan he isn’t ready to share with me, and anxiety grips my gut as I think of him alone, figuring all of it out. It’s not just a family he’s dealing with after all—it’s an entire country. There are lives and dynasties in the mix.

But he’s right.

I don’t belong there.

I don’t want to belong there.

I want to belong somewhere else, with him. And our child. A baby who won’t be royal, except for when we look at him and love him with everything we have to give.

He leans in to kiss me before he goes.

It’s a leap of faith, letting him go. And, now I can see, it was a leap of faith for him to leave me here.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Matthias

The flight to the North Islands isn’t eventful—there’s an empty seat next to me in first class, and I think about Mallory, alone in her bed, back in her apartment.

It’s the right decision, but it doesn’t feel right, sitting in the plane without her.

When I land, my mother is there to greet me. My father stands there by her side, holding a cane, his face so pallid it’s almost white. The two guards we saw in Paris flank the king and queen of the North Islands, making them look even more intimidating. They aren’t anything to be afraid of, I remind myself—Mal is protected in more ways than one. She has the North Islands law on her side—and they’ll know they can’t do anything now that she’s married to me.

My mother looks at me carefully, to my right and then my left. Her eyes wander to the staircase that descends from the plane. One perfectly sculpted eyebrow lifts, and she crosses her arms.

“Where’s the girl?”

“Nice to see you too, Mother,” I say stepping toward her. “What girl are you speaking of?”

“That pregnant girl. The one you married. I thought you might be joking when we saw you last. But it would seem, according to the Paris Hall of Records, that you actually went through with it. You must be very cross with us, Matthias, to go against what your mother and father wish for you—and for our country.”

She speaks in Dutch, clipped and fast. The few other travelers file off the plane, hurried away by the North Islands airport staff.

It’s not frequently that people visit the country anymore, as fascist and isolationist as the government has become. On the phone before I came, Addy pointed out to me that there still is a constitutional government—it’s just been driven into the ground by my father. And my mother has been behind it all, of course. With his body and brain as weak as they are, I think I know the one to blame. And the one to target when Addy and I iron out the details of our plan.

“She’s back at her apartment in Paris. And Adelaide pointed out to me that she’s under the protection of North Islands law, as she is my legal wife. Even if she isn’t royal, there’s no way you can force her to get an abortion—or a divorce.”

My mother huffs, the space between her eyebrows turning bright red. “Are you implying we’d do something to the girl? Or try to get rid of your—” She waves her hand in the air like she’s trying to think of a word. “Love child?”

The team of bodyguards my parents employ lead us back to the royal convoy, and I’m shoved into a seat next to my mother. I steel myself against her comments and prepare for the long fight of this trip. “I’m implying that, yes. I’m fairly certain you’d try to have her deported—at the very least. But while she doesn’t consent to any of your horrible plans, there’s no way to push it through.”

“Everyone has their price, Matthias.”

“Mallory doesn’t. She has her own money—”

“Surprising, given that she went and got herself pregnant to ensnare you into some sort of relationship. I’m astounded at you,” my mother continues. “I thought that you’d gone off to seduce more tourists or run around South America. It was incredibly surprising when we found you at the apartment of some pregnant American girl, tending to her like you were in love with her or some such nonsense.”

She says the word ‘love’ with disdain, like she’s talking about a rare, sexually transmitted disease. I don’t respond. It’s not like my mother knows what that means, and I won’t engage her.

We ride to the Albring Palace in silence. The North Islands are truly beautiful, even as the snow starts to descend on its mountains, and the bays start to become icy. I’d love to bring Mallory here, show her the things that I did like about this place. But it isn’t our place, and there’s no way I’m dragging my wife through this insanity. Not when I watched her bleed just days ago. Not after I saw our perfect son for the first time.

My mother walks into her chambers, casting me a withering look before she goes. “I don’t know why you even came here if it wasn’t to bring the girl to get a legal divorce. We’ll send for the girl and get her here within the week so we can get the separation on the books for the North Islands. That way, you can marry Caryn and take the throne when your father passes away. I don’t see why you wouldn’t want to do this. It’s right for the throne. It’s right for the country. And it’s right for you.”

Instead of responding, I simply smile at my mother, hands clasped in front of me.

The guards help her and my father back to their quarters. My father gives me a simple nod and doesn’t speak. According to Addy, his voice warbles with each word he says now, and the end is near.

“Wonderful. What a lovely idea, mother,” I say. My voice echoes through the marble foyer, and my mother doesn’t look back. “You won’t have any luck getting Mallory to come to this godforsaken place.”

“I have my ways,” she says, not looking back. “Everyone—and everything—has its price. That child of yours is never going to be the rightful heir to this throne. You are, and your child shall be of royal blood.”

I clasp and unclasp my fists, bile rising in my throat. There’s no way this will stand.

I’d give anything to have Mallory here with me, but she won’t respond when they send for her. And she won’t accept any financial bribes. For the first time in my life, I’m confident that I know her. I won’t have to worry about her loyalty—she and I became a team somewhere along the way. And it was solidified in stone when I saw my son for the first time.

No matter what happens, Mal will remain my wife.

And my mother will never win.

***

Late at night, as if on cue, my sister comes to my door and lets herself in. My eyes pop open as I wake from a restless sleep, and she and I sit together on the edge of my bed in the depressing white marble room.

“Mother says she’s sending for Mallory,” I say before Addy has a chance to speak.

“She won’t come—will she?” Addy asks, brushing a long blond lock behind her ear. Her voice is deeply concerned. “She needs to come if you’re going to take the throne, Matthias.”

“No. I don’t believe she will. We had a scare with the pregnancy the other day, and she’s set on staying in Paris for now. If she came, I don’t think she’d give in to the divorce, but she might do it if my mother was able to convince her it was right for me.”

“Believe me. Mother can’t. Father is really quite sick. And she’s focused on keeping him alive so she can stay in power. She hasn’t seen the writing on the wall—and she’s convinced she can keep him alive with money. But if we can get you on the throne—”

I cut her off. “What is it that he has? Father didn’t even speak to me. Not that he ever really has…”

“I’m not entirely sure if he can speak to anyone. To the best of what I can figure, I believe he has throat cancer. And I believe it’s spread through most of his body. With the medicine here, I don’t think there’s but so much anyone can do.”

I sigh, putting my head in my hands. Addy sees an opportunity, but it all depends on father’s health. And it all depends on me. “Addy—about taking the throne—I can’t. I can for a time, but I can’t take it permanently. Mal and I don’t want to have the baby here. And she needs to finish school.”

Addy gives me a concerned look. “I know what she wants, but she married a royal. And she needs to take on the responsibility that goes with it. I can help you rule, get the parliament back in power. I know how to do these things—”

I take her hand in mine. “You do. And if you get married, you can take the throne yourself.”

“That’s not—” Her face grows pale. “That’s not an option for me. I just turned nineteen. And—well, there’s the matter of marriage.”

“Who says a king—or a queen—can’t amend the law?” I sit back and smile, and her face reflects what she’s thinking. “If Father is unfit to rule, I can legally take the throne. I am married, even if my wife is in another country. We can change the law to reflect that a sovereign does not need to be married to rule. It’s an antiquated, out-of-date, ridiculous rule.”

“And after that?” Addy takes a deep breath and lets it out again.

“If you don’t want to marry anyone, you don’t have to. I can abdicate. And you can take the throne. Permanently. Or until you establish the parliament and get them running on their own. I don’t know how to do any of that, Addy. I’m a photographer. You’re a monarch. And if you don’t want to get married—”

“What if I do? But not to—a prince?”

My eyes snap over to her, and an idea that had once crossed my mind now falls into place. “If you do, well, perhaps there’s another law you might wish to change. It is, after all, the twenty-first century, Addy.”

She’s quiet for a while, and we both stare at the wall. I wouldn’t have thought that my sister and I could figure out a way to get past our parents—but people surprise each other all the time.

“We’ll need to be prepared for the storm, Matthias. We’re changing a country all in one day.”

“Weeks, maybe.”

“People won’t like it.”

“Some people will,” I say. “Trust me. It’s already the future.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Mallory

A week after Matthias departed for the North Islands, and I’ve heard very little from him. I pace the apartment.

My belly is now a thing that exists, a bump that’s undeniably hard. In the corner, Emilie sews a pair of thick leggings with a tall waistband. When she’s finished, she holds them up. They’re a deep charcoal color, and they match a shirt with gray swirls that I made just last night. If she and I keep making maternity and baby wear, we might just have a whole line. I keep joking with her that she might make big bucks on fashionable maternity clothes. And I think we’re both considering it.

“Think these leggings will get you through the winter?” she asks.

“They’re fitting for a pregnant princess. I take them out of her hand and go back to my room where I slip them on, along with the shirt I designed. We’ve both thrown ourselves into design since Matthias left. Otherwise, we’d be sitting here wondering what might happen next—and this morning, Emilie might well start bitching about Matthias and his leaving me here. She knows he had to do what he did, but it’s still hard for her not to say anything about his absence. She goes in cycles, going off on Matthias and his monarchy every few days.

When I walk out into the room, I twirl so that Emilie can see our creations. The leggings fit perfectly, and even accentuate the roundness of my seventeen week belly. The shirt matches the rich, deep color of the pants and somehow manages to flatter my figure.

“I think you might be right on the business plan,” she says. She gestures for me to turn again, and then opens her mouth as if to say more. Instead, the melodic ring of my phone interrupts us, making me jump about a foot in the air.

Emilie grabs for it and looks at the caller ID. “It’s Matthias,” she says, handing the phone over to me. “Or someone using his phone.”

My heart jumps, and I take the phone, my hand shaking. With his being out of contact, the two of us have concocted at least ten different stories, including ones that include his disappearance at the hands of his mother and father. I click the answer button and hold the phone to my ear. “Hello? Matthias? Is that really you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” His voice sounds tired, and he pants like he’s been running or fighting.

My voice shakes. “Tell me you’re okay.”

“I am. Are you okay, Mal? Is the baby okay? My mother had a meltdown, and I’ve been in the hospital with her—I didn’t have my phone—”

“Is your mother okay?” It’s hard to take it all in all at once.

“Well, that’s the thing. Things took an unexpected turn. Do you guys still have that TV connected to the antenna?”

“Yeah.” Blood rushes in my ears, and my heart starts to beat faster. If Matthias actually went to the hospital with his mother, something must have been truly wrong. It’s not like they have a solid relationship.

“Turn it on.”

I walk up to the TV and click it on, Emilie watching me as I do so. The screen of our old television takes a while to come on, but when it does, I see an image of Matthias and the woman I assume is his sister. There are also pictures of another young woman, one with red hair.

“Is that Caryn? And what are they saying about some kind of marriage?” I swallow hard and sit down on the chair that faces the TV. Emilie comes and joins me, perching on the edge of the chair. “You’re not—”

“No, no, I’m not. I’m married to you. And it’s going to stay that way. But I’ve been crowned king—my father died last night. And there is a wedding next month. But it doesn’t have anything to do with me—”

“King?” I croak out the word, and Emilie grabs my hand. “So soon? Your father?”

On the television, the reporter drones on about Matthias’s father, reviewing the not-so-high points of his monarchy. There’s a picture of Matthias’s mother entering the hospital, and a long line of bodyguards following her.

I lean my head back and close my eyes. I can still hear the commotion playing out on the TV, my brain rapidly translating from French to English.

“Holy shit,” Emilie says. “It looks like Matthias changed the law. Adelaide is getting married to that girl, Caryn. And then she’ll be—”

“After the wedding, Addy’s taking the monarchy, like we discussed,” Matthias says into my ear.

“I know you said you thought there was something going on with those two,” I say, glancing at Emilie. Em’s mouth is agape, and I don’t blame her. Same sex marriage hasn’t entered the monarchy, not in any European—or any other—country that I can name. “You didn’t tell me they wanted to get married. Aren’t they a bit young?”

Matthias laughs. “It’s a good world when the biggest thing people are worried about is that these ladies are too young. Yes. They’re young. And I’m changing the law because they can do whatever the hell they want. And before the wedding is even all the way planned, I’m abdicating. And I’m coming home to you.”

“Matthias—you don’t have to do that. You get your sister where she needs to be and figure out the rest of your life from there.”

“That’s the thing, Mal. My life is with you. Adelaide knows that. She’s smart—and she doesn’t need me here. I’ll come back for her wedding, and hopefully you’ll come with me. But I want to start looking for a place with you. A real house where we can be a family. Or an apartment. Or whatever. When Addy’s queen, she’ll give me access to my full inheritance. And we can do what we want. Paris. Amsterdam. Rome. Southeast Asia. I don’t care.”

The tears start to sting my eyes. It doesn’t matter—it hasn’t mattered where I am. If Matthias is with me, I’ll be happy. I put my hand to my belly. “Anywhere except Florida. It is lovely there this time of year—but I think my home is in Europe now.”

“Maybe Amsterdam, then.”

“Maybe,” I say. “We could take it back to the beginning. Wherever I am with you is home.”

Beside me, Emilie laughs and makes a fake gagging sound.

“Me too, Mal. I love you.”

“I love you, too. More than I can say.” Tears roll down my cheeks. “Come home. Or well—come here, and we’ll find our home. I swear we will.”

Matthias tells me more of the story while the TV drones on, Emilie’s eyes glued to it. There’s far more than the TV is telling—and I’m thankful that for once, the media doesn’t know the whole of the story. It’s far better for Addy and Matthias that way.

I hang up, content with the knowledge that my husband is coming home. By the time he gets here, he won’t be a king anymore. And unlike the news program says of me, I don’t give a happy damn what Matthias’s role is in the North Islands.

I just want him home. Home with me.

And I know he’ll be here soon.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Matthias

“It’s a sacrifice you have to make, Matthias.” Addy looks at me and straightens my tie.

“When people talk about sacrifices, they’re often talking about things people don’t want to do. I’m happy to make this sacrifice.” I look at myself in the mirror. Addy picked out a dark blue suit and a deep blue tie. It isn’t my normal style, but it will have to suffice for the announcement. “I never did want the throne.”

She puts a hand on my shoulder. “But your child won’t have any claim to it either. Not directly.”

“I don’t want him to have that. And neither does Mal. The North Islands may be the place where I was born. But it’s not my real home.” I look at her, and my sister wears a sad expression.

Caryn steps into the room and takes Addy’s arm affectionately, leaning on her shoulder. “You don’t have to do this, you know. All we want is to get married.”

“And I thought for months that you just wanted to be a princess,” I say. The way that Caryn looks at Addy tells me everything I need to know about her intentions.

“I do,” Caryn says. “Just not with you. You’re plenty good looking, but just not my type.”

I laugh, and then I sigh. I don’t have much love for my mother, and I rarely even spoke to my father in all of my years. It seems surreal that he died two days ago, and the guilt still hangs over Addy, and over me. His wasn’t an enviable life, but it feels like it ended because of us, even though the doctors swear he was headed to death that day and had requested compassionate euthanasia as his dying wish.

It doesn’t change the fact that he died hours after we told him we’d had him declared unfit to run the country. Behind his back, with a government who had been seeking to overthrow him and mother for a generation.

His eyes were sad when we went into the royal chambers, Addy standing next to me.

But Mother—she was the one with the truly frightening response.

This is the respect you give me—after I found the perfect wife for you. After I arranged all of our lives to suit your needs. I even had that girl checked at the doctor. Just as fertile as your whore back home…

The stream of insults went on long enough.

And then Addy’s face had turned red.

She’s only here because of me. Remember who suggested Caryn? It was me. She’s in love with me, and she’s the one I’m going to marry. And as soon as Matthias has been sitting on the throne for a week, long enough to get the government back in something that passes for working order, he’s leaving. And I’m taking over. My first act as queen is to marry Caryn. My second act is to get the hell out of this country, finish college, and leave it to parliament to fix your goddamn mess.

I’ve never heard Addy’s voice more passionate, more assured, or louder than I did at that instant. After years of sinking into our parents’ role for her, she was, at that moment, done.

If my mother hadn’t already gone insane, Addy’s speech sent her over the edge. She had to be dragged away by her guards. It was a final indignity—knowing that her loyal guards now belonged to her son and daughter. The very people who had schemed against her. Shortly after my mother entered protective care on the psych ward at the North Islands hospital, my father passed away in his sleep. The commotion didn’t seem to have much effect on him, but it seemed he was resigned to his fate—and the fate of his country. At a certain point in any life, even in a country’s life, it’s time for change. This might be a bigger one than the North Islands ever expected.

“I’m ready, Addy. You need to come out there with me for this to look right,” I say, standing up. We’re all crowded into my room at the palace, waiting to go announce to the media that Adelaide Albring will be taking over the rule of this country—and I’ll be returning home to Amsterdam, to be with my wife and future son.

Addy takes my hand, and we both walk out into the main hall together, where we meet the press and both stand in front of them. When the questions quiet down, I clear my throat and begin to speak.

“As king of the North Islands, I care about my subjects and their lives here in this country. After my father’s illness and death, I know a lot of you have been worried about the fate of the country. Since it’s now in the hands of a playboy prince who never seemed to care about the country, I can see where you’re going from.”

There’s nervous laughter from the reporters and the other citizens in attendance. I wait for the noise to die down before I look to Addy. She nods at me.

“Some of you may also know I recently married, and that my wife is expecting a boy. It’s with a heavy heart that I announce I’ll be leaving the North Islands to be with her. Family is the most important thing to me—”

There are titters and questions from the audience, but I raise my hand to stop them. In my few days to stop them, I feel like that benefit is one thing I might miss.

“And I’ll be leaving because I that’s what I want for my life. A simple one, with a family by my side.” I glance to Addy again. “That’s why I’ll be stepping down from my position as king. Adelaide has always been far more intelligent than I am, and she has a mind and passion for politics. She and I have worked with the government to amend our laws to allow for her to take the throne. And our parliament has agreed that she has the right to marry anyone she pleases—as does anyone in this country.”

A hush falls over the crowd. And I smile. “It’s 2016.”

“It is,” says Addy, stepping forward. “And while I finish my education, our capable government will take charge of decision making. I hope to take my own place in parliament when I return with my degrees, but for now, we’ll be taking our cues from the other constitutional monarchies in the European Union. And with time, hopefully we’ll be able to join the EU, even after our difficult history.”

Addy speaks on, the reporters hanging on her every word. She’s incandescent, my sister. And I’m grateful that I’ve been fortunate enough to be surrounded by intelligent women who know their own minds.

All of this is a different future than I’d imagined.

And the media that follows me around for the next week—and back to the mainland when I return three weeks later, isn’t exactly a welcome part of this life. But it all feels worth it when I arrive in Paris with two train tickets to Amsterdam.

When I climb the stairs to Mallory’s apartment, my heart pounds hard in my chest. When she opens the door, her curls falling longer around her face and ears than they did before I left, she might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in any of my living years. Without saying a word, I pull her into my arms and kiss her hard, my body melding with hers even as we stand in the doorway. I may no longer be a prince, but Mallory makes me feel more royal than I ever have.

“You both need to get a room!” Emilie throws a crumpled up piece of paper in our direction, but then she ushers us both inside and pours tall glasses of wine for me and her. She points out an expensive bottle of red she’s saving for her trip to come see us after the baby comes.

“I’ve been missing my wine,” Mal says, drawing Emilie into a hug. “And you need to keep sending me these maternity clothes. I’m barely stylish as it is. You’re the only one keeping me from getting arrested by the fashion police.”

We all laugh, and we point out that the dresses she and Emilie sent to Addy and Caryn for their wedding gift were exquisite. Mal makes noises about doubting they’ll ever get around to wearing them. But her blush tells me she knows better. Mal and Emilie are an unbeatable creative team, and I slip into conversation that Em might want to join us in Amsterdam when she’s done with Studio Bercot. I want my wife to keep on giving her talent to the world—as long as I get to wake up next to her everyday.

There’s laughter and wine late into the evening. And I fall into bed with Mal at the end of the night, making love to her gently. We fall asleep in each other’s arms, confident in our plan to leave for Amsterdam and find an apartment in the morning.

Our lives now will be the happy ending we both deserve, played out every day. There may be pitfalls and mistakes, failures that we’ll both have to face, but as long as we have each other, we’ll have our stability and our home.

When we wake in the morning, we pack. Mal says a tearful goodbye to another member of our family we never thought we’d have—Emilie. On our way to the station, she leans against me and holds my hand tight.

“We can look for a place in Paris too, Mal.”

“It wasn’t ever my home, Matthias. I love Emilie, and I liked the Studio. But the brief time I was in Amsterdam, I felt like it was finally my dream come true. Like a fairy tale I’d been waiting for my entire life.”

“Like Beauty and the Beast? I am pretty beastly.”

“More like Sleeping Beauty. Except instead of waking me up, you knocked me up.”

“And does the princess like it that I did?” I pat her belly and turn her to kiss me when we reach the station. Both of us have so few belongings now, we really are like tourists. If we got a few high speed rail tickets, we could probably pass for Americans just graduated from college.

“Yes. It means I’m yours. And you know I like that.” She blushes and looks down. “And I have to say, getting on a train with you makes me a little more excited than I should be…”

“It’s a conditioned response at this point, Mal.”

“With good reason, don’t you think?”

“I do.” I grab my pregnant wife’s ass, and she jumps, laughing. Together, we walk into the train station and board our ride for Amsterdam.

The baby will be here in the spring, and we’ll be settled by then.

For now, we have a train ride to look forward to.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Mallory

Four Months Later…

At thirty-six weeks pregnant, I’m more than ready for my baby to come. And I’ve been more than ready to be home with Matthias and our beautiful baby since I was sixteen weeks pregnant—right after he left for the North Islands.

It was cold when he left, and Christmas came and went without any fanfare. I’d never really had eventful Christmases—my mother didn’t believe in them—but dear Emilie had tried to make ours special, with mulled wine I couldn’t drink, cheeses my stomach still couldn’t tolerate, and a holiday ham that actually ended up being pretty good. We even had a tiny, Charlie Brown style Christmas tree that sat by our window. I put lights on it from the pharmacy across the street, just to let the little boy growing inside of me know that there would be good holidays to come. I promised him that silently the night I turned on those blinking white lights.

“Your first Christmas in the world will be far better than this one. And your father will be there. He tells me he will be.”

And toward the end of my second trimester, long into the cold, gray Parisian winter, Matthias finally came home.

His face was thinner, like he’d worried himself thin, like he’d aged while he was away.

And with the news I kept up with on my phone and on the television, I could see why he had.

After his father’s death and his mother’s mental breakdown, I wouldn’t expect him to be the same man he was. Even though Adelaide’s very public wedding and her own partial abdication were seen as incredibly positive for the small, backward country, the family drama took its toll on Matthias.

And I wasn’t there to make it better.

Yes, he’s a changed man. I look at him across the apartment he and I are sharing in Amsterdam. He’s reading a book on photography, and there are stacks of applications from schools and programs across the country sitting next to him.

He’s still bad sometimes—foul-mouthed, opinionated, and arrogant. He’s still dirty. Since I’ve been showing, he can’t keep his hands off of me, telling me that he’s never felt more possessive, or more in love.

But he’s a man now, more than a prince. We’ve invested the money from his inheritance, and both of us are looking at schools. There’s more to life than gallivanting around Europe, and I think we both know that now. We proved it to each other.

“Maybe we should go out tonight,” I say, leaning back in my chair. My own letter from the International School of Fashion should be arriving any day, and I’ll be able to defer and accept until next fall, when the baby starts to need me less. “Last few weeks of freedom.”

The baby kicks and squirms, deep and low, pressing down on my bladder when he does. I place my hand where I think his foot is and feel it kick once, twice, and three times. I think he knows it’s me—and when Matthias leans into my belly and kisses it, the baby goes wild, his feet tap-dancing against the top of my belly, arms and elbows wiggling and jamming into the tops of my hips.

“I’d like that, lieverd. But what I’d really like to do is keep you home. You’re so perfect like you are, and I want to touch you while you still want me.”

“I’ll always want you.” I say it, my voice matter-of-fact. I’m as sure of that as I am of anything, and it’s clear to me that this feeling won’t fade. There might be times when our life readjusts to the next adventure, like the one growing inside of me, but I’ll always want—always need—this man’s touch. My heart leaps, and heat pools between my legs. My body might be fatigued, but the desire courses through me like a tempest. If anything, I feel a stronger longing for Matthias and his body now that I’m carrying his child within me, a craving only he can satisfy.

He stands up and puts his papers on the table next to him. “Prove it.”

I stand and go to him, putting aside my laptop where I’m expecting my acceptance any day. “With pleasure.”

“Not that we want to go jump starting anything…” he says. But he’s already got me in his arms, hands wandering up to my breasts. His knuckles brush against my nipples, making them as hard as little bullets.

“I wouldn’t mind a jump start, if you can handle all of this.” I gesture to my body, and we dissolve in laughter. My belly is shaped like a watermelon, but Matthias grabs my ass like he always has, mouth meeting mine and melting into it, tongue glancing against my own.

“I can handle it,” he growls. “Plus you just taste so good right now, I don’t think I can ever quite get enough.” He raises my gauzy white shirt and lowers his mouth to one nipple, sucking on it through the lacy fabric of my bra. A white-hot bolt of energy sears through my center, straight to my sex. I can feel myself growing wet, ready for his fullness.

“You want to taste me?” I murmur the words, almost purring in his ear.

“That I do.” I feel his hands sliding in the waistband of my jeans, pulling them down with my panties in one fluid motion. I step out of them, and he motions for me to sit on the sofa, commanding me with his movements like he always does. And just like the first time, I submit exactly how he desires, spreading my legs for him. Unlike our first night together, however, there’s no blushing, no embarrassment in the distance between us.

Instead, he kneels and slips two fingers deep into my sex, working my g-spot while he looks into my eyes. “Take off your shirt and your bra, Mal.”

I do as he says, eyes locked on his. He moans softly as he watches me, and I try to catch my breath, panting and inching forward as he taps against my most sensitive place inside time and time again. “Oh fuck,” I moan. “You’re going to make me come.”

“One of my favorite things about my pregnant wife,” he says, lowering his mouth close to my clit, his warm breath sending shivers up and down my spine. “Is how very sensitive she is. How easily I can make her come and keep coming. All night. You like it too, don’t you, lieverd?”

“Oh God, yes. Yes I do.”

“Tell me, Mal. Do you want me to eat you or fuck you?”

My head swims. His voice is rich with longing, and I can hear him unzipping himself. The thrumming desire intensifies when he starts to stroke himself. “Both,” I whimper.

“Good,” he breathes. “Good choice, mijn schat.” His lips meet my skin, sucking and nibbling, pulling, tongue moving in quick, methodical circles. In ten seconds—maybe less—I’m coming hard and shaking against his face, begging him to fuck me in a senseless, babbling string of words.

Gently, he flips me around so my hands and head rest on the sofa, grabbing my breasts and then my hips. He doesn’t bother to undress himself but instead, slides his hungry cock between my legs, groaning with intense relief as he buries himself deep inside. His breath quickens, and he moves so that every time he fills me, he drives deeper. I reach back to my own clit, stroking myself closer and closer to orgasm as he fills me. My muscles tighten, and I come again. My pleasure washes over me, slower and deeper this time, spreading through my sex and into every cell of my body. I cry out his name and shudder against him. Sensing my release, he increases his speed, letting his muscles tense and let go as he comes inside of me, filling me to the hilt with the warm rush of his essence.

Later, when we’re both dressed again and making dinner, we can’t help smirking at each other and kissing like newlyweds. I guess we are still that—even though we’re expecting a baby any time.

“That was definitely nicer than going out,” I say, rolling out fresh pasta for the boiling water on the stove. Matthias works on his new specialty, a delicate red sauce with tomatoes and olives. The man may never have cooked for himself before moving in with me, but he’s figured out he has a talent for it. And I have no problem with that at all.

As we eat and talk about school and money and all the baby things in the back room, the anxiety we both felt about our acceptance letters starts to fade away. When it’s nearing midnight, we fall into bed, folding into each other’s arms. Matthias delivers on what he promised, too—he keeps me up far later than he should.

And for what might be the last time for nearly a decade to come, we sleep in until well past breakfast time and make love again before we even get coffee.

I count down the days until forty weeks. It takes me a while to fully wake up, and the number of days dances along in my mind.

“There’s so much time to go,” I mutter.

Matthias helps me up and whirls me around, pulling me into his arms. “But we’re spending it together. That’ll help it go faster, won’t it?”

“You’ve obviously never been thirty-six weeks and one day pregnant before,” I say, laughing.

When we turn on the news, there’s another story on Matthias’s mother.

Without hesitation, he simply turns it off and makes a pot of dark, hot coffee instead.

Addy and Caryn will be here in two days for Matthias’s birthday, and they’re the only part of the Albring family that we care about. The only part we want to deal with. Even if they bring a huge media team in their wake, we’ll be happy to see them.

Emilie will be here after that, to help me in the last weeks of my pregnancy—and to get ideas on her new line of clothing. Hopefully, she’ll remember to bring that bottle of wine.

If only they could all be here when the baby comes…

I touch my growing belly and wonder exactly when that will be.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Matthias

“You ready?” I roll over in the bed and tap Mallory on the shoulder.

“What for?” She grumbles and keeps her eyes closed, pulling the pillow down over her head. At thirty-six and half weeks pregnant, I can’t say I blame her. Not that I’ve ever been knocked up by a prince, but it doesn’t look particularly comfortable at this stage. It does look fucking sexy, I keep trying to convince her. But the whole forward-heavy slow-motion thing—I’m pretty sure she’s done with it.

My heart leaps. A baby. Our baby.

I never knew I wanted this—hell, I actively didn’t want it because of how my parents treated me and Addy for so many years. But now that it’s here, right in front of me, I can’t imagine my life turning out any differently.

“Don’t you remember?” I grin. I know it’ll click in her head when she wakes all the way up. Truthfully, I couldn’t give a single fuck that she doesn’t remember my birthday. It’s never been that important to me—but Addy and Caryn are on their way here. And the media might just be descending on our apartment when they arrive. There’s nothing like gay royalty to stir up a media blitz. As the papers keep saying, it’s very 2016 chic. And a pregnant American girl with a former prince—no, king—well, let’s just say we’re a modern family, even in Amsterdam.

“Remember wha…” Her voice trails off, and for a second, I think I might hear her start to snore again. But her eyes pop open. I bite my lip and pull her into my arms, kissing her before she has time to say something self-deprecating.

“Happy birthday to me… I’m one year closer to thirty. Big twenty-eight. And—”

“Oh shit. Addy and Caryn.” She brings one hand to her forehead and closes her eyes again. Her body is soft and round and naked against mine. On any other day, I’d roll her over gently in bed to see if we could get in a quickie, but I know Mal by now. And I know she needs at least thirty minutes to freak out about what’s happening, and then another thirty minutes to run around the apartment getting ready and trying to tame her curls.

I feel her try to pull away from me, but I just hold her for a second until she stops pulling. “It’s going to be fine. You’re beautiful. They’re easy to be around—decidedly unlike the rest of my family. And the people from the media are all people Addy-approved. I promise.”

“And I forgot your birthday.”

“It’s six in the morning. I woke you from a deep pregnancy sleep. There’s no reason you should remember what’s happening. I’d be surprised if you did. It’s okay. I don’t care about it. My parents never made a big deal of it,” I say. “So now I don’t either.”

Her face softens, and her arms wrap around my neck in the near-darkness. The only light comes from the gentle glow of streetlights outside. “I’ll be the one who cares about it from here on out. Our families might have been messed up, Matthias. But maybe when I’m not eight months pregnant, I’ll remember better. We can make our own traditions now that we’re together.”

I brush a dark brown curl back behind her ear and kiss her forehead, her skin warm and soft against my lips. “I’d like that. I think we both deserve that, don’t you, lieverd?”

She nestles into me closer, and I take in the vaguely tropical scent of her hair. I haven’t ever been this close to someone before. It feels amazing, a miracle I never expected out of my own life. Maybe in all of the time I spent searching for tourist girls that were good for a night, I was really looking for Mallory. Fate is funny that way—it gives you what you need when you’re least expecting it. Here we are, finally in the arms of people who truly care for us.

I’d always thought having a wife and child would make life far too complicated for a man running from his past—but Mal has made it so much simpler. She gave me the will to stand up to my family, the solution to become the man I wanted to be, and the reason to build a solid foundation for my life.

There’s no man luckier on the continent—I’d be willing to gamble on it.

Mal kisses me again and gets up to shower, her body round and promising, a sign of our future together.

I lie in bed, glancing over to the bassinet and wondering when it might be time to meet our son. Even if I was demoted in my family’s royal hierarchy, our son will still be the richest thing in our lives. I’m sure of it.

After her shower, we both get dressed—her in a purple maternity dress she made herself, and me in my button-down shirt and jeans that might not be fully suitable for meeting a queen. But that queen is my little sister, so I think I’ll be able to get away with it. The sun is coming up, so I make breakfast and engage Mal, talking about meaningless things for a while so she won’t think about the media storm and all the things we’ve been through.

“Is Emilie’s line selling through her website?” I ask, spreading batter for our crepes onto a hot skillet.

Mal smiles and places a protective hand on her belly, her brows furrowing for a second like she’s concentrating on something. “What?”

“I was asking about Emilie’s line—Mal, are you okay?”

“Oh yeah. Just the Braxton Hicks contractions. Pour me a glass of orange juice, will you? I probably need to start getting hydrated so they’ll stop.” She smiles at me, and the pain on her face is gone. “And yeah, I think Emilie’s line is selling really well. She wants me to design a few pieces for it, but something tells me we’ll be busy for the next few months. And then there’s business school to think about.” She shrugs.

“You should. Don’t let what we have ever stop you from what you want to do with your life.”

“Oh, I’m not. I’ll design for her eventually. And I think a lot of women in Europe might like a more fashionable maternity line.”

She gestures to her dress and puts her hand down on her belly again, her face scrunching up for an instant and then going back to normal. At that very moment, a limo pulls up outside of our apartment, followed by five SUVs that probably contain a variety of bodyguards and reporters. The rest of the media will be here soon, so I put our breakfast aside on our breakfast table and grab Mal’s hand.

“They’re here. Early.”

Her face blanches. “I thought they were supposed to come an hour from now. I’m not—I need to eat.” She furrows her brow and grabs a day-old croissant from our counter, nibbling on a few bites before we make our way downstairs to greet our guests.

“Queen Adelaide might be so kind as to take us to breakfast.”

“At a cafe too small for reporters?”

“Bingo,” I say, letting Mal grasp my arm as we walk downstairs together. Her grip tightens as we reach the last step and then tightens again when we open the door.

“It’s nothing,” she whispers to me. “I just need some juice and maybe another pastry—”

Her hand goes to the top of her belly again. When I put my hand just under hers, I can feel how tight the muscles beneath her skin are. “Isn’t this what happens when you go into labor?”

“I don’t know—I think it’s what happens when you have any kind of contraction. And that doesn’t necessarily mean anything at all—” She whispers and then turns to smile broadly, her expression masking her pain and concern. There are already newspeople lining up behind Addy’s car, their camera’s flashing. Spring is already in the air, but it’s still chilly outside at this time of the morning, and Mal pulls into me, shivering. I can’t tell if she’s still having contractions, but I look down and see her hand resting at the top of her belly again. Something in my gut tightens—worry and excitement mixed together in equal measure.

Is thirty-six weeks full term? Or was it thirty-seven? Is she close enough? Or—

Before I have time to think more about it, my sister steps out of her transport, Caryn following behind her. Both of them are dressed in Emilie’s designs, gifts they received from us for their wedding.

Mal laughs and Addy comes up to her, taking Mallory into her arms.

“I never thought you’d wear the dresses,” Mal says. “But you both look amazing.”

The cameras go wild, snapping pictures of all of us in different combinations.

“Of course we’re wearing the dresses. They are truly fabulous.” Addy takes Mallory’s arm and starts to walk down the street, pulling me and Caryn after her.

“I hope we’re going to a cafe where no one can follow us—we are, aren’t we?” Mal laughs when she speaks, a beautiful sound.

And Addy squeezes her in response. “Certainly. I’m done with caring too much about what other people think. If any one of these people behind us has a problem with it, they can stuff it.” Addy winks at Mal, and I watch as Mallory puts her hand over her belly again. Addy turns back to me. “And happy birthday, big brother. I’m glad I was able to make the trip—though not in time to meet my nephew, right?”

“Hopefully not,” Mal mutters as we arrive at the entrance to the cafe. The reporters are all still following us, some of their faces looking grim as we all stand in front of the cafe and turn back to them.

“Looks like some of them will indeed have to stuff it,” Caryn says, pulling her cascade of red hair back over her shoulder and taking Addy’s hand in hers. The reporters crowd around us before we walk inside, taking pictures and peppering all four of us with questions.

Mal looks overwhelmed, and her face turns pale. I go to stand next to her and wrap my arm around her. “You sure you’re up for this today? I can walk you back to the apartment—”

“I’m just tired and hungry. I think we’ll all be just fine after we sit down.” I can tell that the pain is cycling through her, the waves hitting her over and over now. In our months together, I’ve learned to read her face and all the small gestures of her body. I can tell—things are not quite as they should be.

“Mallory, I’m serious—”

A reporter butts in next to us. “Isn’t it true that Mallory seduced you, thinking she’d get the crown?” The man has an American accent, and that seedy, prying tone to his voice that many of the paparazzi have when they’re trying to goad celebrities into responding angrily.

I ignore him and try to turn back into the cafe. I didn’t know there’d be lowlifes among my sister’s selected reporters. Addy shrugs at me and furrows her brows when she sees the man, as if to let me know he was never approved.

“And isn’t it true you got pregnant to secure your place in the Albring family?” The guy steps in closer, and I suddenly feel like we’re all in a trap, the media storm descending on the lot of us again. We’d all thought it was over, but apparently, no one can get enough of us.

“Listen,” I say, unable to bear it any longer. “Mal had no idea she was even dealing with the Albring family. So why don’t you kindly fuck off—”

Mal leans into me and grips my arm hard. “On second thought,” she says, her voice strained. “I think I might need to go back to the apartment, Matthias.”

“Hey, buddy, don’t you tell me to fuck off—” The American reporter leans in closer and snaps a picture of Mal leaning into me. If she weren’t using me for support, I’d get in my fighter’s stance and slug the asshole in the face.

“Listen, all of you,” I shout, voice booming. “My wife is having some trouble right now, so I need all of you to back the hell off.” I pause. My voice came out angrier than I expected. “Please,” I add, gesturing to Mallory.

This only heightens the frenzy around us, cameras snapping and voice recorders popping on. I growl and start trying to guide Mal back through the crowd. Addy and Caryn give us worried looks. One of Addy’s bodyguards gestures for his team to surround us and hold the reporters away.

Before the team of bodyguards can get in formation, the American reporter closes in and sticks his microphone in Mallory’s face. “I heard you came to Amsterdam expressly to find Prince Matthias and entrap him into this fake marriage?”

Mallory, pain still raging through her, snaps her head up and snarls. “You think this is fake?” She gestures to her belly. “You think the four of us are some kind of piece of fucking performance art? Well—” Mal pauses and then clasps her hand over the top of her enormous baby bump, bending over and groaning in pain. She looks up again. “Then, well—fuck you.”

Mallory takes one step forward, still gripping me hard. There’s silence for an instant, and the whole world seems to slow down around us. In the brief moment that we don’t hear cameras snapping pictures, there’s an audible popping sound that seems to come from deep within Mal’s body. She steps forward, putting her hand out to the American reporter’s shoulder and almost knocking him down. Instead, her water breaks, crashing down all at once onto the reporter’s expensive, Italian leather shoes.

“It’s not fake,” she seethes. And then she turns to me, her face a mask of utter, serene calm, like she’s in a distant, faraway place in her mind. “Matthias. I think we should go to the hospital now.”

A dozen cameras flash all at the same time, and the bodyguards encircle us, moving us back toward Addy and Caryn’s transport line. The queen and her princess follow us, Caryn shouting angrily at the reporters to back off. As we approach the car, Addy comes to Mallory’s other shoulder and helps her into the car.

The four of us pile in together, Caryn up front. “Get us to the hospital now,” she says, tapping the driver on the shoulder.

We peel off down the empty Amsterdam street.

“That was a hell of a way to get the reporters to back off, Mal,” Addy says.

Between contractions, Mallory laughs, and she doesn’t stop laughing until we’re securely in our hospital room and I help her into the tub to begin bringing our son into the world. Time seems to slow down again, and I sit next to the big birthing tub, holding Mallory’s hand as she breathes, deeper and deeper, her mind and body further removed from the real world with each contraction. After a while, she starts moaning through each wave, her eyes closed in deep concentration.

After what seems like a full century, she looks at me, her eyes still far away. But when her gaze meets mine, we connect, and I understand her before she even speaks. So different than when we first met, but I guess that’s how love evolves. “It’s time,” she says, squeezing my hand.

I’m not a man who cries, nor have I ever been a man who gets emotional about much of anything. But it wasn’t so long ago that I didn’t have anything in my life—not even someone I could call my real friend. Now, I have Mallory. I have my sister. I have a family that I didn’t ever imagine, and I’m getting ready to have even more.

A year ago, my life was basically empty.

And now it’s full.

Tears come to my eyes, and my throat grows tight as I help Mallory out of the tub. The room is quiet and peaceful, far different than what Mal tells me of American hospitals. A single doctor and his nurse come in to tend to us, and Mal gets in position to deliver on the table, still breathing through contractions like the pain is barely a trickle. In the tub, she told me over and over that it hurt, but that the warm water took the pain away. I wouldn’t know it, but I’ve squeezed her hand, and she’s squeezed back the whole time.

But today, we’re here together.

An hour later, Mallory gives birth to our first child, a little boy. We name him Roman Elias. It’s a strong name, a name that has never been used in my family. Instead, it’s the beginning of ours.

When it’s quiet and the doctors are gone, Roman sleeps soundly on Mallory’s chest, his little hands opening and closing. The three of us doze together, wrapped in a bubble of our own creation. This is our family. This is everything.

When Addy and Caryn come to visit that night, Mallory hands Roman to me, and I hold him. His deep blue eyes pop open, and he looks right at me.

“I’m your papa. Little boy. Little love.”

Mal takes my hand when she hears me. “And he’ll have everything we didn’t.” She pauses. “Happy birthday, Matthias.”

“It’s the best one I’ve had in my life. And it always will be.”

The four of us chat until Mallory’s eyes grow heavy again.

When we go home the next day, we’re wrapped in the feeling of true, uncomplicated happiness for perhaps the first time in our lives.

Our lives are full, and our love is at its beginning.

* * *

Read on for a excerpt from A Perfect SEAL!

CHAPTER ONE

Three Years, Three Months Ago

“We’ll never get away with this. This is not going to work.”

“We’ve been through this. The other night, when we agreed.”

“We were—It was—”

“You were fucking phenomenal, Sunshine.” He winks at me and grabs me by the thigh. “And I’m not losing the best lay I’ve ever had.”

The priest has a blue folder in his hand and goes to stand at the pulpit. He looks at us both, impatient, possibly drunk. “Let’s get this bullshit over with,” he says, his voice as grizzled as he is. No courthouse for us. This shit is happening in a church.

My heart leaps. “Okay.”

He grabs my hand. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

CHAPTER TWO

Three Years, Six Months Ago

“Another,” I say. I nod to the bartender and slide my glass over to him. It’s not crowded in here yet, but it will be. My eye socket still hurts, and the stitches haven’t completely dissolved. The type of girl that comes in here won’t notice. Either that, or she won’t say anything.

The bartender delivers another whiskey and tries not to stare at my face.

That’s what I get for ending up with the family. If I were on my own, I might have more to show for it than a busted face and a stupid tattoo.

Just when I’m thinking about busting out of this stupid bar and finding a more appropriate use of my time, she walks in and sits down. She’s a spray of strawberry blond hair to my right, freckles on her arms, delicate wrists and light purple lacquered fingernails.

“Hit me,” she says to the bartender. “Whatever’s cheapest.” Her voice is raspy and low, and when she turns to me, her green eyes, sharp and intelligent, lock on mine. I take another sip of my whiskey and wonder at my luck. The girl sitting next to me is fucking stunning—and she’s wearing a silvery dress with a low-cut neckline and a high-cut skirt. Her skin is milky white, freckles that she was probably made fun of for across her neck and cheeks and shoulders. Her lips are a perfect, pink, cupid’s bow shape, her cheek-bones broad, a slight dimple in her chin.

“What are you looking at?” There’s a hard edge to her tone, but she laughs, throaty and deep. “You’re not the usual crowd in here, are you?” She lifts one perfectly manicured eyebrow and drinks the bartender’s cheap swill that passes for beer.

“You aren’t either,” I say. She’s the girl who’ll take my mind off of what I did this week, off of the fingers I broke, the faces I slit up for Cullen.

“Who says?”

“I say. You’re too pretty for this type of place. Not a tourist, not a New York native, either.”

“Then what am I?” Her deep voice sends a thrill through me. There’s a blush right over the tops of her cheeks, like she’s thinking about something she shouldn’t. Her eyes move over me, and she takes another sip of her beer.

“You’re the type of woman who should be coming home with me.”

“I think not—”

“Isn’t that what you came for? To land a good lay.”

The corners of her lips turn up into a smile, and she laughs. “And what makes you think you’re a good lay?”

“Every woman I’ve met in this damn place says so.”

Her blush intensifies. “You come here often for this kind of thing?”

“Often enough.”

“And these ladies—they say you’re good—”

“Excellent.”

“Excellent—”

“Only one way to find out,” I say, leaning in and brushing my hand against her cheek.

“Bartender—I’ll take the check.”

I grab her wrist and turn it over in my palm. Blue veins stand out against her creamy skin. I trace my finger over her wrist and into the flesh of her palm. She gasps.

I put a ten down on the bar and pull her up. “Only one way to find out, I said. You leave here with me now. Come back to my apartment. And I’ll show you what I’m about.”

She blushes deep red, the flush extending over her chest. “What if you’re a serial killer or something?”

I flash a grin at her. “Live dangerously.”

CHAPTER THREE

Present Day

“What fresh hell is this?” I look back and forth between Debbie and the other nurses I used to work with, back when I was a candy striper at Outer Banks hospital. They’re standing behind a card table set up in the residents’ locker room, and there’s a light blue cake on the middle of the table. My heart beats hard, and my hands start to sweat again. It’s only my second week back in town, and it’s my first day back at the hospital after three years with Doctors Without Borders. One year in Syria before shit got bad, and two years in the Ukraine.

My therapist said that what’s making me nervous is being back home, that it’s so different from what I went through while I was over there. But I know better. It’s being back on solid soil, for sure. But it’s also being back in the same life I lead when I knew him, back in the same town I escaped to, back in the same place I saw him last.

“Surprise!” Debbie shouts, throwing her hands up. The other residents halfheartedly repeat after her, but I don’t know any of them. And one or two of them probably noted the angry red blush creeping over my cheeks and decided it was best to play it low key. It is, after all, six o’clock in the morning, and I’m betting nobody is in the mood for cake. I’ll be glad when Natalie starts in the fall. But for now, I’m just as alone as I have been for the past three years.

Debbie looks frantically around at the other people in the room—ten residents, two interns, and a nurse whose name I can’t remember. She wields a cake spatula, nearly hitting one of the interns in the face. The intern steps back and crosses her arms, rolling her eyes skyward. “Anyone want cake?”

Jesus Christ, no one wants cake before it’s light outside, Debbie.

That’s what I want to say.

“Sure, Debs. Thank you so much.” I walk up to her like the gracious Southern girl I am and draw her into an embrace. Hugging her makes my nerves ease just a little bit, and I relax even more when the interns and residents go about their business, wandering to either side of the room to check their phones and change their scrubs.

“It’s so good to have you back, sweetheart,” Deb says, kissing me on the cheek and squeezing my shoulder. She hustles and gets me a piece of cake, which looks like it could be a leftover baby shower cake from the Be-Low Foods in Manteo. But it’s not really worth mentioning. I sit down next to Debbie at the card table and eat the cake. It’s stale, and the icing is hard. But Deb is comforting in the sea of anxiety swirling around me. She’s a ballast in the storm, someone who means home. Her light blue eyes fill with tears as we sit there in the middle of the locker room, doctors and nurses filing past us without a second glance.

“What happened to you, honey? Why didn’t you come back?” Deb puts her hand on mine, and the warmth feels like a shock. After three years away, changing teams of doctors from one month to the next, I’m not exactly used to being touched unexpectedly.

I choke down a piece of cake. It’s dry in my throat, scratchy. “It was my calling,” I manage to say, looking down and to the side. It seems as good a lie as any for why the preppy girl obsessed with making money would live in the Ukraine in an apartment with spotty electricity—and even spottier running water. “It was an experience I needed to have.” I shove another bite of cake in my mouth.

“I mean, why didn’t you come back here after you graduated from med school, honey? Not even to visit?”

“Plane tickets,” I say, nodding, as if that explains it all. “The trip left from New York. My mom came—”

“Okay, Summer. We need you here, and you’re here.” She squeezes my hand, and I’m transported back in time to when I was fourteen, and Debs was twenty-three, a new nurse at the hospital showing me how to empty bedpans and change linens. The memory is tinged with the guilt and regret that comes from years of hiding, of avoiding this place and all of its truths.

“Where do you need me today, Debs?” I stand and brush a few cake crumbs off of my green scrubs and pick a piece of icing from a stray curl of hair.

“Emergency. Fight from last night sent us some sorry looking assholes.”

“God, that’s still going on?” It was cool when I was seventeen, and knocking someone out with your fists seems like the worst possible idea. “Fine. I’ll go.” My hands shake a little as I put my coat on and drape the stethoscope around my neck.

It’ll get better. This is okay.

I chant the words to myself as I stroll down the hallway to the emergency room. I can be on call there and not waste my time sitting in the locker room, waiting for something to happen. I know the ropes just as well as anyone does around here.

A girl—or what looks like a girl—pops through the doors to the waiting room. Her dark eyes go wide when she sees me, and she flips her long, dark hair over her shoulder.

“You a new resident? Patient room one. We’ve got a cut that needs sutures. Dude’s got a nasty attitude.” Before I can get her name, she pulls me back to patient room one and pushes me inside. “I’ll bring him to you.” She nods to me before she walks out of the door. “Name’s Priya. Head resident. Glad to have you—Collington, right?”

I nod, and the swinging door to the patient room swings back and forth on its hinges, nearly hitting my in the face. My heart nearly leaps out of my chest, and I stumble backward toward the bed.

This Bambi deer-in-the-headlights shit won’t cut it for the job I’ve taken on, so I press the uneasy feeling in my gut down and away. I’m back here. It was my choice. And this is just the first day. What could go wrong?

I fall into a rhythm as I prep the suture kit, getting the shit together I’ll need to patch up some idiot fighter. At least, I assume it’s a fighter. Besides stomach viruses, idiots who get beat up for a living are about all we see around here at this time of day.

The door opens behind me, and a rush of air comes into the room. I hear what must be Priya fumbling around with a wheelchair. “These fucking things,” she mutters. “I’m leaving you in good hands. It’s her first day, but she was in the field for three years. She can probably suture with one eye shut in the middle of a dust storm.” She directs her voice at me as I turn on the sink and wait for the water to get warm. “Doctor, we have a white male here, mid-thirties I’d guess, though he won’t tell me. Says he got into a bar fight but his blood alcohol is zero. I suspect it was quite a beat-down he took.”

The man groans in pain, that groan that signifies he’s on the cusp of passing out. I hear him try to get up, and Priya trying to calm him so that he falls back into his chair.

“Just a minute,” I mumble. “The nurse will be in shortly. Right, Priya?”

I turn around, and after that, everything happens in slow motion. The man in the chair looks at me and smirks, his eyes steely blue.

I fall back on the hospital bed as the nurse enters and wraps a blood pressure cuff around his huge, freckled bicep. I gulp, tasting salt and metal, and my heart pounds so loud I think that it might start echoing in the room.

“What—” I start, but the words won’t fully form, and Priya turns and stares at me over his chart.

“Mid-thirties male,” she repeats. “Laceration on the right arm, and another on his right cheek. Pretty nasty. Says it was a bar fight, but his blood alcohol level was—” She stops and looks between the two of us. “You two know each other or something?”

One corner of his lip turns up into a smile, making the gash on his cheek open slightly. “You could say that,” he says, his voice a growl, deep and gritty. He’s at once intimately familiar and totally foreign. His eyes are the same, but there are fine lines at the corners, and his smile isn’t quite as eager as it used to be. His reddish hair is cropped close so that I can see the scar on his scalp that the boss put there when he was trying to protect me. My stomach drops, and I wipe my palms against the green scrubs. I absently wonder if my makeup looks okay, and then I realize I’m not wearing any, and I blush, my cheeks growing uncontrollably hot. The nurse looks at me and raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t—I haven’t seen him in three years—” The words leave my mouth all at once. “I thought you were in New York.”

“I was, and then I came here. Cost of living, that kind of thing. Also, I was looking for this girl...” He looks at me pointedly. “But I found out she was in Syria. Imagine my surprise. And I didn’t have a red cent for a plane ticket. Had to stay and work.”

Three years have left their mark. He looks older, but his muscles are broader and more defined, his presence even bigger than it once was. The white t-shirt he’s wearing stretches across his chest and biceps. Before, he only had one tattoo on his right forearm, the sword that signified his membership in the Irish mafia. Now, that’s covered. New tattoos run up the length of both arms.

As the nurse listens to his heart, Priya stares at me. Her eyes flick over to the man for a brief second. “You okay with him? I can get another resident—”

“Don’t bother,” he says, his grin growing wider. “I heard she was back in town. I knew she’d be coming to see me anyway.” The way he looks at me sends a chill through my body, and I suddenly remember why I agreed to what he offered. I stand up, and my knees instantly go weak. I knew I’d have to see him, but I had no damn idea it would be so soon.

“I’ll wait for Summer to respond,” Priya says, looking at me pointedly.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ve got this.”

“She’s been looking forward to seeing me,” he says. “She’s my—”

“Old friend. We’re old friends. I met him when I was in school.” I nearly bark the words out, and Ash smirks. Priya shrugs, but she looks back at me before she leaves.

I watch as the nurse takes his vitals, then she leaves us both alone. He goes to stand, but he’s unsteady on his feet and leans against the hospital bed. I don’t stop him.

“A little bird told me you were back in town, Sunshine. I’m offended you didn’t come straight to see me.” He crosses his muscled arms and leans against the bed. I can see the definition in his legs through his jeans. It was always a shame that the universe had given him such a good body and such a shitty soul. I’d wanted him with every fiber of my being. But I was younger then, what seems like so much younger. I know him better now. I know all the things he’s capable of.

“Don’t call me that.” I make a decision to get my shit together, here and now. I handled a lot worse than this, going back as far as New York and the gambling. Four years I’ve known this man. He might have crept into my thoughts every day since I saw him last, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do my job.

He arches an eyebrow and raises his hand like he’s going to reach for me, then he drops it to his side. My hands still shake as I get the sutures prepared, but then that otherworldly stillness takes me over, and I slip into the zone that I know all too well. When your boss tells you that a bomb might fall, or you’re working out in the fields in below freezing temperatures, you know your zone. And that’s kind of what this is. It’s a hazard situation, just the same as any I saw abroad. Before I can think, I sit him down on the bed, clean the gash on his arm, and inject him with lidocaine. He talks to me but I shut him out, his voice coming to me a long way off, almost like he’s underwater and I’m listening from above. I start to suture him, and he grimaces.

“Summer, are you listening to me?” My eyes meet his for a moment, and I notice that the tips of his eyelashes are blond. I never noticed that before. And to think, there was a time I should have known him better than anyone. “Summer?”

I clip the last of his sutures, then start cleaning the cut on his face. It’s a clean cut, and deep. My stomach flips. It was intentional. Tears prick the backs of my eyes. I’ve seen this before—on him and on a dozen other fighters who worked for the family back in New York. He owes somebody. He sees the change come over my face, or at least I think he does.

“It’s not what you think,” he says.

“What do I think, Ash?”

“It’s from fighting. Clean fighting. I have my own place. I’m coaching—not drinking, not gambling. I broke ties when I came down here to find you.”

My throat feels like it’s going to close, and the lights seem like they’re flickering. “I sent you the papers. You never signed them, did you?”

“No.”

“I tried to find you in New York the whole first year I was gone. I hired a PI—spent my salary—and you were here. When you didn’t show up for the lawyer, I trusted you to get it done—”

“And you left. Not a word to me. Not a word to anyone.” He flinches when I numb his cheek and begin stitching him up. There will be another scar, among the many he has on his face.

“My mom knew.”

“You didn’t think to tell me. I had to find out from that nurse after I came looking for you here. She was the only one who knew—your aunt wouldn’t speak to me. And your mom didn’t even know who I was.”

I roll my eyes. She had every reason to refuse Ash, and every reason not to tell him where I was. I clip the last of his stitches. It won’t be gorgeous, but it’ll go along with his hawk-like features and the webs of scarring all over his face. I touch his cheek for a moment, fingertips grazing over the red and blond stubble. “Get on out of here,” I say. “You’re done.”

He catches my hand. “We’re not done, Sunshine.”

“Oh, we’re done.” My voice is cold, and I snatch my hand away. “We were done three years ago.”

“I have a marriage certificate that says otherwise.” The look he gives me is exactly the one he gave me when we were together so long ago, the gaze that told me he owned me, that I was his until he said otherwise. The look that undid me every time and made me forget every shortcoming, every disappointment. I clench my jaw. He’s right. There’s a piece of paper out there that ties us together—but that’s the only thing that does. If he’d signed the papers when he said he would, there would be nothing. I can’t deny that his touch on my skin makes me remember what it was like with him—but that was only his body.

“Well, will you look at the time?” I say, my voice hoarse from the anger rising in my throat. “I’ve got to tend to a few other patients. Wouldn’t look good on my first day to hang around a man I barely know all morning.” I press the call button. “A nurse will come shortly, and she’ll get you the hell out of this hospital.”

Ash tries to catch my hand again, but I dodge him and walk out of the room. I hear his voice as the door swings back and forth behind me.

“I’ve been waiting a long time to see you. You won’t get rid of me that easy.” He chuckles. I hold my head up and walk away, but there’s a piece of me that wants to turn back, that wants to prove him right.

I’m totally fucked.

CHAPTER FOUR

Three Years, Six Months Ago

“I’m going to take you upstairs, and I’m going to fuck you until your legs are numb.”

She’s just a girl to lose myself in for a little while. I keep telling myself that as I lead her inside, pulling her dress over her head and watching it fall to the floor in a little heap. She’s not special—it’s just that her face is particularly beautiful, that her hair smells of honey and peppermint, and it’s the same color as the late afternoon light when it’s warm.

“I don’t do this kind of thing—” Her voice trails off, and she pulls a stray lock of her sunshine-colored hair behind her ear. She looks down at her purple bra and panties like she’s shy. She shouldn’t be. I put a finger to her lips and run my thumb over her bottom lip, pouting and dimpled and unnaturally pink.

“No words, Sunshine.” I unhook her bra and let it fall to the floor with her dress. Her breasts fall free, and she steps out of her panties obediently. She’s neatly trimmed, her sex a perfect V, her thighs warm and thick and welcoming. “I do this kind of thing.”

But not often with a woman like this.

A corner of her lips turn up, and she looks at me with a grin, eyes sparkling. “Arrogant.”

I laugh and trail my lips over the creamy skin of her neck, tasting her, teasing her. “There’s a reason for that, sweetheart,” I whisper into her hair as I take her breasts into my hands. I find one nipple and then the other with my lips, licking and sucking until I hear her whimper. My cock stiffens against my jeans at the sound. She wants me, and I want all of her, all at once. I want to bury myself inside of her until I forget who I am, watch her rosy pink lips around my cock as she takes me all the way. I’m not a sentimental man, but this is the kind of woman I could lose myself in, the kind that could make all of the worst things fade into the background.

“Prove it,” she sighs.

“With pleasure.” I kneel in front of her and sweep my fingers over her clit. She gasps and throws her head back. Smell and taste and sound—it all comes together in a symphony. I replace my fingers with my tongue, circling it over and then kissing her there, sucking and licking, taking in her sharp, rich essence. She begins to shake against me, crying out, her wetness coating my lips.

“Oh God,” she moans. She keeps repeating it, babbling like she can’t figure out what to say. She’s close, and I’m rock hard now, like I might explode if I can’t have her. The tension inside my body builds to an untenable height, and I pull her down to the floor with me and unbuckle my pants, throwing them aside so I can press my skin to hers. She pulls my shirt off over my head as she clings to me, her fingers trailing over my skin, exploring each inch of my abdomen.

This is what it feels like to be touched, for real. This is what it feels like to be a man.

I shake away the thought—it’s far too intense for a one-night stand—and instead, I grab a condom from my pocket and undo the foil wrapper with my teeth. She gasps, her eyes going wide as she reaches out to stroke me, encasing my length. I groan—her hand is soft and delicate, just like the insides of her wrists and the sweet, vulnerable skin of her neck. But I want more.

“None of this old-fashioned stuff, Sunshine. That’s not going to get you there—but I am.” Her hand drops to the side and I slip the condom onto my length. With my other hand, I slip two fingers inside of her. She moans and bucks against my hand in pleasure. Then I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her into me. I guide the head of my cock to her entrance, holding myself there and listening to her breath quicken. Her body stiffens under my touch, and I can feel her shake slightly against me.

No, she doesn’t do this kind of thing often.

“Relax, baby.” She lets go of a heavy sigh, and I slide further inside. I watch her face change, lips pursing and eyes opening wide as she takes me deeper and deeper. “You’re going to take every inch, I promise.”

“Fuck,” she gasps, her voice hitching in her throat. I bury myself all the way inside of her and thank the damn universe for the whiskey surging through my veins. Otherwise, with her legs wrapped around me and the tight fucking grip around my cock, I might come all at once. And I don’t want to do that, not yet. Not before I watch her face as she comes, not before I feel her shake against me and see that blush rise over her tits and those broad, freckled cheeks.

“Holy shit,” she mumbles. “You’re so big, oh fuck—you’re too big—” She shudders against me, but she takes me to the hilt, sighing and moaning. Her voice rasps in my ear, sending chills down my spine. I don’t even know what she’s saying, and it doesn’t matter. I fall into a rhythm, hitting against her clit with each movement. The tension inside of me winds tighter and tighter, like a coil reaching its breaking point.

“I’m coming,” she cries out, the raspy quality coming back to her voice. I urge her on, thrusting hard and riding her through her orgasm as she clenches tight around me. She whines, her body shaking, flushing red. She doesn’t just come—she glows with pleasure.

I groan, thrusting hard as I release myself inside of her. “Good girl, Sunshine,” I murmur. I brush her hair away from her face and kiss her hard. “So good.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “I guess you have a reason to be arrogant.” She laughs and throws her arms around my shoulders, burying her face in my neck.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a woman like this, since I’ve felt anything at all.

For a minute, I think I might be able to go again. Normally, I’d be flinging my shirt back on and calling an Uber, but I like feeling this girl against me, like how her body works with mine. I flip her over so she’s straddling me, and she laughs, drawing her hay-colored hair away from her face.

“Stay the night,” I say.

Her face pales, and she shakes her head. “I have... other obligations.” She tries to get up, but I pull her against me and kiss her. Instead of falling into me like I want her to, she pushes her hand against my chest and gets up, throwing her dress on in a hurry. “This has been great, but I have to go.”

I lift myself up on my elbows. “I’ll walk you home.”

What the fuck, man? Since when have you walked a girl home?

“There’s no need. I’m fine on my own.”

Before I can gather my thoughts or pull on my boxers, she’s headed out the door. I hear her heels clicking down the wooden steps, a sharp creak ringing out when she hits the last one. Then the front door slams, and she’s gone.

This girl just ghosted me. Holy hell. I look around the empty room and laugh. “Advanced move, Sunshine. And I don’t even know your name.”

Present Day

I’m left with my own thoughts, which is never a good thing. More often than not, that’s what got me in trouble with gambling, and drinking as a substitute for the gambling. Alcohol was never a real problem. Just like Summer, I liked the feeling of cash in my hands.

My arm and face feel weird and numb, and the morphine Josh slipped me in the waiting room feels like it’s starting to take effect. I need the nurse to come get me the fuck out of here so I can figure out how the hell to get that woman alone.

It’s not the blond-haired nurse I saw before who comes to help me. It’s that friend of Summer’s, the one who told me she was in Syria when I came here, drunk and angry, three years ago. I’ve seen her a few times since then, always when I’ve come in with one of my fighters, and she’s nodded each time, not saying anything. This time, she looks at me like she wants to preach my funeral. But instead, she sighs and checks my sutures without a word.

“I didn’t know she’d be the resident on call,” I tell her.

The woman—Della, Debra, something like that—puts a bandage over the stitches on my arm and shoves two containers of polysporin at me.

“You can use this or bacitraicin three times a day. Should help with the scarring. Wounds like this need to be a little bit moist to heal up properly. Unless you want a scar. I’ve heard some of the other fighters say that’s what they want.” She spits the last words at me and then gestures to the door. “You can go now.”

“I said I didn’t know she’d be here. I was going to find her apartment—” I look at the woman’s name tag. “—Debbie. I was planning on—”

She looks at me like I have a horn growing out of the middle of my head, and then she lets out a long, weary sigh. “And why in the hell would you do that?” Debbie looks at me with her deep brown eyes. She’s curvy, round-faced and short-haired, and her eyes look like they’re usually kind, but none of that kindness is reserved for me. “Why would you think it’s appropriate to go to a woman’s apartment—”

“Maybe it’s not. But it’s the only plan I came up with.” I run my good hand through my hair, and at that exact instant, the lidocaine feels like it’s starting to wear off.

“A plan for what? Showing her what a big man you are? A big fighter?”

“I’m not half as bad as what I used to be, Debbie.” I laugh, but her face stays cold. I could describe in detail what I used to do before Cullen sent me packing, but I somehow don’t think that would go over too well. My thoughts drift back to Summer. She seems smaller now, more fragile, like she hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in a long time. And her eyes—they’re harder.

“Leave her alone.” She looks down at my chart. “She’s never mentioned your name before, but I know you and her have history from the way you came storming in here a few years ago, drunk and looking for her.” She huffs and puffs her chest out like my very existence is offensive to her.

“That was a lifetime ago.”

“Two years, three years. That’s not a lifetime—”

“It is when you’re waiting for someone who you weren’t meant to let go.” I look deep into Debbie’s eyes, hoping the words are as romantic as they feel in my mouth. Instead, she just looks at me like I’m a sack of dirt.

“Out,” she says. “You can make your own way back to whatever dumbass horse you rode in on. Summer’s been through enough. She’s barely gotten back home and she doesn’t need some ex of hers trolling around and causing her problems.”

I snort. This isn’t the Summer I knew back in the city. But Debbie doesn’t take kindly to my meaning, and she pushes me to the door.

“I didn’t mean—” I didn’t mean what? To cause her any problems? My gut twists, and I remember the last time I saw Summer, standing in the rain in front of Penn Station, searching the crowds for my face and never finding me.

Debbie keeps pushing me, her hand centered between my shoulder blades, and I stumble forward, still a bit unsteady on my feet from the morphine pill. “I should get a wheelchair, but there’s a shortage, and it seems like you can walk well enough on your own.” She pauses. “There’s an urgent care center up near Currituck. You might be best suited to go there until Summer gets her bearings.”

She pushes me out the door, and I’m left standing in the hallway, alone.

One look at Summer—that sideways glance, her cunning, intelligent green eyes—and I feel just like I did when I left her standing in the rain three years ago.

I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long, and now it feels like I’m right back where I started.

CHAPTER FIVE

Three Years Ago

I’ve been thinking about the man with the red hair, the one I agreed to go home with. The one in the dim light of the bar who brushed a lock of my hair behind my ear and told me that I was beautiful, even if I was his for only one night.

But shit.

There are more important things to think about.

I thought moving to New York for medical school would protect me from my family drama, but coming to live with my aunt has done anything but.

I wring out the cooling rag into the kitchen sink and soak it with scalding water again.

“You don’t need to wash that bar a third time,” my aunt says. Bianca Collington is sitting in the corner of her bar, one of the last of its kind in the Irish corner of Hell’s Kitchen, a holdover from years ago. She peers at me over the rim of her glasses.

“I have nothing else to do. School is done, and I’m not starting my residency just yet. Maybe I’ll do Doctors without Borders or something instead.”

She blows a puff of smoke out of the window. “A mistake if you ask me, child. Your mother needs you home. I need you in the States. That’s how it is.”

“My mother needs to sell the inn.” I swallow hard. And you need to sell this fucking bar, B. Two sisters, too much alike. Both of them have more baggage than I care to think about, and the debt collectors have started to harass them both.

Bianca just watches me wipe down the bar, steam rising from the hot rag, burning my palm. I glance up at her, and her green eyes stay locked on mine. Like my mother, my aunt Bianca was once devastatingly beautiful. Strawberry blond hair, deep green eyes, and broad, Irish cheekbones. Now she just looks tired. But from time to time, there are hints of a woman I never knew. She was once able to keep the Irish Family off her back somehow, but with the growing money concerns, she’s in debt to them. I won’t say it, and she won’t admit it, but that’s the reason I’m wiping down this bar right now and not on my way home to start a residency.

“Cullen’s men are coming to get the money.” Bianca stubs out her cigarette and drops it into an empty beer bottle. She coughs into her sleeve and gets up, slower than she should for a forty year-old woman. “After this, we’re scrambling to make payments. I’m sorry you’re in the middle of this.” As always, her voice is clipped. When she speaks to me, there’s a distance there I can’t quite define. She never pulls me into fierce hugs like my mother does. It almost seems like Bianca was meant to be the older sister, and my mother, the younger one—enthusiastic and open where Bianca is cold.

I could tell my aunt I’m sorry I’m in the middle of it too, but I put myself here. Just like I put myself in that redheaded man’s apartment two weeks back. I suppress a shiver, thinking of him. I shouldn’t have gone to that stupid bar. I didn’t even know what I was looking for. But I knew I found it when he whispered in my ear and sent chills running down my body. He had it—the only thing that could take me away from all of this.

I shake out the rag in the sink again. It’s as clean as the bar is and still smells of bleach. Something about that smell makes me feel desolate. Instead of getting away from my family’s mistakes, I’m wrapped up in the middle.

At 9:45, we hear cars pull in, come to collect on Bianca’s loan—with interest. Up until now, the boss hasn’t come along with them. But now, Cullen Flood strolls through the door, his face unmistakable, a long scar in place of one eye. His single, milky blue eye passes over me like I’m nothing, and he strolls to Bianca and sits down across from her.

She pales, hands shaking, and pulls back from him. “Cullen,” she says. “I didn’t know you were coming this time.”

“We’re old friends, B.” He nods back to me. “Whiskey, neat. Bring it over, girl.”

As I pour the whiskey, I hear car doors slamming outside. A man I don’t recognize—short and red-faced, with watery eyes—strolls in, followed by a very tall man. Shadows cross over his face so I can’t quite get a good look at him. But there’s something that strikes me deep in my core, like my body recognizes him before my brain does.

My mouth drops open, and my attention turns away from my aunt’s conversation with Cullen. There’s a tattoo on the tall man’s right forearm, visible in the dim light even though his face isn’t. I see its details, the red and blue colors mixing together—a sword and cross—just before he puts his hand in his pocket and steps toward Cullen.

My chest tightens, fear mixing with something deep and insistent, a pulse that’s been running through me at a low thrum since the night he first touched me.

His eyes meet mine for a moment, and his brows furrow for one instant. He walks toward me and takes the whiskey I’ve poured over to Cullen, his finger barely brushing against mine.

With his back toward Cullen, he winks at me and leans in close. “Hey there, Sunshine.”

A jolt runs through my body, sending heat to muscles I didn’t even know I had. I feel like my heart might stop, but somehow, it keeps on going. I watch as the man I slept with, despite all of my better judgment, sits down beside the man who’s been threatening my aunt for months.

“This is Jonathan Ash,” Cullen says. “Former fighter, now a member of the Family. He’ll be watching your bar and making sure everything goes smoothly from here on out.”

Holy. Shit.

Present Day

I keep waiting for Ash to pop up again during my shift, but he doesn’t. For once, it seems like he listened to me. When I left for Syria, I emailed him and told him to never contact me again, but he emailed me back anyway—again and again until I closed the account altogether. And then there were the letters. All in his tiny, cursive writing that was impossible to read, on what I assumed was college-ruled notebook paper. That’s what it looked like when I held the letters up to the light. But I didn’t open them, not a one. I only knew he didn’t show up to sign the divorce papers, and that he didn’t respond to any one of the summons I’d sent for him. And then he’d fallen off the face of the earth, and the letters stopped coming.

I comb out my hair and change from my scrubs, my body still alight from seeing him. I feel a pang of disgust from the excitement that’s coursed through me during my entire twelve-hour shift, but I can’t exactly fault myself when a man stumbles into the room looking like that.

Why does the thought of him still thrill me, like it used to? It shouldn’t. He’s trouble, with about three or four capital T’s. I know what’s at the end of any road with him.

I throw my scrubs angrily inside my locker and adjust my top. It’s one of the Doctors without Borders shirts I picked up in my three years away. It hugs my breasts and stretches the MSF logo across the shirt.

“Medecins sans frontières,” I mumble. “I dodged bullets for three years and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.”

And I thought about Ash every day.

My hand still feels his, fingertips pressing against mine, like they used to in the frenzied months after we first met. Young and stupid. It was like he’d never grown up, and I had the idiotic idea that we’d do it together. But he’d certainly proven that idea wrong in the end. I put on my windbreaker—even in June, the winds whip in from the Albemarle Sound and can be biting even when the day has been humid and hot.

Calm down. You’ll deal with him, and it’ll be over with once and for all.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Before I leave, I look around and silently welcome myself to my new life. I knew this part of it would be hard, but I didn’t know how quickly it would sneak up on me.

Throwing my purse over my shoulder, I stride confidently out of the residents’ changing room. I walk left for about ten feet before I realize I should be going right.

“Damn fluorescent lights,” I mutter. My muscle memory will adapt soon enough, and I’ll fall into a rhythm. If it weren’t for that stupid man showing up. With any luck, he’ll leave me alone until I can gather my thoughts. I’d figured I’d be driving up to New York and trying to find him there, or scouring through the letters I never read. But he’d been here all this time. And when I was done running, when I thought it was all okay, I’d ended right back where I started.

Isn’t that the way of things.

I walk down the yellow tile floors to the exit, and the doors to the waiting room open. When I reach the revolving door that leads to my car outside and the world that lies beyond this hospital, I can see a tall figure standing outside, obscured by the glass.

It’s not him. It’s not.

But I’d know him anywhere, across any distance that stood between us.

“Shit, shit. Shit.” I look around. It’s probably not a good precedent to set for a doctor to stand around muttering to herself on the first day of work. If I walk around to the back of the hospital, there’s no way for me to get to the parking lot, and if I wait it out in the dressing room, there’s no guarantee he’ll go the hell away like he should. My stomach growls. I haven’t eaten since the cake this morning, and the idea of fish and grits has been toying with me all day. I clench and unclench my fists and push my way through the revolving door. Ash is standing right in front of me.

“Sunshine—”

“Don’t start. I just want a burger. Or some grits.” Ash didn’t know what grits were when I first met him, and he’d certainly never heard of fish and grits. But he’s been here for three years now, living a whole life without me. And I would reckon he knows plenty about grits now, even if he usually orders the steak and potatoes.

“You need something to eat, looks like.” He gives me a once over, eyes lingering too long before they rise again and meet my face. He cocks his head to the side and gives me a grin.

“Ash, what I really need is for you to just get out of my way and cooperate when I send the papers this time. MSF didn’t ask any questions when I listed myself as married. But people here are going to ask.”

“What’d you do, leave it blank on the paperwork?” A hot blush starts to rise in my cheeks, and Ash’s grin grows wider, like he’s enjoying this. “Or did you tick it off so little that Della wouldn’t notice it?”

“Debbie.”

“Debbie, that’s right.” He steps closer to me, the ugly cut on his arm covered in a bandage that somehow got ratty between this morning and now. There’s a fresh bruise spreading over his jawline, and I wonder if it’s from sparring—or if he’s back in the game like he used to be, picking fights for people who can’t pay up. It’s sleepier down here, but there’s no shortage of D-rate criminals to get involved with. And it never seemed like Ash was too picky. I move to go towards my car, but he puts one arm out and scoots over to block me, legs spread like he’s getting ready for a fight.

My heart catches in my throat. Something tells me that if he touches me again—if I feel that calloused hand against my skin, I might incinerate from the inside. Even being this close to him makes me feel weirdly hot. “Ash, can you fucking not?”

“Can I fucking not what? Not touch you? Not be in your line of vision? What?”

“All of the fucking above! Get out!” I shout. “Go! Just show up when I tell you to. We need to get this settled.” My voice is hoarse, cracking as I shout at him. Several of the patients, including a mom with a new baby, look our way as they pass, giving us a wide berth. I try to duck to the side again, but I can’t avoid him this time, and he catches me by the arm. His hand holds me tight, but not hard enough to leave a bruise. He was never like that. Just firm enough that I can’t wrench myself free.

“We need to get what settled? Our divorce?” He pulls me in close, his bicep rippling with muscle. His skin looks healthier and fresher than it did when I first met him. My eyes move down his shoulder and to his arm again. He’s definitely bigger. That uncomfortable heat comes back, starting deep in the pit of my stomach and moving lower, lower, lower.

No, no. NO.

“Let. Me. Go. I have a shift at six again tomorrow morning, and I need some food—”

“I’ll take you out to dinner.”

“No. I’m not going anywhere with you—”

“If you’d give me a chance to explain—”

“Explain what?” I try to break free again, but he won’t let me.

He wipes the smirk off of his face and looks at me seriously. “Did you read my emails? Any of the letters?”

“No,” I say, knitting my brows. “I read the first email, saying you wanted to talk to me, but after that I deleted them.”

“Goddammit, Summer.” He lets my arm go, and I nearly run off to my car, but something about his tone stops me.

“What? What were you going to say to me to undo what you did?”

“What I did? What about what you did—running off to God knows where after all that shit—”

“All the shit you put me through, you mean.” My voice cracks again, but I stand firm and stare at him. His hair almost looks white in the twilight, and I wonder what he might look like as an old man. Distinguished, maybe. With a scar across his cheek that I patched. That scar will always be with him, every day of his life. I purse my lips, and Ash is silent. He crosses his arms, muscles pulling against his shirt sleeves. He’s changed into a gray t-shirt, like the one he was wearing when I first saw him. “You want me to spell it out? You left me long before I ever left you, Ash. You talked me into an obligation—”

“I saved your aunt, got you the money.” His eyes don’t leave mine. “And I—” He pauses and looks down. “I saved you, didn’t I?”

“You’re just as arrogant as you’ve always been. I needed you then, and you abandoned me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m fucking starving.” Even though my words ring true when I say them, I’m not moving. I’d forgotten what it was like to be stuck in this man’s thrall.

He takes a pack of cigarettes from his jeans. “Trying to quit. But I’ve quit everything else. This is my last vice. Two a day.” He gestures the pack at me, and even though I want one, I shake my head. He shrugs and takes out a cigarette, and I watch as he lights it and takes a long drag. “Come on. Let me take you to dinner,” he says, exhaling a plume of smoke.

“Why would I do that?”

“You owe a man that.” He puffs a ring of white smoke, and it dissipates quickly in the breeze.

“I didn’t think I owed you much of anything,” I say, my tone haughty. The “part of the story” I don’t know is probably just some pity party bullshit that I don’t care to hear. There’s not more to the story than there is. He married me, which saved me from getting punted out of New York with a scar on my face or a bullet in my knee—and then he let me leave by myself, refusing to sign the divorce papers, refusing to come with me. Seems pretty cut and dried. My chest grips at the thought of him, the promises he made back then.

I shouldn’t have associated promises from a sham relationship with anything real. That was my mistake. And I shouldn’t be standing here right now, letting him look me up and down, letting him lure me in with a grin and a half-baked explanation after three years of hurt.

“Blue Moon Diner. They have crab cakes right now.” He takes another drag from his cigarette, and I cross my arms against the breeze. I was going that direction anyway, and I need to get him to sign some papers before he goes mouthing off about being married to me. I don’t think my employers—or my mom—would take too kindly to a random, violent husband showing up out of nowhere.

“Okay,” I mutter. “Fine. I’ll meet you there.”

“What was that, Sunshine?” His mouth lifts into a grin, and he steps closer to me. My pulse quickens, and I gulp. I step back again, nearly falling off the curb and onto the hard, black asphalt.

“I said okay. But don’t think I’m buying what you’re selling. I’ll meet you there.”

“I’d prefer if you came in my truck, but I guess we can’t have everything.”

“No. We can’t have everything.” I turn and walk to my car, my back to Ash and his soul-melting gaze. His steps fall in line right behind me, then he gets into a polished silver pickup three cars down from mine. “If you can afford that—” I shout, gesturing to the truck, “You’re buying dinner.”

He nods, and I follow him down the road.

CHAPTER SIX

Three Years Ago

Her name is Summer.

The girl.

The one I went back to the bar looking for.

Turns out this is the bar I should have been coming to all along. Turns out it’s hard to pick up a woman when you’ve been sent to threaten her family. And with the talk from Cullen, it’s clear that Bianca is short on her payments. And she’ll continue to be.

There’s something about this girl—something that makes the prospect of burning down the bar where she lives or breaking her aunt’s fingers—that starts a pit of nausea in my gut. Cullen says she could be the lynchpin, the key to bleeding Bianca dry. I don’t know why he’s so hung up on this one woman, on the measly amount of interest she’s paying him each month. But he’s determined as fuck, and Bianca is directly in his crosshairs.

That means Summer is too.

I’m sitting in what qualifies as a park in this neighborhood, eyes on Bianca’s Pub. If I lean to the left, I can see Summer when she comes down the stairs to the bar and begins wiping down the tables for the night. She’s not there yet, but I check my phone and see that it’s five. She’ll be down in about thirty seconds. I close my eyes so that when I open them, she’ll be standing there and I can watch her for a moment before she sees me.

I imagine taking her back to my apartment again, slipping off one of those tight, white tops she wears while she’s tending bar, cupping those gravity-defying tits and taking them into my mouth until I hear her delicate whimper.

When I open my eyes, Summer Collington is standing across the street, arms crossed under her creamy tits. She’s drinking the remainder of a beer and staring at me with an expression that could turn boiling water to ice.

I grin at her in response and light a cigarette, taking a long drag. Her expression stays the same. Cullen once told me that Bianca had cut his arm down to the bone with a broken whiskey bottle—and I’d imagine B might have looked exactly how Summer does right now, right down to the pale golden freckles sprayed over her cheeks.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” she shouts.

“No. This is my job.”

She slowly raises a middle finger, her gaze locked on mine.

“Fuck off. Go back where you came from, Jonathan Ash.”

Summer walks back inside and I sigh heavily, my breath making clouds of white mist in the air. Even though it’s technically spring, New York hasn’t gotten the message yet. The wind is still cold, the sun setting early. I find myself wishing I could watch Summer from inside the bar, but I’d probably get kicked right out on my ass by two freckled, Irish women. And I’m not quite ready to use firearms inside the premises.

I look back at the bar, hoping for another glance at Summer working the tables. But the few customers Bianca still gets will be here soon, and Summer’s about to start working the bar. When I squint, though, I see a glint of something in the fading evening light. It’s a bottle, and it wasn’t there before Summer came outside.

Against my better judgment, I sprint across the street and pick it up.

Jack Daniels, with four or five shots left inside.

I look inside to see Summer, breasts bouncing as she wipes down the bar. She looks up for a second and nods at me, very slightly, then points back to my bench with a frown.

I take a swig of whiskey as I walk back across the street.

This one, she might be conflicted. But she likes a little bit of danger.

There are ten texts on my phone right now, all from women less complicated than Summer Collington. But something about this woman, both devilish and pure, makes something inside of my chest clench tight.

No matter what debt my family owes to Cullen, no matter how bound together we are, I know now I won’t do anything to hurt her.

The realization is primal, like an instinct, something deeper than my ties to Cullen or anyone in the Family.

Present Day

“Coffee? Beer?” The waitress leans across the bar and places menus in front of us. “Got fried green tomatoes on special. And a peach cobbler for dessert.”

“Thanks,” Summer says. “I’ll take a coffee. And fried green tomatoes, I guess.”

“A coffee for me too. And grits for the girl. Fish and grits? Even though that’s totally disgusting—”

“Shut up, Ash, you’re lucky I came with you at all.” The waitress laughs and saunters off like we’re a normal couple just being playful with each other. Summer puts her head in her hands and leans against the wall, angling her body away from mine. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, her face somehow more angular than it was when I knew her before. She was delicate back then, but her cheeks were fuller, her eyes more full of spark. I can’t believe I’m the thing she blames for all this growing up she’s done, but it would seem that’s the story she’s sticking to.

“Don’t go celebrating too much, Sunshine.”

“The only thing I’m celebrating right now is food and coffee. I’m not celebrating the fact that you’ve been in town waiting for me to come back for three years.”

I nod at the waitress when she sets down our coffees and a plate of fried green tomatoes. I knew the only way I’d have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting this woman to come with me was to involve food in the equation. If she’s anything like the girl I met back in New York, she probably still uses salty food and a hot, ultra-caffeinated coffee to calm her down when she’s nervous. And by the way she’s acting, I’ve made her as nervous as shit. I should feel guilty. But there’s something in me that takes a perverse pleasure in watching her sullenly shovel fried green tomatoes in her mouth while she cuts her eyes at me again and again. Her blush is getting deeper and deeper, the red blossoming across her cheeks like it always did when I got close to her. She was so closed off in so many ways, but when it came to me, she became an open book.

At least, I thought so.

“Who said I was waiting for you?” I ask her.

She takes a sip of her coffee and groans. “That’s what you said before.” She takes a few more angry bites of tomato.

“I said I knew you’d be back. That’s different.” I was waiting at first, but after a year, I wasn’t anymore. It’s not like I saw other women. I was seeing fighters, and recovery, and a new way to make money that didn’t involve slicing people’s fingers off at the second knuckle.

“It sounds like you’ve moved on, Ash. Doesn’t it?” Summer pushes her plate of fried green tomatoes away, empty now except for a pile of the remoulade sauce. She looks around, like she’s searching for an escape, or like she wants to call the waitress over to ask for the damn check. But just in the nick of time, the waitress brings more food, and she tucks into her grits, still leaning away from me.

I haven’t moved on. Not by a mile.

I don’t say anything. Sitting here, like this, it doesn’t feel like there’s a solution, at least not a simple one. I wanted to go to the hospital today and tell her I loved her then, that I didn’t want to leave her, it wasn’t my choice. The words are on the tip of my tongue.

Summer turns to look at me. “Ash, do you know what I went through?”

I sigh heavily and run my fingers through my hair. “I—”

“No you don’t. You don’t have a damn clue. I cried every night for the first month I was in Syria. Because I felt stupid, because I felt angry at myself and at you for letting me believe you cared about me. You didn’t. Not even enough to say goodbye. Not enough to sign the divorce papers.” She toys with her grits and polishes off the rest of her coffee, looking angry and red. “Not enough to do anything.”

“That’s not why—”

“I’m not asking you why anything.” Her accent seemed so flat to me back in New York, but on her home turf, her twang turns up to a fever pitch. “I’m telling you how it felt. I know there was a reason. There had to be.”

“There was, Summer. I couldn’t—”

She looks straight at me. “I don’t want an explanation. I’m not letting you suck me back into the past. I came with you to show you I can be a reasonable adult and get you to sign the papers.”

“The papers—”

“Divorce papers. We need to get this shit over with.”

“I know damn well which papers. I was going to say that the papers aren’t what I want.”

Her face goes pale, and she turns to me slowly. “You can’t—you can’t mean that—”

“I mean it.”

“You have to—” Her voice nearly breaks, and I reach to take her hand in mine. She pulls it away. “My job. My life here. Ash—you can’t be serious.”

“A divorce has to be agreed on by both parties, from what I understand, Summer. That’s why it didn’t go through in the first place. You were abroad. We owe this relationship a chance—”

“We owe it exactly zero chances,” she mutters. I might be imagining it, but there’s a hint of uncertainty in her voice, and she’s getting more and more flustered.

“At the end of the day, I’ll do what you want, Sunshine.”

“I want a divorce.” She hisses that last word, teeth clenched, all eyes in the bar turning to us. Several of the pink-shirted frat boys by the door go silent, just watching us.

“Summer—”

“Waitress?” Summer leans forward and signals for the woman behind the bar. The place is starting to get crowded with tourists, their voices drowning everything out so that I can’t think. “I’ll take the check. And the rest of the grits to go.” The waitress looks at the two of us and then turns away with a shrug. “This is settled, Ash.”

A well of rage bubbles up from deep in my gut. “Summer, you think shit’s settled? It’s not.”

The waitress returns and Summer takes the to-go box. She mutters a quick thank you, then throws ten dollars down on the bar.

“Shit’s settled,” she says, turning to me. A flash of that girl I used to know looks back at me. “You were a bad decision then, Ash. And I’m not making the same fucking decision all over again.”

She pushes through the three frat boys, and walks right out of the door.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Three Years Ago

The anxiety is getting to me. For the past two nights, the redheaded man with the tattoo—Jonathan Ash—hasn’t been watching my aunt’s pub. Instead, it was the short one with the watery eyes. Ominously, strangely, there was no one there when I left tonight, on my way to the neighborhood bar. The one where I met the redheaded man.

I showed up with two friends from medical school thirty minutes ago, but now the place is crowded, and it’s hard to make out who anyone is. I look around expectantly, and a surge of hope rushes through my core as I scan the room.

He’s an asshole. Not your next romantic expedition. He’d just as soon slice up the side of your face. No reason to believe he’ll be here anyway.

My heart quickens when I think of him, and tension coils tight in my center. I take a sip of my drink and slump against the bar. No use wishing a man were here when he’s not. Alcohol starts to flood through my body, and soon I’m ordering another drink and chatting with my friends until they leave to dance again. With the relaxation sweeping through me, the worries of the past few weeks starts to fade. Images of the redheaded man pass through my mind, fleeting as clouds.

Just as I reach that point of tipsiness that erases every care I have, a calloused hand touches my arm, and I look up to see a steely blue gaze, eyes sparking with intensity.

“You following me, Sunshine?”

“Fuck—no—I just come here sometimes to—unwind—” I start, and some of my Long Island Ice Tea spills on my dress. The red-haired man—undeniably the same one who’s been watching me and my aunt for a month now—lifts one side of his mouth into a grin.

“Seems like you’re following me. Because I come here to unwind sometimes too.”

“After a long day of watching people?” Nervously, I pull a lock of hair behind my ear and look around frantically for my friends. They know nothing about the life I’m living in the apartment above my aunt’s bar—and nothing about this man.

“When I’m watching something as fucking sexy as you every night, yeah.”

A pink blush finds its way to my cheeks. The alcohol doesn’t feel as cooling as it did at first—now all of the emotion is pouring back into my body, heat filling me, coursing through me in waves. Ash’s arm sneaks around my waist, and he pulls me in close like we’re old friends. A fever hits me where he touches my skin. I’m too addled to pull away.

“I need to find my friends—”

“The skinny Asian dude and the girl with the black hair?”

“You were watching me?”

“Of course I was, Sunshine. Can you blame me?”

“Well—I—you shouldn’t—where the hell did they go?” My words tumble out together in a riot of sound. Ash orders me another drink and puts it in my hand, never letting go of my waist.

“They went outside. Probably going home. It’s almost two.” He pauses and looks down at me, eyes roaming down to my breasts. “And you should get home too. Unless you’d like to come back with me...”

Oh fuck yes, I would. Even his words make me uncomfortably hot—and wet—between my legs. I lick my lips before I know what I’m doing, thinking about taking him in my mouth—his taste, his smell. “I shouldn’t.” I breathe the words, my resolve weakening.

“You should.” He leans in and brushes my hair away from my ear, and my skin sets on fire, every cell aching, reaching out. “In fact, I know the owner. There’s an apartment right above this building. I’ve got the key.”

“For what reason?” I damn well know what reason. Probably for the women reason, but the alcohol is filling my mind and making me forget that this man is probably a whore, that there are probably a dozen other girls like me, and that he’s likely the worst decision I could make, given that he’s pretty much a sworn enemy.

He looks at me and doesn’t answer. Instead, he leads me to the back of the bar. My heart beats so hard I feel like it might leap out of my chest. Everything is surreal and in slow motion, the world at once expansive and closing in.

He takes me up the stairs. A few lazy, drunk eyes turn our way. Other than the people in the bar, there’s no one else in the world who will see us, no one who knows what choice I’m making.

When the door slams behind us and he rips down my skirt and his fingers find my aching, hot sex, I know I haven’t made the right choice.

I’ve made the only one I could make.

Present Day

I don’t drive home. Instead, I go to my mother’s inn. My apartment doesn’t feel safe. I feel like I might do something idiotic if I’m alone.

Like call Ash and demand he come back to remind me of what my body can do. A thrill rolls through me as I pull up to the inn, and panic builds inside of me, bit by bit, until I can barely contain my heartbeat. When I walk in, I’m just about the biggest mess I’ve ever been, nearly about to stumble and fall over my own emotions. Seeing Ash today brought every desire back, took me back to that day when I married him, ridiculous in the white dress I found on sale at Banana Republic.

Ridiculous because I knew it wouldn’t work, and Ash was cocksure and pushing through with the whole thing.

And ridiculous, because I thought in the back of my mind that it could be real, that it could work. And I barely knew this man.

I walk up the path, framed by azalea bushes, bursting with whites and pinks and reds at this time of year. My mother is at the door, waiting to greet me, like she somehow knew I’d need her after a day like today. When I reach the door and she takes me in her arms, I’m sure this is home.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Back again?” She ushers me inside and sits me down in the empty lobby of her bed and breakfast. It seems like it’s been empty since the day I returned, just like Bianca’s bar. My mother bustles around and brings me a plate of biscuits, and I sit back on the worn pink sofa and take some. They’re hot, with butter and fig jam, like she knew I’d be coming by.

“Yeah,” I sigh, taking a bite of a biscuit. It occurs to me that I left the damn grits back on the bar. A waste of money, and Ash didn’t even pay for me anyway. “I guess the apartment just feels lonely right now.”

Mom paces around, back and forth, like she’s nervous too. She stops right in front of me as I shove a bite of biscuit into my mouth. “You’re flushed, baby.” She puts her cool, dry hand against my forehead. “You got a fever? You always did get a fever on the first day of school. Always so excited to do something new—something unexpected. Seems like that might be what’s happening with the first day of your residency. I am so proud of you. I was telling Bianca—”

“No, Mama. I’m fine.” I look up at her and put my hand over hers, holding it against my cheek. The last time I saw her, she seemed ten years younger. Now there are deep worry lines at the corners of her mouth and in between her brows.

“You don’t sound fine. It’s like you’re stirred up. I thought you’d come on over here after work. Just a feeling I had. You’ve been flitting about like a little bird ever since you’ve been back.”

“Just lots of things to sort out at work. I did a lot of sutures today, one appendectomy. Helped a couple of people with a stomach virus.”

“That’s really something, baby. I bet you’re just tired.” She pats me on my shoulder and goes to straighten the stack of papers by her register. It’s the second time she’s done it in the five minutes I’ve been here. “That boy came around here—”

“What boy?” I look up and shove some more biscuit in my mouth. I have a feeling I know very well what boy. Probably the same one I couldn’t get rid of today.

“Not a boy, I guess.” She picks up her Swiffer duster and dusts around the bookshelves behind the sofa. “A man. Real good looking, red hair. He’s come by a couple times since you left, always very respectful. First time, he acted like I should know who he was. Said his name was Jeffrey—or—something like that.” She’s dusting around behind me, so I can’t see her face. “Lots of muscles. Back in my day—I’d have—well, you get my point. He came around looking for you, yesterday evening. You know who I’m talking about.”

I sigh heavily. After years of thinking he was long gone, that I’d have to file for divorce by myself and get him declared dead or missing, he’s been here. “Jonathan. He’s an old friend, I guess.”

“An old friend? Not the reason you can’t seem to sit still since you’ve been home?”

“No, Mom, it’s not like that.” She passes by me, nodding.

“How come you think he acted like I should know him? He’s got an accent like he’s from up North, can’t quite place where...” Her voice trails off like she’s expecting more information, but it’s not coming. What am I supposed to tell her?

Mom, I married this criminal a few years ago, and now it seems he’s on the up and up and lives here in town. Somehow I don’t think that would go over so well.

“I just knew him a long time ago. Maybe he thought I mentioned him.” I glance at her, and I can tell she’s trying to read me. “Are there any guests in the Island House? I might stay there a few days.”

“Not a lot of guests these days. You do what you want, sweetheart.” She tosses me a key and leans in to give me a kiss goodnight. As disconcerting as things were at the hospital, things don’t exactly seem right here either.

“Night Mom.”

“Night, baby.” She pauses at the foot of the stairs and looks back at me. “That young man said he’d be glad to see you when he could. Did he come see you yet?”

“No, Mama. Not yet.”

She walks up the stairs and I take the key back to the Island House, where I can be alone with my thoughts. I don’t even turn on the light. Instead, I fall straight into bed, jeans and all, and I lie in the dark for a long time, looking up at the ceiling and watching the moonlight play through the blinds.

I remember the first days after I left for Syria, sleeping doubled up with some other doctor in a tent, dust rolling in at night, strange noises keeping me awake. I remember the cold of the plains in the Ukraine, Russian words slipping over people’s tongues as I strained to understand them. Hands numb from suturing in the icy cold. Most of all, though, I remember Ash.

In my job, I was on autopilot, especially that first year. While I was performing minor surgeries, I went deep into my zone, and my thoughts concentrated on the redheaded man with the scars, the one who put his body between me and Cullen, who defended my aunt and made a plan to get us both out of dodge. I thought of his body then, too, much like I’m doing now.

It’s hard to concentrate on my loneliness, on the crushing sadness I felt when I boarded that plane.

Instead of that, I think of the length of his jawline, the fire in his eyes, the long-forgotten feeling of his legs pressed between mine, his hand holding my lower back, his tongue against my skin.

Insistent, unrelenting.

The time when all I wanted was him doesn’t seem so distant now. It feels heartbreakingly close, like a feeling distilled in time and dropped on my lap, spreading over me in waves.

I slip my hands over my body, imagining his strong fingers, and then lower, between my legs, until it seems right that all I’m thinking of is him, making me his, making me beg.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Three Years, Five Months Ago

She comes to my apartment, showing up like I told her. Cullen thinks I’m at the bar, intimidating the girl and her aunt, letting them know I’ll be watching them, that their days as small business owners are numbered.

But I’ve got other plans. I might be an idiot, but I don’t want anyone putting hands on this woman.

I pour her a glass of water and usher her to a chair at the rickety table where I eat breakfast every morning.

“Thanks, but no. I’ll stand.” Her hands fly around like butterflies, nervous. She can’t keep still. “What’s this grand idea of yours? And what makes you think Cullen’s so dangerous?”

“It’s not that I think he is. It’s a fact. Anyone who comes after his money, even if they’re pretty girls who don’t know what the hell they’re doing—he’ll get you one way or another. He’s a mean fucker. He’ll take down your aunt’s bar. Or he’ll have me take you somewhere no one can find you and—”

She backs away from me, almost imperceptibly. “You said I wouldn’t get hurt.” Her brows are furrowed, and she’s shaking more than she was when she walked up the stairs. “What the hell did I get myself into?”

“Your aunt did this. She has some beef against Cullen. Guess she hatched this card-counting plan once her niece with the photographic memory came into town—that right?”

She nods slowly. “Ten thousand. That’s all we were after. She thought her boys would be in and out while Cullen had eyes on me. She said he wouldn’t hurt me, but I see that she—”

“She was wrong. There’s a target on you and your aunt, Sunshine.”

She crosses her arms. “And you have a plan to fix this?”

I nod at her and look away. Something clenches in my chest. This isn’t something I imagined myself saying to anyone. But here we are.

“You’ll marry me. He won’t go after my wife or her family.” I might be blinded by my lust for this woman, but I know that much is true. It doesn’t hurt that the thought of marrying her—even if it’s for a month while she and her aunt get out of town—makes me hard as fuck. She’s not the type of woman who ever belongs to a man, not truly, but if I could come close, it’d be worth pissing Cullen off.

Her pink cupid’s bow lips part in a perfect O shape, and I lean forward and take her face in my hands, brushing my thumb against the bottom of her lip. “That’s fucking crazy—”

Instead of letting her give me some drawn out explanation of why I’m being “fucking crazy,” I kiss her. I kiss her until she responds to me, until her tongue dances across mine, until her resistance is worn down and her flesh is hot against mine.

“Stop with the ‘we can’t,’ ‘I can’t’ bullshit, will you? Cullen won’t fuck with family. So you marry me, we get the certificate, get you the hell out of town, and I sign the divorce papers. It’s simple. I make you family. He leaves you alone.”

She’s wearing a little slip of a dress, green like her eyes, and it makes me think of flipping her skirt up and ripping down her panties. She marries me, I save her ass, and her aunt’s bar lives to see another day.

“Marriage is never simple,” she mumbles. I’m sure she could go on for days about what an asshole I am, about what a stupid idea this is, how we barely know each other, and how I’m an idiot for thinking anything will keep Cullen away from his vengeance on Bianca. But I know I’m right this time. Cullen will stay away from my family. And her lips are better used for something else.

I slip that little green dress over her head and throw it down in my hallway, then push her up against the wall. She’s wearing a white bra and panties, her freckled skin pink and generous, looking just like a farmer’s daughter. But I expect she’s somewhat less innocent.

“Did you hear what I said—this plan is absolutely fucking—”

I swing her into my arms, unhook her conservative white bra and toss it aside. “I wasn’t listening,” I mumble. I cup her breasts in my hands and take my tongue to each nipple, listening as she gasps and sighs. “Because Cullen’s out to get you and your aunt. And I’ll be damned if I let anything happen to you.”

Her eyes go wide, and she whispers my name.

Present Day

Marriage is never simple.

I hadn’t believed her. I thought I’d take her to the courthouse, get hitched, and get divorced a couple of months later once she got safely to North Carolina and Cullen cooled down.

It wasn’t that simple then, and it’s not simple now. Not when I’m sitting in a fucking divorce lawyer’s office, looking around like an asshole.

I clench my knuckles and look around the stupid fucking divorce lawyer’s waiting room. It’s done up in that tacky fake wood paneling that was popular about three hundred years ago, and there’s one of those pink and blue paintings of a cottage set back in the woods, painted to look like there’s light from a sunset pouring over the whole thing. It’s meant to be cheerful, I guess, but a divorce lawyer’s lobby probably isn’t a place where a lot of people are real cheerful.

But not showing up three years ago when she asked me to was a shitty idea then, and it’s a shitty idea now. So here I am, being some kind of man about it.

Summer strolls through the door, right on time. Instead of her scrubs, she’s wearing a black pencil skirt and a pair of sensible flat shoes she wouldn’t have been caught dead in when I first met her. She has on some kind of flowy blue blouse that’s likely intended to look professional, but it’s slightly too low-cut, and Summer’s tits could never quite manage to look professional.

She’s not the same girl who wandered into a college bar with a shimmery, tight little dress. But she’s still sexy as hell, even though she looks like she’s in need of a good night’s sleep and possibly another bowl of fish and grits.

I stand up, and something tightens in my chest when I look at her. She made it clear when she sent me away the other night that she has no intention of working things out. Well, two can play at this game. I nod at her, even though I’d rather take her right back to my apartment, where she belongs. “Summer,” I say. It probably wouldn’t be a positive choice, as my sponsor would say, to call her Sunshine in this situation.

“Ash,” she says, a faint blush rising over her cheeks. I know she prides herself on being unreadable, and that piercing gaze of hers usually is. Even now, her expression is as flat as the wood-paneled wall. But that blush gives her away, every single time. Even here, even in her conservative little get-up in this fucking depressing lawyer’s office, there’s a jolt of electricity that moves between us.

But I’m here to play a part today, to play-act my way through this little charade. So I smile, and I straighten up, wearing my button-down shirt and a pair of my buddy’s slacks. I have the sleeves rolled up half way, because fuck button-downs. But otherwise, I’m just as professional as Summer. She smiles faintly at me.

Before we have to say any awkward bullshit, the lawyer’s assistant welcomes us back to the office, where the lawyer sits with his puffy red cheeks and his shitty brown suit. He looks like he’s about one BLT short of a heart attack, and the wedding ring on his left hand looks like it’s struggling for room to exist on his giant sausage fingers. He smiles at us, and then glances at Summer’s tits as she sits down, his eyes lingering a little longer than necessary.

I crack my knuckles and shake out my shoulders like I’m getting ready for a fight.

“So, Summer and Jonathan—”

“Ash. I don’t go by Jonathan.”

“Yes, Ash. Got it.” The lawyer grins, but his eyes are beady and dead. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. This is an easy case. You all have been separated for three years—”

“Not by choice.”

Summer cuts her eyes at me. “Ash, come on. We talked about this.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t agree to this.”

“That may be, Mr. Ash.” The lawyer looks to me. “But Ms. Collington tells me you left her three years ago, and that you’ve been separated since then. That’s grounds for what we call ‘abandonment.’ Since Ms. Collington is back in the states, she can file for divorce in North Carolina, uncontested.”

I nod, like I’m considering what he’s saying. But when he turns back to Summer, I pull a neatly folded stack of papers from my back pocket. “I’d like to submit these. These are emails dating back to 2012, asking Ms. Collington where in the fuck she went. There’s some colorful language in the first one, but you’ll see the following emails aren’t so bad.”

Summer groans, and I look at her. She’s turning redder now, with rage instead of lust. “Ash—what the fuck—”

The lawyer’s eyes open wide at Summer, and then he looks to me. “Now, what is it you’re suggesting, Mr. Ash? You going to contest this divorce?”

“All I want is the legal separation, just like everyone else in the state. We’re entitled to that. A year of legal separation where we’re still married but not living together. Not unless you want to move in—”

“Ash, no.” Summer’s voice is raspy, almost like it’s going to crack. “We can’t do this. I can’t do this.”

“Contingent on the separation going through, I won’t reveal that she and I are married. Not to her mother, not to her place of work.”

She looks at me, tears beginning to form in her eyes. “Ash, what’s the point of this? What in the hell are you trying to do?”

“Just giving us a chance. Even if it’s a snowball’s chance in hell. Even if it doesn’t make a difference. All I want is time.”

The lawyer shuffles through the emails and nods. “We can do this. I don’t see any reason why not to file for the legal separation—”

“I see every reason why not to—but this man is hell bent on screwing up my life.” Summer stands up and slams her hand against the table. Both the lawyer and I jump, and she walks out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

“Send me the paperwork at my address,” I say, leaping up and following after her. I need to make some headway with this woman on this day, come hell or high water. She’s already out of the door and marching to the car in her sensible shoes, her ass bouncing and delicious. I run out into the parking lot and catch her arm, probably like a fool. A long time ago, my father said there weren’t second chances, not for men like him. He was drunk and raging, and my mother was long gone.

I believed him for a long time. But when Summer turns around and looks at me, there’s a flash of something in her eyes, something that makes her look like the girl she was when she met me.

It only takes a second for her face to change back to hard lines and cold eyes. “Ash, what’s your goal?” Her voice is stony, none of the emotion I heard in it before. “Is it because you can’t have me? Or what?”

“It’s because you’re mine, Sunshine. I won’t let it end like this.”

“You already let it end, Ash. A long time ago. It was good for the couple months we were together. And then—”

“And then you were gone.”

“You know that’s not fair. The plan was to get me back to North Carolina. You promised you’d come with me. And you never came.”

I take her other hand and hold both of them in mine. “If you’d read those emails, you’d know that I couldn’t come, Summer.”

“What in the hell do you mean, ‘couldn’t?’”

“Cullen told me that if I stayed in New York, he’d leave you alone for good. Your aunt too. And your mother.”

Her hands are still in mine, her skin clammy. “My mother?”

“He knows a lot more than you expect, Sunshine.”

“And now?”

“He’s retired. Told me the hit was off altogether.” I shrug.

Her shoulders hunch forward, like the wind’s been knocked out of her. “After all that time worrying—about you—about my aunt.”

“It’s over. It’s long over.”

“You didn’t come because you couldn’t.” She says it flatly. I sort of expected her to fall into my arms. “That’s some kind of bullshit, Ash. There’s always a choice. Don’t tell me it had to do with Cullen.” She crosses her arms and steps away from me, lower lip in a slight pout.

“It was because of Cullen, but not for the reason you think.”

“God, you with all these secrets. Just get out with it. I know you want to convince me of something here, and I still don’t know why.”

“I wanted to go with you more than anything, to start over.”

“You didn’t care about me to get out. You told me you couldn’t.”

“I paid my way. Spent the savings I had and left, looking for you.”

A shadow crosses over her face, and she sighs. “What changed? You were going to come with me, come hell or high water. You were going to leave and hope they didn’t find you. And you didn’t. You left me there, standing alone.”

“There’s more to the story, like I said. I’ll tell it if you grant me the separation. Time to sort things out—”

Her face goes red in an instant. “Holy shit, Ash. That’s extortion—”

I laugh. “Not really. More like a promise. With a condition.”

Her face is still red, her body nearly shaking with rage. But she’s curious, too. This is the one card I have to play, and I’ll keep it until she remembers that I’m the one she needs to be with. “Let me walk you home, Sunshine.”

The breeze whips her hair around her face, creating faint shadows and lines that play over her wide-set eyes and the gentle slope of her nose. She was beautiful when I first met her, yes. But now, she’s grown into a woman, far more than the adrenaline junkie girl she was in New York. I step to her and brush my hand against her neck, and she shudders in response. Not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of the taste of her skin.

“No, I don’t think—”

“You don’t think what? If you don’t want me, then there’s no reason you can’t let me walk with you.”

She pauses and looks at me with that thousand-yard death stare she used on me when I accosted her outside of the hospital. “I spent a long time thinking you didn’t want me enough to stay beside me, Ash. Why should I give you a chance now?”

“Because I want you. I always did. I want you so bad I can barely breathe when I look at you. Because I came here to find you and build a life. And a man that does that deserves a chance.”

“I won’t sleep with you,” she says, her voice haughty. Her arms are still crossed, but she shivers when I pull her in close. It has nothing to do with the cold because it’s June in North Carolina, and the air is fresh and warm and sweet.

“Whatever you say, Sunshine.” I lean in and brush a lock of hair away from her face. “But let me remind you that I can make our separation a little more enjoyable. That was never a part of our relationship that had any difficulty at all.”

“Just—” she starts, her voice a pale whisper. “Just keep your hands to yourself, and you can walk me home.”

I chuckle and stuff my hands in my pockets. “You’re my wife. It’ll be hard to keep my hands to myself with you looking like that.”

“You better,” she chirps and starts walking off down the sidewalk, angry and sexy all at the same time. She turns and looks at me. “You coming?”

CHAPTER NINE

Three Years, Four Months Ago

It’s late when I get home, and my body is still on fire from Ash. I could say it was his touch that did it, the feeling of his fingertips as they found my sex and played me until I couldn’t bare anymore. But I’m beginning to think it’s just his presence.

I barely make a noise when I come into the bar. I don’t have an explanation for it, but it feels like there’s something wrong, something happening here that shouldn’t be.

I’m shaken by Ash’s ridiculous proposition, and I know I’m making things up. You can’t sense when something is off... can you?

I’m a woman of science, but I hold my door key in my hand like a shiv when I walk into the darkened bar. Maybe there’s something in my lizard brain that makes me aware that something’s off, that nothing here is right. The door to Bianca’s office creaks, like it’s opening a bit at a time, but there’s no telltale ray of light across the floor. A chill runs down my spine, and I remember Ash’s words.

There’s a hit on your family, and there’s no way out.

He also mentioned making me his. That’s not exactly what I had in mind for the rest of my summer in New York, but even when I think about it in passing, something primal hits my gut. As I walk through the darkened bar, I roll the idea over in my head. Ash, offering me his protection. In return, I’m his—for how long? As long as Cullen targets my family? Or until Ash decides he doesn’t want me anymore, doesn’t want to fuck me or use me?

The rational part of my brain is angry even considering it.

But desire writhes through my body, make its way to my sex, arousing me even through my fear. When I reach the foot of the stairs that leads up to my apartment, I hear my aunt talking, and a man’s voice responding. Her words are forced and angry, increasing in volume even as the man’s voice remains steady and cold. I peer around the staircase and look to see that Ash’s boss, Cullen, stands over my aunt’s desk, hunched toward her like a lion poised in front of its prey. I can barely make out my aunt in the shadows of the darkened office, but her voice rises again, and this time, I hear her.

“I just don’t fucking have it this time, Cullen. I don’t—”

I walk up two more stairs and hide in the shadows, heart pounding hard against my chest, so loud and insistent that I feel like Cullen might whip around the corner and pounce on me. The bar is dark, all shadows and white moonlight. Cullen’s voice rumbles again, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. Whatever it is, it’s not good, because my aunt groans, and I hear her throw one of the antique beer bottles she keeps on her desk. It crashes against the wall. Cullen’s laughter crashes through the darkness, and my blood turns to ice.

“Don’t take the girl,” my aunt says. “Not the girl—she’s not a part of this—”

“She’s part of it if I say she is.”

I hear scuffling in the dark of the office, and then my aunt panting and screaming. The office door creaks open further, and I hear a man’s heavy footsteps, and a woman’s heels being dragged across the floor. The back door opens, and they’re both gone.

Without thinking, I scroll through my phone and find Ash’s number, dialing it as soon as his name appears. He answers on the first ring, apparently not asleep yet after what we were up to tonight.

“Summer,” he says, his voice a low, suggestive growl.

“He’s got my aunt,” I whimper. “He’s got her.”

There’s a long pause at the other end of the line. “I’ll sort this out, then I’ll come get you.”

“Okay—and Ash—be careful.” I can only hear breathing on Ash’s end, and then a click. Everything he’s said has turned out to be true. And if he’s described this Cullen man accurately, he’s not going to let go until he has the money from my aunt—or until she and I are both dead.

My body feels cold, hands numb and shaking. I sink down into myself and cry, counting off the minutes until I’m back in the only place I feel safe—with Ash.

Present Day

“I saw that young man dropping you off here last night.” My mother, Linda Colington, comes around the side of the breakfast table and puts a plate with biscuits and lavender honey in front of me. She’ll get me fat as hell before I even finish one year of my residency. But residency doesn’t pay much, and my mother’s breakfast is free. She kisses me on my cheek, brushing away a few of the loose tendrils of hair from the messy bun I’ve started wearing for work.

“He’s not young,” I say. I shove a bite of biscuit into my mouth, and it practically melts on contact. My mother’s biscuits are some of the best on the island, and there’s absolutely no one here to taste them. “And he wasn’t exactly dropping me off, not like you think. I mean, he walks me to my apartment from work, and sometimes he drives me here. But it’s not like you think.”

My mother nods and sits down across from me, holding her tea with both hands and then pressing it up against her cheek. “He’s tall, and he’s handsome. And he’s asked about you several times. Very handsome. Not much my type, but Bianca—well, she liked them tough. One time when he came by, he told me he was starting his own fighting thing—studio or whatever it is—”

“A gym.” I look over at her and dump a generous amount of sugar in my coffee, stirring it slowly and popping another piece of biscuit in my mouth. “Since when has he been chatting with you?”

“Since you came back. He came by and said he was hoping to see you, and then I asked him if he was handy. And he’s been by a few times to fix some leaks and nail in some boards on the back porch. He actually knows a fair bit about tools and man stuff like that—and he won’t let me pay him—”

“Mom. Oh my God.” I drop my face into my hands and start turning pink. “You can’t just go and ask my—“

Boyfriend? Husband? What the fuck?

“Your what? Are you going to tell me he’s your ‘friend’?”

“No, not exactly. He’s not really my friend. He’s—well, I know him from New York. And he’s been living here—”

“Interesting coincidence,” she says, sipping her tea. I know I’m growing more and more flustered—there’s no one in the world that can agitate me like this woman can. Her sister runs a close second. “He met you when you were living with Bianca?”

“Yes—well—kind of. I guess that’s right. He did.”

“And he’s living here now?”

“Mom, you’re repeating yourself.”

“I was just getting the story. I know there’s a big story about some man. Bianca hinted at it.”

Of course she did.

“And I thought it was all done—” My mother goes on, as I sink lower and lower in my chair, my nose almost touching my biscuit. “But if this is the guy...”

Instead of answering, I give her a look of death and finish my coffee. She shrugs and keeps fiddling with her tea bag, then gets up and flits around the room like she always does, dusting the mantle above the fireplace, even though she probably already dusted it this morning.

It would be easier if I could tell her, if I could explain everything about Ash and the entire debacle. But there are parts of the story my mother wouldn’t exactly be happy knowing. Like the entire month she didn’t hear from me when I landed myself in a Damascus hospital, dreaming about Ash every night and desperately working to transfer to the Ukraine.

There are golden memories with Ash, but most of them happened while we were lying together in bed. The rest are colored gray, listless and sad and tired. I spent three years trying to erase all of it, but here he is, doing odd jobs around the inn for my mother, buttering her up and probably eating biscuits and asking for peppermint tea. I groan at the thought.

“What, honey? You’re blushing.”

“Am not,” I huff. “I’m just a little miffed that you two have been colluding behind my back.”

“Jonathan and I aren’t colluding, or whatever you want to call it. He’s just been nice enough to help me out.”

“Jonathan? Do you call him that?”

“That’s his name, sweetheart. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Christ, Mom. Everyone calls him Ash.”

“He told me to call him Jonathan.” She’s still dusting, and I can tell she’s trying not to look at me, like she kept doing the last time she brought this up. “I’m sorry if you didn’t want me talking to him. He’s the one who came and introduced himself, Summer. He is tough-looking, but he really seems like a nice boy. And I can use any help I can get right now.”

I look up at her, and I can tell she’s clenching her jaw tight. “What’s that supposed to mean, Mom?”

“It’s just that I haven’t gotten a lot of guests recently. Bianca was supposed to help me with marketing, get me on Yelp.”

“Mom, her business completely failed. Why are you going to her?”

“She’s smart about these things. She’s been helping with a club up in New York, some gambling place—”

I cut her off before she starts talking about Bianca’s business savvy, which I know for a fact doesn’t exist. What Bianca is good at is somehow convincing the Irish mafia not to kill her, though I’ve never quite figured that one out. “Is your business here okay? Do you need anything? I can pay for the biscuits—”

“No you don’t.” She whirls by and clears my plate away, brushing her hand against my shoulder. She’s still thin in her upper body, but her hips seem to be slowly expanding each year. “You’re my miracle girl, my gift, and I just want you to go to your internship—”

“Residency.”

“Residency, yes. And I don’t want you to worry about anything here.”

My chest tightens. No inn in the Outer Banks should be empty at this time of year, and it occurs to me that maybe it’s not just empty because it’s not on Yelp. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“No. Well.” She walks off into the kitchen and turns on the water.

“Mom!” I shout. “Don’t walk off like that!”

The water turns off, and my mom stands in the kitchen doorway. Everyone has always said her face is plainer than Aunt Bianca’s, less striking. But the way she stands, back lit from the kitchen windows, red hair now with distinguished streaks of gray, she looks incredibly beautiful—and vulnerable. “The inn is empty because it’s failing,” she says, with a wistful smile. “I’m behind on my mortgage payments, and it’ll be repossessed next month. I haven’t had the energy to get guests or do any advertising.”

“Mom, that’s how you pay your mortgage.”

“Too far gone. I need too much, and there’s really no way it’ll stay in business. Not with what I owe.”

God, I’m glad I’m not looking into running a small business because fuck me, no one in my family can do it.

“Can you borrow from Bianca?”

“I won’t ask her to do that, and I’m not asking anything of you. Or anyone else. I have plenty of waitressing experience—I can do that.”

“Mom, no.” I try not to let my voice break or the tears start to flood my eyes, but I know they will. This has always been my mother’s dream, and this is the place she’s been happiest. It’s meant stability for me, a place I can come home to. With everything going on, I hadn’t thought to ask why it was empty, hadn’t thought to push her on it. There were excuses—yes. Having the mold cleaned out of the eaves, the porch resurfaced, carpets replaced in each of the rooms. But I hadn’t seen trucks here the times I’ve visited, no crews in and out doing all the things she said they’d do. Apparently the only one doing things for my mom has been Ash, and her professional life has been crumbling behind my back. “Mom, there’s got to be another way.”

“None that I can see. I’ve been foolish, thinking I could make this place into some kind of escape. Bianca’s a good bit younger, but she knows how to live in this world. Even after her running away from here like a crazy woman, and...”

Her voice trails off, and she drums her fingers against the cherry wood doorway. Everything about this place is beautiful—crown molding, antique furniture, pale blue walls and tastefully selected paintings. To think of it going away makes my heart hurt indescribably.

“Mom—” I start again. But I don’t know what to say. It feels like there’s a brick in my gut, weighing everything down, pulling at the small happinesses I’ve known since I’ve been back. It feels like my life—no matter how I try to work it—is filled only with duplicity and loss, and pain for the people around me.

I do the only thing that I can: I go to her and draw her into a hug and hold her for a long time. I barely even notice when my phone alarm buzzes, alerting me that my shift is starting, that I’m beginning another day again. My mother lets go and kisses me on the cheek.

“Don’t think about this,” she tells me. “I’ll be okay. Just go to work and go see your boyfriend.”

Husband. But who’s counting?

“He’s not my—”

“Whatever you say, Summer. But either way, don’t worry about me. Not right now. I’ll figure something out. I always do.” She pats me on the cheek, and I walk out of the front door and down the grand old steps that won’t belong to my mother for very much longer. I’ve had enough hurt in my years to know that sometimes, when there’s loss, humans feel it physically. There aren’t any studies published on this kind of thing, but I’ve been through it enough to know.

It feels just like my mother is trapped, like she’s been taken, like there are walls closing in around her and no way out.

When I start my drive to the hospital, I have a flashback to living in New York and all the pain that stemmed from every decision I made. I thought I’d gotten away from it, but it turns out that the past repeats itself again and again.

If I were younger, I might call on Ash to solve this problem. But he’s just as messed up as I am, or so it would seem. I don’t know about all the losses and traumas he’s been through, but I can guess it would be a lot by this point.

This man, he’s never far from my mind.

And it’s in moments like these that he nags at me like a low-grade fever.

I try to remind myself of the time I needed him most, when I was alone in Syria. He never knew, but that was the thing that broke my heart for good. And the reason why there’s no way I can go there again. Even if he does know what to do about all of this, I can’t weave him into my life again.

There’s no way.

I’m not his anymore, and I’m not sure if I really ever was.

CHAPTER TEN

Three Years, Three Months Ago

The fear in Summer’s voice—it leads me out to my car, barreling down the street to Cullen’s club, through the pouring rain. I’m moving on automatic, running to protect a woman I don’t even know, moving faster than I do even for Cullen.

For a girl. For one girl.

I could say it’s because she’s innocent, but I’ve broken a lot of innocent fingers before, losing myself in the satisfying crack, even enjoying the screams from time to time. There was always whiskey afterwards, and women.

Since Summer though, whiskey has mostly lost its flavor. And she’s the only woman I notice now, no matter where I go. Cullen’s guys would call me whipped, would laugh at me until they were blue in the face. But I’m still Jonathan Ash, and I could rip them all to shreds.

When I roll into Cullen’s place, not one of the guys is there. The lights in the bar are dim, and the door to Cullen’s back room is open.

That’s where she’ll be. You’ll roll in there, Ash, and then fucking what? You’re going to save the day? Slide your dick in Cullen’s ass and cut his throat?

I chuckle. This is almost comically stupid. I still owe Cullen Flood, and I’m still in his service until my debt is paid. If I weren’t saving for my own place somewhere fucking far away from New York, I’d be gone and not worrying about this pretty little girl at all.

Cullen speaks from the darkness and I turn slowly towards him, an icy chill creeping through my body. “Come in Jonny.” He opens the door to his back room, and welcomes me in magnanimously, his smile bright and fake. He’d still be handsome if it weren’t for the eye, but those days are long past, and now he simply looks cold and cruel. Probably against my better judgment, I walk in, and I see Bianca, just as Summer said I would. “You were with the girl?”

“Yeah.” I won’t deny it, not now. I can still feel her on my body, can still smell her. I crack my knuckles. I outweigh Cullen, but he’s strong and fucking quick. “And you have her aunt.”

“Conflict of interest I’d say, Jonny.”

“Not really. You let the woman go, and there’s no conflict.”

“You’re tied to this family in blood, Jonny. There’s no escaping it, not even for the lass.” Cullen leans in and whispers so his prisoner can’t hear. Cullen’s never scared me before—I outweigh him by fifty pounds of muscle, and his right leg is near useless from a knee-capping twenty years ago. But when it comes to the woman sitting over there—his ruthlessness hits home. He’s often spoken of Bianca as an old friend, letting her pay him late on loans and forgiving a light payment here and there. But with his campaign to take Hell’s Kitchen back for the Irish, it seems his memories aren’t as dear as they used to be.

“Cullen—” I start. I haven’t argued with the man before because he’s the boss. He’s told me what to do and where to be ever since I entered into my debt agreement with him. There’s no reward. There’s no raise. There’s just me not ending up dead behind the club.

“You think I didn’t know about you and the girl? I do. But when it comes to loyalty, you think only of the family. She and her aunt have crossed a line, and there’s no going back.”

I move my gaze to Bianca. She’s sitting in one of the antique Irish chairs, hands tied in front of her. She wears a haughty expression on her face like she’s a fine lady with better places to be.

She’s always made Cullen mad as fuck, since she’s from an old Irish family but would never bow to him like the others have. Maybe it’s because she was raised in the states. Maybe it’s because she and the boss had history, but he’s never laid a hand on her until now. She’s in a position she could easily escape from, but it’s a dominant move on Cullen’s part even if she doesn’t realize it. She’s not an old woman, but she’s slight and lean like Summer, and even a grizzled old bastard like Cullen could overpower her in an instant. I look at her and she regards me coolly, like Summer does each time she sees me. It’s like looking forward in time, seeing the woman that summer will become. It’s eerie, unnerving. My stomach churns. Even though I’ve never felt it before in our methodical takeover of every business in Hell’s Kitchen, guilt comes over me when I look at her. She wears a look like she’s sure Cullen is bluffing. But she’s a victim of a decades-old vendetta, and Cullen’s decided it’s come to a head.

“This isn’t necessary,” I growl, my body poised to strike like a coiled snake. But Cullen smiles that creepy Cheshire cat grin. Like a lot of things these days, it sends an emotion through me that I haven’t experienced in a long time—disgust. Like a shiver running through me, taking residence in my soul and refusing to let go. “The woman was just trying to run her fucking business, Cullen. Make an alliance—”

“Too late,” he says, still smiling. “Because of our friendship,” he says, speaking up so that Bianca can hear him. “I’ll spare her body for now. I know how effective a knee-capping can be. But right now isn’t the time for that.”

My stomach drops again. The last man whose kneecap I shot screamed and drooled and begged for his mother, alone in the dark alley behind the club. But there are even worse things—especially when Cullen knows your family.

“Our friendship—” Bianca sputters, her voice rusty and thick with emotion. “A friend wouldn’t keep me here away from my business, my family.” She emphasizes the last word, her eyes pleading. “That girl—that girl is all I’ve got. You don’t know what you’re doing—”

“Gag her,” he commands me. “I was mistaken not to do it in the first place.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

I go to Bianca and do as he says. She struggles beneath my hands like a trapped mouse, looking up at me with sad, accusing green eyes. She struggles to get out of the gag, pushing her tongue against the white cotton, trying to say something, desperate and loud. Cullen goes up to her and takes her face in his hands, and Bianca stills for a moment.

“Cullen, Summer isn’t a part of this,” I tell him.

“She made herself a part of this when her aunt invited her to New York.” Cullen takes a knife from his pocket and flicks it open, holding it up to the side of Bianca’s face where he makes his customary “marks,” the ones that show every criminal in Hell’s Kitchen that this person belongs to Cullen. “Silly girl.” For a moment I think he’s talking about Summer, but his eyes are locked with Bianca’s. “You left New York twenty-six years ago, Bianca. You shouldn’t have come back if you didn’t want to play my game. I never thought it would come to this, but this is where we are. You owe me twenty thousand dollars, and Ash will take care of the little chickie while you get the opportunity to pay up.”

Bianca groans and says something through her gag that sounds like, “Why now?”

Cullen nods, contemplating. “Because I’m sick of your bullshit, Bianca. You couldn’t pay me this month, and I’m done playing your game when you should be playing mine.” He brings his knife across her cheek, and she inhales sharply, beads of blood forming along the slice. The cut is shallow and will fade far more quickly than the others I’ve seen Cullen give. It might not even leave a true scar, not the kind he favors. But the look on Bianca’s face shows what it means to her. Cullen looks back at me with his one blue eye and glares at me.

“Jonny, you take the girl to the safe house tomorrow. Keep her chained. B has a week to get her shit together, or we start with her fingers and work our way down. And don’t worry. We’ll make sure to get regular updates from you about how the girl is. You let her go, we kill her. Keep her with you, under your watch, and she and her aunt both live to see another day.”

I leave, and I drive toward Summer.

I’ll keep her under my watch, yes.

But it’ll be on my terms.

Present Day

When I come to pick Summer up, she’s ghostly pale and nearly fucking shaking. I can see it even before I pull my car into the spot near the back. It’s either been a hard shift, or it has something to do with seeing her mother and that empty-ass inn.

It feels like the time I saw her after Cullen had bagged her aunt. I could have ended it all then, knowing what I know now. Sometimes, on my darker nights, it’s made me guilty that I didn’t figure it out earlier. Maybe then, Summer would have stayed in New York.

I’ve often imagined her standing up to Cullen, telling him to fuck off and leave her and her aunt alone.

She wouldn’t have needed me, though. And she would have left. Despite the fantasies I’ve held onto for years, I know that for sure. Summer was always headed somewhere, and I’m lucky that right now, I’m something she’s considering as part of her plan.

I walk up to her, sauntering, hand in one pocket. She sees me as some kind of asshole bad boy, someone who won’t live up to her standards. Not that I can say I blame her. For the first time in a while, I take stock of myself as I’m walking toward her.

Potentially dead end job? Check.

Still occasionally working for criminals? Check.

Covered in tattoos she probably doesn’t want her coworkers to see? Double check.

But I still keep walking. Acting on instinct, I pull her tight into my arms and kiss her cheek. For a second, she’s stiff and barely responds, but then I feel her hands snake around my neck, and that thing in my chest goes tight. Before Summer, there were a hundred women, maybe more. A different one every night. But since I said “I do” in front of that stupid drunken priest, I’ve only been with one. I’ve doubted that decision in the years I’ve been here, especially when the dumb fighting skanks would throw themselves at me after matches, but I pushed them all away.

Summer doesn’t know that. She probably thinks I’ve been manwhoring around like I did before I met her. Standing here, tangling my fingers through her hair and holding her, I think I should tell her. It rests on the tip of my tongue for a minute or more, but it’s not what I end up saying. Right now, this woman is aching with need—and it’s not the kind that’s satisfied in the bedroom.

“You okay, Sunshine? You don’t seem okay.” I’m used to sounding clipped and arrogant, because that’s everything I’ve been in the life I chose to lead after Summer. But when I talk to her, it’s different. It was that way in New York too, but I was always operating on instinct, not stopping to think what it meant.

Now I know what it means, even if she doesn’t.

She sobs and then cries, pulling on my neck. I know she thinks she doesn’t look pretty when she cries, but with her tears, humid against my shirt, and her hair, wild and messy and pulled up on top of her head, she looks vulnerable and young—and more than beautiful.

“I’m supposed to be divorcing you!” She yells it into my shirt, and just like always in front of this damn hospital, there are five or so people walking by and looking at us curiously. “Why the hell do you keep coming by when it just makes me—it just makes me—“

“Horny?” She pulls one arm away from my neck and backs away enough to punch me square in the chest. “You know, you’ve got one hell of a right hook. I’ve got a promoter looking for a good female fighter.” She punches me again and laughs, wiping her tears away. A piece of her hair falls out of the bun, just brushing the tops of her breasts. Even though her scrubs cover up those freckled orbs, I can’t help imagining what they look like now.

“You’re not supposed to come around here. You’re just supposed to sign papers and stop coming here and stop looking at me like that—”

“Like what?”

“You know how you’re looking at me.”

“Can’t help it. You’re the first pretty girl I’ve seen in three years.”

She rolls her eyes, but then she smiles, and it seems like the best smile I’ve ever seen. She barely smiled at our wedding, but that all happened fast. The honeymoon though—I remember those smiles. I think of what she looked like all the time. I take a piece of her hair and twirl it between my fingers.

“Seriously, Sunshine. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Stop calling me that.” She takes a step back, but it doesn’t look like she wants to, not really.

“Because you don’t like it?”

She just looks at me and doesn’t answer, crossing her arms over those spectacular breasts. “If you must know...” She raises an eyebrow like she’s not sure if she should let me in on any more of her life. But maybe I’m projecting. That’s what my sponsor always called it—projecting. Like I’m making up a little story about what she thinks. “My mom’s inn is fucked. She has to foreclose. Or declare bankruptcy. Or some shit like that. Maybe she could sell if she did it fast, but it seems like she didn’t think about that, at least not how she should have. And not when she should have.”

I bite my lip. “I thought you probably knew all that. But—”

“You knew? Did she tell you during one of your private conversations I just learned about?”

I give her a shrug. “I like Linda.”

“Jesus. ‘Linda.’” Summer makes a frustrated growling sound to show me just what she thinks of my using her mother’s actual name. In that moment, I get a brief flash of what she must have been like as a teenager. “If I had a few more months, I could dig up the money. I could do something.” She lets her arms hang down by her sides, listless. “We really ought to get the divorce...”

Not this again. I thought we were just about past this. But that’s not what she’s worried about, not really. I try not to let my chest get tight again, try not to let it get to me. It’s like there’s something that happened to her. And each time something bad happens, she comes back to this idea that I don’t fit into her life.

I cross my arms and study her face. “We will.” I pause, sucking in my breath. After years of thinking about this, that’s not something I could possibly do. “If that’s what you want after the separation. But I don’t think that’s what you were talking about—”

“I was talking about that first. And then my mom. She’s really not your concern, Jonathan.” Her words are sharp, but her tone isn’t. Instead, her voice sounds raspy and angry all at once, like she’s about to break.

“I used to hate that name. It was my dad’s name.” The one who trained me to fight and gamble. The one who put us all in debt to Cullen and his sickening group of cronies. She cocks her head to the side and chews on that information, though maybe she’s searching the depths of her soul to see what insults she can sling at me for introducing myself politely to her mother. But she sighs again, still looking defeated, and she comes up short.

She doesn’t hate me. But even after folding into me, she has me at arm’s length.

Here it comes, the insult. She puffs up and looks at me, eyes hard.

“Look. I’m sorry. I know you were trying to help her. But I’m fucking angry—at her, and at the bank, I guess.” She sighs deeply and runs her fingers through her hair, making it even messier. “And at myself, for not coming back here sooner. I think I’m just going to go home.” I catch her bright green gaze, and I can tell she’s looking at me with something that’s close to longing. Her eyes are bright with tears, but it’s like she wants to break down that barrier and come back to me.

There was a time, however brief it was, when she would have gotten me to fix this.

“I can drive you. Or walk with you,” I say.

Or throw you over my shoulder and make you forget your own name.

I don’t say that part, but I wish I had the guts. It’s been a long time coming, and I’m not convinced she won’t give in. Not just yet.

“No.” She puts her hand up when she says it, and walks over to her car. Her ass is still perfect, and I can see the outline of it, even through her scrubs.

“Okay if I follow you in my truck and make sure you’re okay? I don’t like you walking into that apartment by yourself.” The words come out like some macho bravado shit that’s closer to something I’d say to a date back in New York. But I can’t think of anything off the cuff to make it sound much better.

To my surprise, she turns and smiles. “Yeah. That would be fine.” She shakes her head slightly. “You’ve got a truck and everything. It’s like you’ve turned into some kind of country boy. Trying to walk me home, talking to my mama. You’re not going soft on me, are you?”

I shrug. “Not soft. No ma’am.” I put on a Southern accent and tip a fake hat at her, and she gets in her car.

It’s not the most successful drive home, but I follow her and make sure she gets into her apartment. I park at the far side of her parking lot, and she turns and waves at me.

I said years ago I’d take care of her.

And I still take that seriously.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Three Years, Four Months Ago

“It’s in and out,” Ash says. He gives me a suggestive look, and I squirm uncomfortably. He’s driving me home again, and something about his car makes me doubly uncomfortable. It’s Cullen’s car, one from his fleet—that should say everything I need to know about this man. But there’s Ash, sitting across from me, red hair like copper in the morning light. “And then you can do what you want, Sunshine.”

“Don’t call me that.” I blush and pull a lock of my hair behind my ear. I always got made fun of for having freckles, for my blushing, for the reddish tone to my own hair. But the way Ash looks at me makes all the taunts fly away, like those memories aren’t part of my past at all.

“That’s what you are.” He says it simply, looking away as he pulls up to the bus stop across from my aunt’s bar. “I’m no poet, but that’s what you remind me of.” As he reaches for a cigarette, he brushes my hand, and a thrill runs from the top of my head down to the base of my spine.

This is a bad idea. A very fucking bad idea.

In the dark of his apartment, it seemed like everything Ash said made sense, like the sham of a marriage would protect me. But why would it? I wouldn’t be a real member of the family. I’d be a wife. When Ash talks about the wedding, he says it will guarantee my safety. What if it only makes me more vulnerable? What if I’m being guided by the way he looks at me and nothing else?

I move to open the door, and he catches my hand. “I know what you’re thinking, Summer. Cullen is a dangerous man, but he doesn’t break the code. His family has had a hold in this area for nearly a century. Any woman a man takes as his is safe, and her family as well.”

“I don’t belong to anyone.”

“You marry me, you’re mine.” He shrugs as he lights his cigarette, and a ring of white smoke curls out the window. “That’s how it works. My father was in the Family and his father before him. And now I am—and my wife becomes the same.” He cuts his blue eyes at me, then he reaches over and puts one hand on my breast. My nipple immediately goes stiff, and the tight, winding need in my core intensifies. My body responds before my brain can, and I push my body into his hand and open my legs ever so slightly. His fingers run down over my waist and find their way between my legs, lifting my skirt and pressing against my panties. To my shame, I’m already wet, just at the thought of belonging to him. He leans in and bites at the soft flesh of my neck as he slides his fingers against the outline of my clit. Then his fingers move deeper, trapping my clit between them, fabric pulled tight against my sensitive button.

“Ash, what if it doesn’t work? What if we don’t stay married long—” He leans in and quiets me with a kiss, his hand still pressed tight against my panties. I shiver and close my eyes. His fingers move with agonizing slowness, so slow that I start to lift my hips and push against him. He forces me back down on the seat and keeps working his hand. Chills begin to rise from my core, and I groan against his lips. As an idle teenager, I thought of marriage from time to time—what my dress would look like, what flowers I would order from the shop down the street from my mother’s inn, how I would look as I walked into the garden where my friends and family waited.

In none of my fantasies did I consider someone like Ash, someone who would take my body and make it sing, building desire and tension and arousal to points beyond my understanding, thoughts clouding and turning to mist as he touched me.

People on the street walk past us, and I could care less if any of them see what we’re doing in Ash’s car. His hand roams over my breasts, his other buried between my thighs, and his lips feel slow and tender against mine, even as his hand presses harder and harder against my body. The heat rises through me, slow this time, reaching my breasts, through my spine, cascades of warmth singing through my sex and filling me. I buck against his hand once and then twice. He pinches my clit at the height of it, forcing another shock through my system. He groans like he takes pleasure in playing my body like this. I open my eyes and see a look of satisfaction on his face—the same look I see when he comes inside of me.

He brings my face close to his and kisses me on the forehead. “You’re a good girl, Sunshine. So good when you come for me.” I look down and see that his cock is hard, straining against his jeans. My mouth waters—and he catches me looking at him. “And so hungry for my cock.” He kisses me again. “But I’ll wait and give you the best fuck of your life after you marry me. Now go. I can’t see you after noon today—bad luck.”

When his hands leave my body, I feel abandoned all at once, like there’s a piece of me missing. I stare at him, trying to read his face. “But this marriage isn’t real. What does any of that matter?”

He reaches over me and opens the door, my gaze still locked with his. “Go on, Sunshine. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, bright and early.” I slide out of the car, and as the door closes behind me I hear Ash say something to me.

It sounds like, “Who said it isn’t real?” But before I can tap on the window he pulls away, and I’m left alone in the street, time standing still around me.

Present Day

The next night, we leave our cars at the hospital, and Ash walks me the two miles home, the summery night breeze whipping around us. There’s a part of me that wants to reach out and take his hand, but that doesn’t fit with the Ash I knew before, the man that promised to protect me by making me his. The man with the scheme. In hindsight, it was a very stupid scheme.

It would make me laugh—if I hadn’t been so alone when I ran away, if I hadn’t come here, hating him and loving him all at once, and never expecting to see him again.

File for abandonment, the lawyer said. It’ll be easy, the lawyer said. You’ll never even have to see him.

“I have money.” It’s the first time Ash has spoken in the mile since the hospital. He keeps looking ahead and walking, and I nearly trip on a crack in the pavement.

“What money? What are you talking about? Money for what?” I catch my balance, but I stay frozen in place.

Ash keeps walking, and about twenty steps ahead, he realizes I’m not beside him. He turns, and in the streetlight, his tattoos look like shadows, his hair like burnished copper. “Not as much as I’d like. $25,000, maybe 30. I’ve got some stuff tied up in different places.” He shrugs, and some of that old casual confidence shows through. A chill runs down my spine, and desire registers in my body, lower and deeper.

“For what exactly?” The words feel dry in my throat.

“For your mom. I want to help.”

I close my eyes and swallow hard. It’s easier when he’s not trying to help me. When he’s just a pretty face who walks with me so I won’t be alone at night. That’s much simpler than the man who left me, who missed the worst days of my life, who sent me letter after letter. The man who showed up here and won’t let me forget him.

“Ash—” I start. My voice nearly breaks again. It’s done that so much in the past few days that my throat is sore. “Ash, you can’t do that. That’s for your gym, isn’t it?”

“It is. But this is more important.” He shifts to the side and puts his hands in his pockets. “I know you won’t accept it, but I’m telling you, I have the money. I could help.”

“Why would you—”

“You’re my wife,” he says, and suddenly I feel like I’m looking back in time. Ash looks and talks just like he did when I first met him, but there’s a different cadence to his voice, like he’s calmer and more reserved. “You’re family. Your mother, she’s family too. I’m not a member anymore, but I still hold to that. ‘Family comes first, and so it ought.’”

“I can’t—” What can’t I do? Save my mother?

“Just walk with me. You can think about it tomorrow.”

“You know I can’t accept this.”

He comes to me and takes my arm, walking me into the night. My apartment has been the place I escaped to since I moved back here, and now Ash is invading that too. We’re quiet as we approach the condos, simple and gray and very different from the big, expansive beach houses that adorn the peninsula. I sigh and hope he’ll disappear into the night behind me—not because I want him to disappear, but because it’s far simpler if he doesn’t stay.

“You think about it, Sunshine. No need to decide anything tonight.” He leans over me and opens the screen door to my condo. My pulse quickens, even though it shouldn’t, and the same tingly feeling takes over my body, just like it did when I was first away, before the horrible day in that hospital when I began to tuck every memory of Jonathan Ash in the back of my mind. But there are old things waking here, emotions at work that I don’t fully understand.

“You don’t need to stay, Ash.” I unlock the deadbolt and step inside, kicking off my sneakers. My attire is far different than it used to be in New York, but the way Ash looks at me makes me feel like I’m wearing my black tube dress and six-inch heels. “Please go. I can’t go there with you. Not right now. ”

He’s standing in the doorframe, leaning halfway inside my apartment. My eyes are drawn to his shirt, his carefully sculpted muscles making the fabric stretch across his torso. “And I won’t push you,” he says. “But I want you to know that I’m here. I wasn’t then—and I don’t know what happened after you left—but I am now.”

I gulp. His steely gaze bores into me, bringing up a surge of old longing. “Nothing happened. You didn’t show up. So I came home, and I left. Like I’d always planned. I was sad then, but I’m not anymore. I’m glad you’re—you’re trying to help. That we’re—” I wring my hands, trying to think of a word for what we are. “Friends?” I try to sound certain, like I’m sure of what I’m saying. But Ash lifts an eyebrow.

“You sure about that, Summer? Friends? Don’t you remember what it was like?” He moves closer, and I’m deeply aware of his presence.

“What what was like?” I put my hands on my hips and stick my chin out, backing a step further away from Ash. Of course I freaking remember. His hands on my body, tracing patterns over my skin, lips brushing against the tops of my thighs, and then buried between my legs until I couldn’t bear it anymore. But it was just sex. This is a friendship, maybe, one that might see us through a separation. But it isn’t anything more. It can’t be. I decided that a long time ago, didn’t I?

Still, I gulp when he steps closer to me. On any other man, the healing wound on his cheek would make him look like a mess. But on Ash, it just looks rugged, sexy. The kind of sexy that makes a woman’s brain cease to function, the kind that makes a woman forget.

If men think with their dicks, hell, sometimes I think with my—

And maybe I should stop thinking that way. If only he hadn’t offered to help, or walk me home. Or if he didn’t exist at all...

“Sunshine,” Ash says with a wry grin. He leans in, gently taking a lock of my hair between his fingers, and draws his mouth close to my ear. His hot breath brushes against my skin, and a shiver runs down my spine. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” He touches me on the nape of my neck, the shiver intensifying, traveling through every cell, every pore, and reverberating through my entire body.

Maybe it’s that I didn’t have time to take my fill of Ash. I wasn’t even with him for a full season. Maybe if I’d worn out on him, maybe I wouldn’t be here right now, not moving, not kicking him out, just letting him touch me, whimpering as his knuckles brush against the skin on my chest. Like he used to, he wraps one arm around my waist and pulls me in close. I want to scream, cry, kick him—and all of it for reasons I can’t fully define.

Before I can get my wits about me, he brings his mouth close to mine, his lips barely touching me. Searing heat rushes through my body, and for a moment, I lose myself in his lips. It doesn’t remind me of the first time he kissed me—not quite. That was more desperate, one of those midnight kisses that are greedy and quick. No, this reminds me of the kiss after the wedding, when we drove to the Hamptons and locked ourselves inside. We were just pretending then, but that kiss was still electric, the world slowing down around us for that moment in time, his lips strong and firm and reassuring. I swear the whole world faded out around us when he tilted my head towards his and kissed me like that.

This kiss is like that one—utterly and soul-crushingly real, drowning out all of the pain and all of the history, and all of the anger I held against this man for so long. When he pulls away and brushes that stray cowlick of strawberry hair behind my ear, I almost crumble. I almost grab his wrist and pull him back to my bedroom.

But that’s not who I am anymore. And neither of us should keep holding on to something that happened so long ago. I keep trying to tell myself that, but that’s the thing that doesn’t seem real—the idea that we shouldn’t be doing this. That’s the thing that seems like a lie—not our marriage, not his offer to help, not the pain I’ve been shoving down and hiding for so long.

“You should go,” I say, avoiding his eyes, but still not moving.

“I can go now,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that we’re friends again. And I don’t plan on letting you go this time.”

You didn’t let me go. You left me, standing in the middle of the street by Macy’s, waiting for you like an idiot.

My pulse quickens. He’s still holding me, his thumb making circles at the small of my back. My legs feel like jelly, my skin fever-hot. But there’s a tightness in my chest too, which I still feel whenever I think of the night he left me. It used to be white-hot rage, but now it feels like an old sadness, a wound that scarred over the anger and never fully healed.

Ash doesn’t know that I cried the whole bus ride home, that I wouldn’t eat for days, that I was lucky as hell I got into MSF, because at least then I had something to do, other than worrying about him and hoping he was alive. That I ended up lucky to be alive, forget employed.

“My decision is final, Ash. Case closed.” I purse my lips, and put my hand to his chest. I can feel his heart beating beneath my touch, and for a second, I remember what it was like to have him inside of me.

It takes everything I have, but I push Ash away. Gently, but firmly.

“Case closed about tonight, or...” He lets his voice trail off, moving no further than I pushed him.

“About... tonight.” I step back and cross my arms tight over my chest, trying to drive away the heat that started to pour through my body the second I saw this man today. I don’t want to think about how good it would be to know his body again, to get to that place he was always able to take me.

Ash nods, considering this. “I can accept that. If you let me take you home again tomorrow.” His steel blue eyes sparkle just a little, and one corner of his lips raises into a lopsided grin.

I don’t want to remember how I felt about him. I don’t want to block out every bad memory every time he shows up looking so irresistible. But with Ash standing here—refusing a divorce, offering to make everything better, to protect me and mine, above everything—well, it doesn’t do much for my resolve, despite every shitty memory that lies between us.

“Go now,” I say, trying to mean it. He shrugs. There’s something intimately familiar about the gesture, like it was there in my consciousness all along.

“Okay. But I’ll be back, Sunshine.”

His old nickname for me hurts every time he uses it, but I bite my lip and fight away the pain. It’s what I’ve done for a long time. I watch him walk away, and then I close my door and throw the bolt.

The thing is, when he’s here with me, it’s like no time has passed at all. It’s like the three years and all the space I put between us doesn’t mean a thing.

If I’d known he was living here in town, I would have found somewhere else to come home to.

The thought has occurred to me time and time again since I got back.

“Well, Sunshine, serves you right for not reading those damn letters.”

I hear his voice in my head as I fall into bed, scrubs and ugly white socks still on. These aren’t feelings I expected. The memories cropping up in my mind as I try to sleep bring to mind a different Ash than the one I vilified for so long.

I try to focus on that night I boarded the bus, the night he sent me away, but it fades out, like I can’t quite get a grip on it.

The other memories—the feel of his arms, his lips—those all seem clearer and more distinct.

When I finally sleep, the memories wash over me in a flood, and I can no longer hold them back.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Three Years, Four Months Ago

She looks small in the white sundress she’s wearing. Before we came into the church, she had on a gray UNC hoodie. She’s still wearing her Uggs, since New York’s weather hasn’t quite caught up to the season just yet. When she saw that the address I gave her was a church, she stepped back like it might bite her, but I pushed her in, my hand on the middle of her back. She doesn’t know it, but Cullen told me to go in and take her today. Take her God knows where, but he’s sick of Bianca’s shit, sick of her stiffing him for a hundred dollars here and there, sick of her not paying on time, and sick of her being a bitch. He figures Summer is the only way to get to her, but after today, he won’t be able to get to Bianca at all.

Summer taps her foot as she sits next to me. She’s nervous as fuck and still not convinced that this is the right thing to do. She said that shit when we came in here, and she keeps on saying it. But I’ll be fucked if I let her put her life in danger. And she doesn’t know how close she is to that being the case.

If we weren’t here right now, we’d be on the way to one of Cullen’s safe houses in Queens, and what I’d have to do to her there wouldn’t be pretty.

It’ll be some shit when I explain to Cullen what I did. But every man has his reasons.

Since I quit fighting—and since I quit gambling too—I haven’t thought much about right and wrong. When I joined Cullen’s army, it was about survival, what I had to do to keep on living, to make money and pay off the debts I’d incurred at just about every exclusive gambling club in the city. My life was about recovering from the fight injuries and all that came in the wake of my many fuck-ups.

When you become a man—and I might not be one yet—there’s got to be someplace where you draw the line. Maybe I should have drawn that line a long time ago. And maybe it took the idea of losing something—even something as fleeting as my attraction to this girl—to make me wake up. But an innocent girl is where I draw the line.

Summer jabbers nervously about the decision we made and why it’s not right, why it’s the worst idea, and why we should just reason with Cullen. But I squeeze her thigh and say some bullshit about what a good lay she is, and the priest calls us up to the front. The old guy is probably drunk as shit even though it’s eight o’clock in the morning, but he’s the only practicing priest I could find who would even consider marrying us. He made some rumblings about how he doesn’t like to work shotgun weddings, but the $500 I slipped him seems to have settled it.

Summer, pregnant.

Something inside my chest tightens at the thought. Our marriage won’t last long enough for that, and she’s a woman with places to be. I don’t stop to consider what our lives would look like if she actually stayed, because that isn’t part of the deal. I protect her, she leaves, we move on.

Why even think about it?

“You ready, Sunshine?” Her hair looks like it’s been slept on, a wild mess of waves. I smooth it out and take her hand. Instead of protesting again, she nods and looks at me with clear green eyes that look like the surface of a lake. In this moment, she reminds me of what it felt like to be younger, full of hope and plans and all the shit I left behind when I tore my quad and couldn’t fight anymore.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she says as she squeezes my hand. I walk her up to the pulpit, and the priest reads a few words. Everything seems to flash by in an instant, like this moment is set on fast forward. People say that there are big moments in everyone’s life, things that a person will always remember. Up until now, all that shit had to do with the Family, and with my old fights, the injury, being holed up in the hospital for more than two weeks. None of it had to do with a woman. But as I stand with Summer and hear her say “I do” as the priest looks at us impatiently and waits for someone to produce a ring, I know I’ll remember this moment above everything.

Maybe because this is a stupid and senseless thing to do, and a totally reckless way to take advantage of my boss and his code. Maybe because Summer looks so vulnerable, with dark shadows beneath her eyes like she stayed up far too late. But it seems like there’s something else at work, something beyond my understanding, something that’s searing this moment in time into my memory.

Her mouth drops open as I hold out the plain gold band, then she lifts her hand automatically. It feels natural when I slide it onto her finger, like it’s something that’ll always be there, even after we part ways forever.

“I don’t have a ring for you,” she whispers.

The priest rolls his eyes at us and yells to the back of the pulpit. “Sign this fucking thing, will you?”

Summer nearly jumps out of her skin when another old man lifts his head from one of the choir seats, holding out his hand like he can’t bother to move. The priest brings the marriage certificate over to him, has the man sign it, and rips off a copy for the two of us. “I’ll file this thing this afternoon, and it’s done. Congratulations.” He looks at us like he wonders why we’re not the fuck out of his church already.

I walk down the aisle with my bride, clutching her hand in mine. Before we get to the door, I sweep her off her feet and carry her out of the heavy wooden doors, kicking and laughing, all the way to my car.

In the light of day, it’s easy to forget that that anything’s changed. We can both ignore it for a little while, before things start to get complicated.

I smile and roll down the windows—the day is getting warmer. I drive her straight past my apartment until she’s punching me in the arm and demanding I tell her where we’re going.

I don’t let her know that I’m supposed to be in a safe house, awaiting orders to cut up her face or break a knuckle while her aunt listens over the phone. I don’t tell her that I’ll be in big fucking trouble with Cullen no matter what, so we’re taking a little vacation until I care to face him again.

If our marriage is what it is, then I’m going to give her a good goddamn honeymoon while I can.

Present Day

“I shouldn’t have left,” I say.

Josh swings his punch around to the right and almost knocks me over, even though I’m holding the punching bag close to my chest. The boy has a good right hook, even if he’s gotten good at it in this shithole. I think about my empty-ass gym, Frank’s bullying, the building down the road just asking for a $30,000 down payment. Josh swings again, and delivers a right knee strike, and then another.

“The girl? The girl whose name you won’t give me?”

“Yeah, that one,” I say, shifting my center of balance.

Josh grins and kicks me again. He’s got two fading black eyes, but at least he’s not drinking anymore. “The one with the mother who needs your help?” He comes around to my back and tries to take me down. I might have multiple leg injuries, scars running up and down my side, but I don’t let someone like Josh take me down. I toss down the punching bag and catch him as he comes around, knocking him down to the floor of the cage. The nasty, gray plastic smells like blood and piss. I keep Josh down, and he struggles to get up, laughing hard. “You ginger son of a bitch,” he moans. “This isn’t supposed to be part of training.”

I bring my hand close to his face and slap it. “It is if I say it is. I’m your sponsor, remember? This is part of your... amends. For being an asshole.”

He laughs and pushes me up. “For what it’s worth,” Josh says, clapping me on the back, “I’d take that cash and put it where it counts. We’ve got sixty more days until we have to get the down payment sorted on that place.” Josh turns around and winks at me, a smile building up on his face like he has his own secret. “Do it for love, man. I’m going to win that fuckin’ fight. We don’t need your money.”

“Idiot,” I shout after him. The door opens behind us, and I hear Frank slither in. I can almost smell the oil he uses on his hair as Josh disappears into the locker rooms. I crack my knuckles and jump down from the cage.

“I couldn’t help overhearing,” he says.

“I’m sure you could help it.”

Frank strolls over to me, looking like a relic from a bygone era. He was with the mafia in New York, but now he runs a small time fighting ring in North Carolina. A petty criminal, a thief, a guy who has kids beat up for a living. I’d gotten my own gym so I wouldn’t have to be part of this fucking mess, but here I am, trusting that my cocky fighter in the locker rooms will win us $50,000 and a title in the championship fight. And I’m standing here thinking about spending my money—scrimped and saved over three long years working for this asshole—on a girl. Not just any girl, sure. But there’s not even a guarantee she’ll be mine. Not like she used to be.

Was she ever?

“You thinking about leaving here, Ash?” Frank grins greasily. “You probably should have been done with this place years ago.” This place is his girl—but it’s an abusive relationship. He hoards his fighters and hurts everyone who comes through here, clinging to the idea that he’s still a big time criminal in a big time place. Years ago, he might have scared me, but I’ve been through hell with bigger fish than him.

A few of Frank’s younger fighters wander in from the barracks he keeps in the barely passable building next door. One of them is fifteen, maybe sixteen. Another has sores on his face, and nausea hits me as I realize the wounds are probably from drugs Frank has been feeding them.

I know I should keep the money I have in reserve so I can get the fuck away from here. But Josh is talking big with his plan to win even more, make our down payment even bigger, so we have a much smaller monthly payment.

Keep the money, spend it on something else, he says. Do it for love.

I shudder. “I probably should have, Frankie.” That’s all I say. The ‘but’ in that situation is that I needed the cash. A new business is a leap, even on the best day.

“I don’t like the idea of you leaving,” Frank says. “You’re my best trainer.”

“I’m the only trainer that’s not fucking crooked.” I wipe myself down and throw on my shirt. Frank’s building up to something, and I don’t exactly like where he’s headed.

“If you need money, I’d be happy to help.”

“Out of the kindness of your fucking black heart?” I throw a towel over my shoulder and slip into my shoes. Summer’s waiting just across town, maybe showering and changing by now. Josh slips by me, and I know he’s off to see his girl because he’s grinning like an ass and ignoring the shit going on around him. He likes Frank and his business just about as much as I do, but the high of training for a big fight like this has him on a different plane of existence, at least for today.

“No, out of my need for a little muscle,” he tells me. “I’ve got a few thousand handy for someone who can recruit and train up new kids. For someone who can get the people who cross me back in line. Shit like that.”

It would be nice to have a solution—something to assure me that I could help Summer’s mom and still get out from under this asshole’s thumb. But not if it involves working for the asshole in question.

“No. Fuck you. I’ll be out of here on my own terms.” I pull on a jacket and start walking towards the door. My stomach churns, like it used to when Cullen was planning something. My senses heighten, and I feel a couple of shadows behind me.

“I wouldn’t recommend this course of action, Jonny. I’m giving you a way out that doesn’t involve... any friction.” Abusive, controlling, a fucking bad relationship. And I got myself to the point a long time ago where Frank saw me as part of the whole damn thing.

Fuck. I turn around slowly, and my face starts smarting where Summer stitched me up, like it knows what’s coming. The last time, I refused to “haze” some of the new kids, which involves shooting them up with steroids and beating them until they’re bloody. I’ve refused more often than not, even though I’m probably stupid as fuck to refuse, because every time, it leaves me with less money than I would have had and a fucking black eye, or worse.

Cullen liked to leave his marks on people’s faces. Frank prefers the eyes.

The fucker knows he can’t intimidate me himself, but the three fighters I eyed earlier are all lined up beside him. They’re just kids, but pumped up on meth and steroids, they’re as likely to take chunks out of my skin as to look at me. And he’s figured out—they all have—that I won’t injure a kid, not seriously. I’d hurt Frank, and that’s been a long time coming, but the measly paycheck I get depends on him.

“Look, kids,” I say markedly. The boys standing in front of me are no more than seventeen, each of them. They look mean, but they’re just teenagers. They should be waking up and having two bowls of cereal just in time to catch the bus for school—they shouldn’t be here as hired hands for Frank. “This isn’t what you want. The man behind you—he’s the one controlling you. I don’t know what he told you—“

“He said he’d give us each $500 if we did what he said,” the one with the sores on his face says. He shrugs casually and steps toward me. I place my feet wide and put my arms up, fists in front of my face, and sigh heavily. This is how this shit is.

“And what did he tell you to do? Beat down the redheaded guy who’s been lobbying for you to get more money and cleaner fights?”

The kids look at each other, eyes darting back and forth nervously. One of them puts his hands down by his side. They all know there are better ways to live, even if they were initially lured in by Frank’s promise of fame and fortune. If they have half a brain—and maybe the one with the sores on his face doesn’t—they know who the bad guy is here.

“What are you hoping to get out of this, Frank?” I turn to the man in question. His gaze is unchanging. This gym is the thing he protects, and Josh is the fighter everyone associates with this place. It’s been brewing for a while, this idea that I’m somehow taking the best fighter in the place somewhere else by starting my own business with him. But since Josh sobered up, he’s been bound for better things, and this asshole has never been able to see that.

“I can’t hope for loyalty anymore,” Frank says. “Not after the way you’ve treated my hospitality. But I can hope to get a message through. Boys, do your thing.” Frank steps back, and two of the boys approach. The one with his hands down gives me a sad look and puts his fists back up.

The kids are fucked up, that’s for sure, but Frank tends to their muscle content and keeps them fed. One of them lunges at me, and I move away, landing an elbow strike on another’s face and nearly knocking him down. With each blow I land, it hurts me more than it hurts them. I was lucky enough to come along in New York, fighting clean and getting better opportunities with each win. These kids, even if they have talent, they don’t get that.

“You’re worth more than this,” I say, nodding to the kid who keeps standing back. The big beefy boy with the sores approaches and deftly lands a punch on my face, bone crunching against bone. I feel the healing wound on my face come splitting open, beads of blood pooling along the smooth edge of the cut. It smarts just enough to bring me back to reality, and I land an uppercut along the big kid’s jaw, making him stumble back. The other two come in, pursuing me, weaker and less self-assured than the boy who’s reeling back into Frank. Frank falls backwards and nearly goes down, catching the boy and cursing at him.

Things move fast after that. I take a deep breath and concentrate, picking out weak points and pulling my body in tight. The big kid is still lying on top of Frank, holding the side of his face while Frank yells at him to get up. The other two kids are sloppy and untrained, their movements loose. I strike them both in one fluid motion, taking hits to my ribs and back. One of them knocks me to my knees, but I pull him down by the leg in the process and slam his body into the floor, careful to avoid his head. Maybe someday, he’ll want to use it. The other one crumples down, guilty, staring at my bleeding eye.

I get to my feet while they’re all panting, and I nod to the kid who didn’t attack when he had the chance. “He won’t pay you,” I say, striding out of the door before any of them get the idea to follow me.

I peel out of the dusty, graveled driveway and make the drive out to my condo, wondering why Frank would try a brazen move like this. It doesn’t seem like him. But he’s seen Josh leaving each day, happy, tucking away money of his own, making plans to remove himself from this place.

It hits me. He thinks I’m to blame. If I’d stayed and did what Frank said, he would have taken it as a sign of my loyalty, a sign that I’d stay under his thumb. A year ago, even six months, I would have taken whatever work he offered. But even at the cusp of giving every single bit of my money away, it seems like there are greater things ahead.

I touch the side of my eye and draw my breath in sharply.

A pang of guilt strikes me. I can’t see Summer like this. This is one of the reasons I’d let her go before.

I text her as I climb the stairs to my condo.

Not tonight.

She’ll be getting off her shift now, and she needs time away, she said as much. I won’t be able to hide this forever, but maybe I can keep her from some of the worry that this will cause.

A long time ago, I’d married her to protect her. And then I let her go for the same reason.

It strikes me as I put an ice pack over my eye that it might be more selfish than anything else to try to win her back into my life. And maybe that’s something I need to think about while the smarting, throbbing pain brings me to my senses.

Because I’m about to be broke, and out of a job.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Three Years, Four Months Ago

“You made coffee yet, Ash?” I roll over in bed. There are several muscles I wasn’t fully aware I had until I hopped into bed with Ash after our wedding.

Our wedding. It seems so strange to even think those words. Our wedding, our marriage. A sham.

My aunt Bianca is safely out of dodge thanks to Ash, and not even she’s wise to our plan. She knows I’m in the Hamptons at a tiny bed and breakfast a mile from the beach, but she doesn’t even know which one. No one does.

We’re here, isolated, away from everyone. And we have been for two weeks. Instead of growing sick of Ash, or angry at myself for agreeing to this, I’m coming to know this man as part of my life. Each morning, we wake just after the sun rises, and he explores my body, seeing what it can do for him, pushing me to new extremes. We only leave the room to eat, go to the beach, and get condoms. Yesterday, when it rained, we stayed inside and he kept me naked the entire day, my legs tied to the bed. In the morning, he fed me grapes and cheese, and late in the day, he fucked me once and then again, coaxing me to come as many times as he desired.

My body, it’s still sore.

When I wake, I find myself wishing I could stay safe here forever. But I know Ash’s finances can’t handle being away for much longer. And then there’s the ever-changing idea about what I should do with my life. Whatever it is, I know it has to be far, far away from New York, far away from my aunt. Cullen knows where I live, and he’ll find out what I’m doing. But as long as the marriage continues until he loses interest, I can go where I want, when I want to.

I could have left after the wedding, as soon as we stepped out of that church. But instead, Ash brought me here, and this is where we’ve been ever since that day. Ash’s cell phone is turned off, and I’ve checked mine only rarely.

He strolls into the room and walks to the coffee pot, clad only in a towel casually draped around his waist. I watch as he pours me a mug, adding the right amount of cream and sugar. “We have to leave tomorrow,” he says, stirring the coffee and then bringing it over to me. He hasn’t worked out in the past two weeks, but his abs still look as tight as they did the first night I saw him. Now I know his body almost as well as I know mine, like it’s a part of me that I’ll never be able to get rid of.

“We have to leave tomorrow,” I repeat, like I’m trying to convince myself it’ll be okay. My stomach leaps. I have one month until I have to decide what I’m doing with my life—whether it’s a residency at home or with Doctors Without Borders somewhere far away from this mess.

Ash nods and hands me my coffee. “That means I have to go dark for a while. I have to talk to Cullen, have to smooth things over with him and make sure he understands that you’re not to be touched.”

“I should—I should go. After that.” I look at him and hold the hot mug in my hands, like I’m trying to absorb the heat. It’s comforting, but it’s not nearly enough. I want Ash’s body, I need it to reassure me that everything from here on out will go as planned. I take a sip and let the caffeine wash through me. Ash lets his hand rest against my thigh and pulls the sheets away from me.

“No, you shouldn’t. You come stay in my apartment. I want you waiting there, just like this when I get back. Legs spread, pussy wet.” He brushes his thumb over my mound, and I shiver, taking another sip of my coffee. My pulse rises. He’s talking shit, but it sounds fucking good to my ears, better than any job I could find away from him. “In fact, I’ll call you when I’m on my way home. And when you hear my voice—” He pauses, moving to the edge of the bed and kneeling down. “You get in a position just like this.” He opens my legs and sets each heel down on the bed frame. I move to set down my coffee, but he catches my hand and keeps it in place. “Drink your coffee, Sunshine. And when I come back to you, I want to see you with a glass of whiskey, drinking it naked so I can come home and do this.”

I take a sip of my coffee and Ash swoops between my legs, burying his face hungrily between my thighs, taking my clit into his mouth and sucking it until I’m panting. He stops and looks up at me. “On second thought, you might want to put that down now.” I laugh hard and put my mug on the table. “Best not to pour that on my head. And you might...” He slips two fingers inside of me and his towel falls away, revealing his cock, completely hard. “Because...” Instead of finishing his thought, he takes my thighs between his hands and alternates moving his tongue over my clit and sucking it until I can barely breathe. I come, collapsing on the bed, every part of me shaking.

I thought I’d get my fill of Ash, but I can’t. Even later, after he’s fucked me, pulling out to come inside my mouth, I’m still desperate for more.

I’m no longer scared of this marriage, no longer wishing it had never happened. This in itself should be terrifying. But it’s not.

When I go to sleep, it occurs to me that the worst thing—the thing that makes me doubt my future—is the idea of being without Ash, alone.

I don’t tell him that, not even close. Instead, it’s business as usual, lives moving forward until the day we inevitably part—and lose all of this forever.

That was the plan, after all. And we just weren’t meant to be… were we?

Present Day

This has got to be the stupidest separation a couple on the verge of divorce has ever gone through. Whenever I get off of a shift, Ash is there to walk me to my car. That’s all he does, just walks with me. I keep expecting to smell alcohol on his breath, or to see him show up in the emergency room with a broken arm. But he’s kept to his plan.

Still, I have an inkling that he’s involved in something he shouldn’t be. There are injuries, hushed phone calls, and some talk about making the fights “fair” for the kids who fight at Frank’s gym. I’ve even kept my mouth closed when Ash has brought a couple of fighters to the emergency room, telling me to keep them clear of the police roaming around.

He keeps telling me he’s working it out so my mother won’t be evicted, that there’s a plan in place to get the money he needs to open a new, full-service MMA gym with Josh.

I’ve told him just as many times to keep his damn money in his pocket and use it for the gym.

But he carries on. He’s organized and confident, and he seems totally sure of what he wants. And more and more I get the impression that what he wants is a real life, one with me.

The man I knew was never calm and methodical. He was the one who rushed me to a priest at eight in the morning, the one who suggested I leave and run when I wasn’t sure what I was running from.

But this isn’t the same man who left me waiting at the train station. I guess that’s what time does—it changes people when you’re not looking. I gather up my things at the end of my shift and get ready to go out and walk home with a man. A tall, redheaded man, tattoos over his shoulders and arms and back. One who fights and gets in trouble, one who offers to save my family without hesitation.

“Your shift ending?” Priya looks at me expectantly. She’s changing into her scrubs and getting ready for a night in the ER.

“Yeah. Time for some actual sleep. And this time I have the whole weekend off.”

She nods and turns back to her locker. “That guy walking you home again? The one with the tattoos?”

“I don’t know,” I say, whipping around to face her. “He usually does.” I haven’t mentioned a word about Ash to Priya. But she’s nothing if not observant, and it’s easy to believe that she has tabs on each one of her residents.

She looks back at me with frank curiosity. “Something going on with you two?”

“Not really.” Except that we’re married and he’s wearing me down about staying married to him. He keeps showing up and being funny. And kind—which wasn’t a word I would have used to describe him when we first met. But even with that kindness, that softer edge, he’s even more masculine, and I wouldn’t admit it to him, but it makes him even sexier than he was when he broke knuckles for a living. I guess that’s kind of what he still does, but at least it’s legal—kind of legal.

God.

“The way you bounce out after work makes me think there is.” Priya pauses and bites her lip for a second. “Just make sure that your work comes first. So far, it has. I don’t begrudge anyone a little fun, but this residency is a big opportunity. There’s a fellowship coming up for general surgery, and I’d love to be able to recommend you.”

A little fun? Is that what he is? I see him everywhere, and I haven’t gotten any fun out of it at all.

I think about what might be fun with Ash. Back in the day, the answer was pretty much everything. Other men I’d been with—boys, really—hadn’t given a crap about what I liked. But Ash had a talented tongue, and an even more talented cock. And he was obsessed with making me come, with seeing how hard he could push me, how many times he could take me there in one night.

My pleasure was his fetish. I lean against the locker, and desire rises in me and pulses through my body. I can’t quite tell if it has to do with the fellowship, or with the thought of Ash’s cock—or hell, probably both.

“Fuck. Really?” Before the words are even out of my mouth, I flush deep red. “Sorry, Priya. That’s excellent. And I’d like to be the one you recommend.” A flood of worry sweeps through me. Why did she mention Ash in conjunction with this fellowship? Is there something wrong with him? Or my choice of him?

If I make that choice. And goddamn, yes, I want to make that choice.

She examines me with her dark, thoughtful eyes and cocks her head to the side. “But?”

But I’m trying to get a divorce. And I’m failing.

“But nothing.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a relationship, Summer. But when a man comes in with those types of wounds, those types of tattoos, it usually means that he’s... well, you know him better than I do.”

Her words are like a punch to the gut. I find myself opening my mouth to defend him. There’s evidence all around me that he’s changed, but she’s right. That’s the visceral reaction I had when I first saw him. That’s the nightmare that taunted me when I lived in the Ukraine—that he’d wind up in a hospital with his body beyond repair. Or that he’d finally go too far and he’d never see the light again. When Priya reminds me, it’s like I’m taken back to that starting point, the grief I slogged through after I went away, after all that I lost when I was in Syria, wishing he was there beside me.

I let him go. I mourned him and everything we had together.

When I finally opened his first email, I thought he was long gone, on the run somewhere he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—sign the divorce papers. Just because he’s here now doesn’t mean that life has left him.

I smile at Priya, trying not to let the crushing feeling in my chest take me over. My whole body seems to have gone cold, and my hands fly around nervously as I grab my purse and jacket. “I’ll keep it in mind, Priya.”

“Hm?” She turns and looks at me, confused. I realized it’s been so long since I’ve spoken that she doesn’t quite remember what she said. “Oh, that. Yes. Have a good weekend.” She leaves the room, and I find my way out after her. She walks back to the ER, and I walk forward, like our conversation hadn’t even happened. I’m heading to Ash, my body tingling with anticipation. Maybe I can tell him we need to take things slower. Maybe he’ll listen.

There’s really no reason for me to stop seeing him altogether, I think as I walk out of the hospital doors into the warm night air. I’ll tell him that we can see each other once a week. Once every two weeks?

I jangle my keys around in my purse. Usually he’s here by now, isn’t he? I look around, expecting to see his tall figure outlined against the setting sun. But there’s nothing.

I pick up my phone and see a text.

Not tonight.

My heart starts to pound, and I forget everything. The worry comes racing through my system all at once, my breath coming in short rasps. It’s stupid. It’s inane. But Ash—and only Ash—makes me feel like this, like the floor is crumbling from beneath me if he’s not there.

“He’s here. He’s still fine,” I say, racing to my car. I’ll just have to go to him this time.

It occurs to me when I find myself knocking on the door that I’ve made my choice, and it’s the one I’ve been heading to all along.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Three Years, Three and a Half Months Ago

I watch the girl as she sleeps. Not a girl, a grown woman. And my wife. She seems like a girl compared to me, not because she’s young, but because there’s a huge distance between the life I lead and the life she was meant to lead.

We’re home now. I dropped a thousand bucks from my savings on the inn. It was stupid. But those days were worth more than a lifetime spent working for Cullen. It’s been creeping over me—this feeling and what it means.

This girl, her sun-colored hair splayed over my pillow, with her degrees and her brain, and all the things she wants to do with her life.

Where do I fit in?

I’ve never been the type of man to place value on a piece of paper someone paid for, but with Summer, it’s what she’s planning that makes me think of the things I lost. She’s got the Doctors Without Borders website pulled up on her computer, and she looks at it every so often. The tab hasn’t closed. I’m not sure she knows that I’ve noticed, but I have, and I know what it means.

I’d always intended to be a trainer, to open my own gym. Even after my muscle was torn to shreds, even after I was told I wouldn’t fight again, that’s what I kept wishing for. I was good with new recruits, and maybe better at teaching than I ever was at fighting. When I look at a ring from the outside, I can see all the moves that need to be made. On the inside, I was a piece of meat. I don’t miss that feeling, but I sure as hell miss taking eighteen year-old kids and whipping them into shape, showing them what they’re capable of.

Should have, could have.

Look at me now. Gambling was another game, even more dangerous than fighting. The money meant freedom to me, back them. But it was just another cage I put myself into. And for the past five years, I’ve been paying off my debt, at the mercy of a dangerous man I never thought I’d work for. Cullen always had a knack for finding lonely assholes like me.

The pay is good, but I really work in trade. I’ve become numb to it. Broken knuckles, bruised throats, dislocated kneecaps. And worse. I light a cigarette and hop out of bed. Summer rolls over just slightly, enough so that I can see her body exposed beneath the sheets.

Fucking stunning.

Her cupid’s bow of a mouth is slightly open, the sound of her breath soft and gentle. My cock stirs just looking at her, remembering how she felt last night and all the times before, taking me fully, begging me for more, giving me everything she had.

This isn’t what I asked for. But I don’t know what the fuck I asked for, not really, or what I expected to get.

She wakes, eyelids fluttering open, and I brush my hand over her hip before stubbing out my cigarette.

“I’m going now, Summer. Facing what I did—”

“Stay,” she says sleepily, catching my hand and pulling it up to her breast. I cup it gently and then take my hand back, standing up before I make any more stupid decisions.

“I’ve thought about it, Summer, and you shouldn’t be here when I get back.” I avoid her eyes, but I hear her rustle behind me, and I can imagine exactly how she looks.

“Thought about it when exactly? For the hour after you woke up?” I can almost feel her eyes boring into me.

“I don’t know what Cullen’s going to do, and I think you should be out of dodge—”

“You said he wouldn’t hurt me if I was family. Or my aunt—”

“He won’t. But I don’t know what he’s going to do about me.”

“You haven’t mentioned anything to him yet.” I hear her clicking her nails together. I pull on my boxers and jeans, and when I finally turn around to face her, she’s sitting up in bed, covers pulled around her, hair spilling over her shoulders. “You didn’t tell him. I thought you—”

“I didn’t say I told him.”

“You said we were safe. You said I should come back here and wait—”

“I know what I said, Summer. But listen to what I’m saying now. You need to get out of dodge. You need to be out of New York. Bianca already is.”

Or she said she is. I’ve never known that woman to leave New York. Maybe Brooklyn. But she’s definitely not in North Carolina, like she said to Ash.

“Where do I go? I don’t have a plan—” She looks down and to the side when she says the last word. Instead of her bright green eyes, I can only see eyelashes. Sinking lower into her pile of covers, she pulls her hair over her eyes just slightly, so slight that she probably doesn’t even notice what she’s doing.

“You have a home. You don’t want anything to do with a man like me. You can send the divorce papers up here, and I’ll sign them—”

“It’s my decision,” she says, sinking down further. Her voice comes out in a whisper so faint I almost don’t hear it.

“It’s your decision what?”

“No,” she says. She raises her chin haughtily. “I won’t go—not unless you come with me.”

“Summer, this isn’t what we planned.”

“It isn’t, is it? We didn’t plan anything at all.”

Present Day

I took a beating tonight.

And what for?

“Summer won’t even notice you’re not there,” I mumble, holding an ice pack over my eye. She’s been keeping her distance, even though I show up to see her nearly every day. I know there’s something bothering her, something she’s not telling me. Something keeping her away, even as she lets me into her life little by little. “She’ll be done with this game, Ash,” I say to myself, grinning. “You stupid son of a bitch.”

I start to drift off to sleep, holding the ice pack so that it doesn’t put pressure on my eye socket or the place where Summer stitched me up. Even though the wound has started to heal, it got hit when I fought tonight. If Summer knew that I was involved with the mafia down here too, she’d flip her shit and never see me again. But it’s only temporary. It’s only until I can put that down payment on the new place in Kill Devil Hills.

A legit business. A fighter, a gambler, a mafia soldier. None of that sounds right alongside surgery resident. But a businessman, a place to call my own and be proud of. I start to drift off thinking about it.

Then I hear a soft knock at the front door, and a voice that sends a jolt through my body.

“Shit,” I mutter. “Just a minute.” I rise to my feet, my body as heavy as lead, head throbbing. At least it’s not pounding anymore. I should send her away. I know I should. Do I want her to see me like this? I freeze for a second, glued where I stand. It would be easier if it were a clean fight, if it were something I could be proud of. But it wasn’t.

“Ash?” Summer’s voice travels through the space, and she jiggles the door handle. It opens, and then there’s no hiding from her because she’s barreling through my hallway and racing over to me. “Ash, what the hell did you do to yourself?”

I let the ice pack drop away and turn my black eye and the opened wound on my cheek into the light. “Didn’t think I should come pick you up like this. Della might get the wrong impression.” I chuckle, but she doesn’t laugh. Instead she brings her hand to the side of my face and gently traces her fingers over my cheek. The spark between us is still there, even though she’s frowning, brows furrowing as she looks at me.

“This isn’t from training.” Her voice is shaky, wavering with emotion. “There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

“No. Not really. The fighting world here—” I pause. I told her I wouldn’t lie to her. “The fighting world, even as small as it is here, isn’t always perfectly legal. And I—“

“I knew it,” she says quietly, looking down. “What were you trying to do? Get close to me so I could pay off some of your debts or—God, I don’t even know.” Her voice is still shaking. “I shouldn’t have come here.” The look she gives me, eyes narrowed, hands on her hips, makes something in my chest tighten, that long lost thing that I missed feeling when she was away.

She turns to leave. “Wait,” I say.

I don’t think she’ll stop, but she does. She turns around slowly, that deathly look still on her face. “That’s all I’ve been doing, Ash. Waiting around to see if you’ve changed. I thought you had,” she says, her voice more disappointed than angry.

“I have. I won’t lie to you about what I’m doing. And some of it isn’t pretty. I had to face a man tonight—a promoter—he’s tied to the small time mafia here. He hurts people, Summer. And I wasn’t going to let him hurt my fighter, get him cut up in a dirty fight.”

“Great. A real avenger for truth and justice.”

“No. I’m just doing what a man has to do when he wants something. And there’s something I want—”

“Don’t say you want me. Don’t say it again. I can’t bear to fucking hear it.” She steps backwards, nearly falling over the coffee table from Ikea I got to make this place livable.

“Okay, then, I won’t say that.” I step toward her and take her arm. “I love you.”

“Stop,” she says. “This isn’t what I want. I want my job, and my simple little life I planned here.” Her voice cracks on the last word, her body nearly crumpling like she’s under a great weight. I catch her in my arms and pull her to me. When she looks at me, her eyes are full of tears, spilling over her cheeks. Her heart is beating fast, her body closer to mine than it has been since I saw her again.

“I want that for you, Sunshine. But I also need you. There’s no other way to break through to the other side without you. I didn’t know for sure if you were coming back. I thought you might stay away for good.” My voice goes hoarse, and I find myself at a loss for words, a tight lump forming in my throat.

“I’m so afraid,” she says.

“Of what?” Suddenly, I’m deeply aware of her body against mine, the thrumming of blood in her veins, the heat and closeness of her.

“Losing you again.”

I want to tell her she doesn’t have to be afraid, that there’s nothing in the world that will take me away from her. But I can’t say it. Instead, I bring my lips crashing down on hers, and I kiss her like I should have kissed her that night before she left. I kiss her like she might drop off the face of the earth tomorrow—she might, after all. And there’s only so much time we have together. The room stills around us, and there’s only me, there’s only her.

“Ash...”

“I love you, Summer. You might not think that’s enough to carry us, but that’s why I wanted to give us a chance. Not for money, not for an ego trip. I love you. I need you. You’re my wife.”

My lips brush over her neck, her skin creamy and smooth. Hesitantly at first, she moves her hand to my stomach, fingers trailing over my muscles. She looks up at me, her face full of emotion. She doesn’t say anything, she just looks at me, lifting my shirt and then putting her hand down the front of my shorts. My cock is at half-mast already, just from being close to her. I’ve dreamt about this moment for what feels like an eternity—the simple act of being close to her.

“That’s just—we’ll just—” She stumbles over her words and then bites her lower lip. “We’ll just keep this between us for now.”

I nod, helping her slip off her clothes, and then mine. She steps out of her panties and unhooks her bra, a far more confident version of the woman I knew before. My hands find her hips, and I turn her around, trailing my fingers over her back and then moving forward to cup her breasts. I twirl one nipple between my fingertips and then the other, listening to her gasp like it’s music. The throbbing headache from my black eye is a distant memory now. Here, now. This is everything. Hands moving over her torso, down to her sex, I slide my fingers over her wetness, roaming over the delicate folds, circling the sensitive bud of her clit.

“Ash,” she sighs. “I missed you.” She looks at me over her shoulder, every trace of anger gone from her eyes. Instead, I see longing, a ripening need that’s been lingering under the surface of her every interaction with me. That was the secret she’s been keeping from me. That was what she was hiding all along. Far from wanting me out of her life, I know now that she was scared to keep me in it.

“I missed you too, Sunshine.” I grab her sunlit hair in one hand, then pull her head back and kiss her neck hungrily. “And now I’m going to make you remember everything.”

She moans, throaty, deep, sweet little sounds that remind me of the girl she was in New York, innocent and high-heeled. Without a doubt, this woman is more refined, so sensual she’s spellbinding. I grab a condom and undo the foil with my teeth, rolling it onto my length in one swift motion.

“Do it. This is what I want.” Her hands creep down her body and find her sex, a perfect blond V. She groans and sighs as she touches herself. I watched her do this a dozen times when we were together, and my body remembers those sounds—the begging whine in her voice, the look of her eyes, hooded with lust, and the feeling of her as I push my aching hard cock against her ass.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty,” I growl. I push my length into her from behind as she touches herself. I hold the head of my cock inside of her, feeling how tight and sweet she is, jolts of arousal rolling through me. “Bend over the table.”

She bends over and places one hand on the dark wood, pressing her ass against me and taking me in deeper. Her fingers move languidly over her clit, her wetness encasing me, inviting me in. I drive into her, taking her waist into my hands and thrusting into her, each movement welcoming me deeper. The way she pushes her body against mine, her quickening breath, the blush rising over her body—combined, it nearly undoes me. Her movements speed up, her body desperately seeking release as I push into her time and time again. She starts to shake and shudder, whimpering, her hips bucking against my cock.

Holy shit, she’s fucking sexy, coming hard against my cock like I’ve dreamed about for so long.

What I love about this woman is that she never did anything I wanted her to—except marry me and fuck me exactly how I like.

“Come inside me,” she whispers as she looks back at me. “Please.” With a deep groan, I thrust hard inside her, my muscles tightening, the world slowing around me as I come hard and fast inside the woman I love. I run my fingers over her back, then pull her up and turn her around. I bring her into my body and kiss her again, biting down on her bottom lip. I want to watch her come again, but this time I want to see her face. I want to taste her and see if she’s as sweet as I remembered. And I want to watch her lips wrap around my cock, her gaze meeting mine as she takes me to the back of her throat.

“We shouldn’t have—we shouldn’t have done this, Ash. This isn’t who we are anymore.”

I’m lost in thinking about her body, how it felt to finally touch her again, so I don’t respond right away. Instead, I kiss the top of her forehead and pick her up, wrapping her legs around my waist. I lean in close and bite her earlobe. She sighs in response, and I can feel the gooseflesh rising on her skin.

“It’s exactly who we are. You’re mine, and I’ll remind you of that every day that I’m breathing. If you can’t see it, I’ll keep proving it to you, over and over again. You have a shift in the morning?”

She shakes her head. “But we need to meet with the lawyer again—”

“We can go together. Fuck the lawyer. I’m sure there a thousand cases every year where people decide to stay together. Isn’t that a happier ending anyway?” I carry her over to my bedroom, and she wiggles against me, like she’s halfheartedly trying to escape. I won’t let her, not this time.

“Ash—”

“Don’t tell me this is a one time thing, Sunshine. It’s most definitely not. Because I intend to fuck you again tonight, and then make you come for me again in the morning.” She shivers against me, and I drop her on the bed. I have half a mind to burn her clothes so that she doesn’t have any way to escape, but that’s not my MO anymore. Instead, I’ll just make her come so hard she forgets where she is, who she’s sleeping with, and maybe her own name. That’s the only way I can see to keep her here.

If I can’t get her to accept this one mistake, I’ll just get her to keep making the same mistake over and over again until it doesn’t feel like a mistake anymore. So that being with me seems as natural as breathing, as easy as falling asleep after a hard day.

It’s the only way. Any other outcome will leave me undone.

I wasn’t man enough to figure that out in my youth. But I’ve changed, and I know that my life is no good without her.

Instead of standing still to contemplate that shit, I pull her legs and slide her ass right to the edge of the bed. It’s the perfect position to kneel down and feel just how wet she is, just how ready she is to go again.

“Ash...” she sighs. It seems like the only thing she can say tonight is my name, and that’s a good fucking thing. Anything else might have her putting her thoughts together and rushing out the goddamn door. I nip it in the bud by moving my fingers over her wet slit and up over her rosy button, already swollen and needy with desire.

Just like she used to be, she’s putty in my fingers, her back arching as soon as I touch her.

“You were saying, Sunshine?”

“I don’t know— I don’t know what I was—” The end of that sentence comes out in a whimper, a throaty, desperate whine. I finish her thought for her by slipping two fingers inside of her, entering her slowly and pressing the base of my palm against her clit. My cock is already growing hard again.

“Dirty girl. Just like you used to be, aren’t you?” She doesn’t respond, so I start to move my hand ever so slightly, rocking my palm from side to side. The heat in her body rises, like she’s glowing with lust. I slip a third finger inside of her and bring my other hand to my cock. “I’m not about to let you go this time. You want to come again.”

She nods quickly, a sigh escaping her lips. “Yes,” she hisses, pleasure resounding in her voice.

“Then you better not come up with any arguments right now.”

She bites her lower lip, and her eyes grow wide as I work my fingers inside of her.

When she comes again, pressing her hips hard against my hand, I know that I’ve got her this time. There’s one thing about this girl that separates her from every other woman I’ve had—she aches for this, like nothing else.

There’s no pain after that, and we both forget about what an asshole I can be. There’s only her body and mine.

This won’t end the way she thinks it ought to. It ends like this, with us, every day. If it’s fifty years, it won’t be long enough.

This is forever, and she’s mine.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Three Years, Three and a Half Months Ago

When Ash walks out the door, it feels like my world is spinning out of control. There are secrets hidden in the fragile tapestry that holds our lives together. Cullen kept calling when we were away. I kept expecting to wake up to see one or more of his goons barging into our room, guns blazing, knives held to our throats. I dreamt about it once, maybe twice. But instead, I woke up to Ash, his hands, his mouth, the heat of his muscles, the length of his cock.

He never said anything. We just carried on like we’d done the right thing, like we’d done the only thing we could do.

I kept telling myself this wasn’t like the movies. The Irish mafia in New York takes over businesses, runs gambling rings, and moves money from place to place. They keep politicians and cops in their pockets—and they’re far more about paperwork and intimidation than they are about violence.

That’s what I tell myself, even though I know what Ash’s job is. He doesn’t think I do, but I’m a smart woman, and I’ve seen the way he checks his pieces every night, cleaning them, taking them apart, reassembling.

He strapped both guns on when he left today, cold metal against his warm body.

The mere thought makes my stomach drop.

Restless, I slip out of bed and put on my sandals and a green dress that Ash says matches my eyes. Such a romantic thing to say, and this is a man who assures me he’s not romantic, that this marriage was the only way to save my life.

I think of the way his body works with mine, the way he looks at me in the morning when he wakes up next to me.

“Bullshit. This is a load of bullshit, Ash.” I say it aloud to his empty and weirdly immaculate apartment. I’d always thought men were supposed to be messy, but Ash is fastidious. When I walk into the kitchen, I smell coffee and see that Ash has left out coffee, cream, and a carefully covered pastry. It’s ten in the morning, and the French press is room temperature. I pour my coffee into a mug and drink it cold with the cream, wondering why the hell he bothered to leave this shit out for me.

What if he doesn’t come with me? What if I’m stuck, married to him, in limbo?

We’re not really married, right? That priest didn’t look like he knew how to find the way to the courthouse to file that shit. And a drunkard who sleeps in the pews when people aren’t around isn’t any kind of a witness.

Please God. Let us be really married.

The thought comes to me from nowhere, sweeping in and taking over the piece of my brain that thinks rationally. That rational part—it should be checking to see if I’ve got an email from Doctors Without Borders. It should be going online and buying bus tickets to North Carolina. It should be hiding out in Manteo until this all blows over.

But there it is.

I married Ash to save my life. And now if I lose him, I’m losing part of my life.

A jolt of fear sweeps through me, and I attack the pastry nervously. There are moments with Ash that make me feel absolutely sure of what we’re doing, that this relationship was worth it, that this was the only place for us to be. But here, right now, his tidy apartment feels just like a waiting room in a hospital.

The doctor will come in, I think. And he’ll have bad news for both of us.

Cullen doesn’t give a shit about his pacts or his rules. Ash pissed him off, and Bianca did too. And they’re probably both gone, throats slashed, left to hang, or shot, or tied up in a room to starve. Whatever the fuck mafia people do that’s not moving money around from place to place. Maybe it would have been a better idea to go to the police, like a fucking normal person.

In the pocket of my dress, my phone rings. I spill the rest of the coffee on my dress and all over Ash’s clean, white tile. I pick up before even looking at the number, my hand shaking.

“Hello?” My voice shakes as much as my hands, and I almost drop the damn phone when I hear the voice on the other end of the line.

“Sweetheart,” my aunt Bianca says, her voice slower, more methodical than usual. Strange noises echo in the background. It sounds like she’s in a subway tunnel, or somewhere deep and echoing and underground. But maybe I’m imagining things. “I’m safe,” she says.

“Jesus, B. I haven’t heard from you in two weeks—”

“I haven’t heard from you either. And watch your mouth, Summer,” she says, laughter in her voice. “You’re about to go home to your mother.” The last part is more command than statement.

She doesn’t know what I’m about to do or not do, regardless of whether she’s in danger. “Aunt B, where the hell are you?”

She doesn’t answer my question. “I know you married that boy to get off Cullen’s list.”

Shit. I can almost hear the eye-rolling in her voice. “B, listen. I’m staying in New York.”

“No you’re not. You applied to that doctor thing, and you’re going. There’s nothing for you here. You need to go.”

I swallow hard, and my throat grows tight and hot. “Because it’s not safe? I can go to Manteo for a few weeks and then come back—” I think of the way Ash looked at me when I woke, the way he touched my hair before I sank into the sheets and went back to sleep.

“You’re safe, Summer. Your mother is safe. I told you Cullen wouldn’t hurt you. I swear, child. You don’t listen.”

“But Ash said—”

“Ash doesn’t know this family’s history with Cullen Flood. I know, your mother knows, and Cullen knows—well, he knows the full of it now. I have a deal with this man, and if you stay in New York, you’ll be wrapped up in this, too.”

“How will I—” I feel dizzy and lean against the Formica counter. This explains why we didn’t have mafia soldiers coming for our idiot asses at five in the morning. Holding knives to our throats and—fuck, don’t go there.

“It doesn’t matter, but believe me. You’re in the family. There’s no getting out of it unless you’re gone.”

My hand is still shaking, the phone nearly rattling against my ear. “So there was no point—”

“No, love. There was no point. I’m sorry I got you wrapped up in this. That boy, he’s handsome. But he’s a soldier. You know what he does, don’t you?” Bianca pauses, and tears come to my eyes. I try to choke them back, but it’s no use. I barely hear her when she speaks again. “Your mother and I never meant to get you involved in this. You just needed a place to live, and neither of us have the money. You will, though. When we’re gone—”

“Stop—” I cry hard now. The life I built here, all so recently it seems, the stupid fake marriage—it’ll crumble even if it was temporary, even if it was stupid.

“No, you listen. Summer, I love you more than any person in this world. More than I have any right to. I made sure you’ll be safe. Tell me you understand me.” Her voice breaks, echoing with desperation.

“How did you—” I think of Cullen, the history that Bianca always said they had, and his voracious desire to take over every business in Hell’s Kitchen to reclaim it for the Family. “You gave them the bar, didn’t you?” I hadn’t thought of it until I said it, but this is what she was planning to do all along. If he got close to me or any of the people she loved, she was planning on a surrender.

“I gave him the bar. He’s the only one I’ll deal with.”

I clench my jaw, and tears fall harder. “B, you hate him.”

She’s silent on the other end of the line. “What I feel about Cullen Flood is extremely complicated, Summer.” There’s laughter in the background, the jangling of glasses.

“He’s the bad guy—you can’t do this.”

“Cullen’s no more a bad guy than I am,” she says with a sigh. “We’re just about matched in that department. It was time for me to face that piece of my history—of my history with him. And believe me, love, it’ll benefit you in the long run. I’ve got you taken care of for the rest of your life.”

“I don’t understand, Bianca. Please—” My voice is still hoarse from holding back angry, futile sobbing.

“You do as I say. You leave. Without that boy. Divorce. Be done. Move on.”

There’s a click on the other end of the line, and I’m left standing in Ash’s kitchen, wondering what the hell just happened.

Present Day

I wake up, and I don’t know what time it is. It’s still dark, and the light of the moon plays through the blinds. But I’m on the wrong side of my bed, and there isn’t a window on this side of my room. Also, I’m naked.

Naked, my body sore in a way it hasn’t been in the entire three years I’ve been away from the United States.

Fuck.

I sigh heavily and turn on my side. Ash is next to me, breathing deeply, the tattoos covering his arms and chest contrasting against his skin in the moonlight. Tentatively, I take my fingers and trace over his new ink: tribal designs under each collarbone, and symbols of the Irish mafia still uncovered on both forearms. He once told me that tattoos were another way to escape the life he didn’t want to have—the job where he hurt people for a living, the empty apartment he went home to every night, the places in his mind he didn’t want to go. He said that the five tattoos he had when I met him were all evidence of nights he wanted to gamble and lose himself in the rush of alcohol and money.

With the evidence I see here, it seems he had a lot more of those dark times in the years since I saw him last. My throat grows tight, and the unwelcome tears fill my eyes again.

There’s history here, Summer, even if you won’t admit it. Even if you don’t want to see it.

Priya’s words from before echo in my head.

This man is a distraction, yes. But if I came to the program, happily married, a clean cut husband in tow, would Priya have made the same pronouncement today?

Ash is scarred, and ink covers a solid quarter of his body now.

That’s not all of him. Maybe it’s not. Maybe the sex clouds my judgment, like it always does. I let it cloud me then. Or I thought I did. I might be doing the same thing now. I gulp when I think about it—his fingers moving inside of me, his tongue dancing over my clit, tasting me with unabashed need.

And the words he said. I’d never imagined him telling me that, never even wanted it. I just wanted someone to protect me, wanted his body to stay next to mine for the journey home. I didn’t think of love, not then, not even in my darkest moments away. I thought of the warmth of his lips, the feeling of his arms encircling me, holding me, making me feel safe against the storm rising around me.

I didn’t consider love, not because it wasn’t possible. But because it would hurt so much worse if it were a possibility. It didn’t seem real then because we’d never spoken those words.

I remember a thought I had then. Let us be married for real.

We weren’t then. Are we now?

Ash stirs and opens his eyes, blond-tipped eyelashes fluttering sleepily. Like it’s instinct, he turns and pulls me into his arms, pressing his lips to mine and kissing me, tongue glancing against mine. He groans with need, and I feel his cock growing hard against my thigh. In the darkness, this feels like a different story, a time and place completely separated from the life I so desperately wanted to create. His hand finds my breast, cupping it like it’s delicate.

He brings his mouth close to my ear. “Next time you wake me up, Sunshine, make sure you do something about this right away.” He catches my hand and brings it down to his length, groaning as I start to stroke it.

Now is not the time for thoughts or considerations. A jolt of electricity starts in my core, giving life to the flame of desire, the one that this man, and this man alone, was ever able to create. I’m sore, but I’m wet again, my sex pulsing as I feel him beneath my hand. I lick my lips and move down, pushing the white sheets away, bending over him to do what I’ve wanted since the moment I saw him again. My mouth waters for him, for the feeling of his hot skin, the taste unique to the man before me. I lower my mouth to his tip, licking away a salty bead of precum and then encasing him, taking him as slowly as he entered me with his fingers, a centimeter at a time until he’s groaning and tangling his fingers in my hair. My tongue moves down over his shaft, and then I take him into my mouth again.

“Stop, baby,” he moans. “I need—fuck—I need to come inside of you.”

A force takes over my body at the sound of his words. I feel an undeniable pull to Ash, to the fierce outline of his muscles, the strength of his hands. I moan against him and side up his body, positioning myself over him and lowering myself to his cock. I’m so wet I know he’ll slide right in. I know I should reach to his bedside table, rifle through his drawers and find a condom. I blush bright red thinking about it, still stroking him as I angle myself over him. I need this, I need to feel him bare even though I never have before.

Like he’s reading my mind, he brings his hands to my hips and squeezes me there, his gaze catching mine. “I waited for you,” he says. “I’m clean. I know you were always on—”

“I am.” On the pill. But it’s not here with me tonight, and I shouldn’t be doing this.

“I’ve always wanted this, Sunshine. I can’t imagine how good you’ll feel,” he says, eyes hooded with lust. The need inside me drives me forward.

We’re married. We have been for more than three years.

My mind feels clouded with lust, like I’m swimming through deep water and can’t quite find my way to reason. The center of my body tightens, arousal coursing through me, the tension and need growing tighter than it ever has. Slowly, tenderly, I lower myself onto his cock, taking the head inside and feeling the stretch of muscles and the heightening sensation of being filled. It’s better than I thought it would be. His skin is hot against mine, closer than I’ve ever been with anyone before. My sex starts to pulse as I move lower, powerful sparks moving through my core and undoing everything I came here for.

“Holy fuck,” I mutter. “It feels so good. God...” I feel light as air as I bring my fingers to my clit. Ash holds my body in his hands and grins, moving his hips, abs tensing, bringing his body up into mine, fucking me from below. Each time, he comes closer to filling me to the brim. I whimper and try to push myself further down onto his cock. The pulses coursing through my center become stronger, more tenacious, begging for release.

“You feel so good, my love,” he sighs. There it is, that word again. My face must change because Ash reacts, bringing me to meet the base of his cock and pulling my body into his. I moan, long and loud, my body moving against his in some kind of primal rhythm. He leans in and kisses my neck as his hands roam over my body. Every motion seems to drive him deeper inside me, pulling me closer to him. Frenzied, needy, I ride him with my arms around his neck, pushing my clit against the base of his cock and whimpering with need. All at once, the fire raging through me flares, and I’m lost in the sensation pouring through me, every cell in my body filled.

Ash leans in while I’m at my height and looks me in the eyes. “I love you, Summer,” he whispers, his breath ragged.

I come hard, harder than I ever have, my heart beating so hard it might fly from my chest. He rolls over on top of me, pinning my hands and slamming his cock into me, and the tension starts to build as he pummels me, taking his pleasure and riding my orgasm like it’s his own. I whimper. My body aches, but the pain beats in time with pleasure, and I come again, shaking. “I love you too.” I sigh the words, barely saying them.

The muscles in his stomach tighten, and he moans, angling his hips, thrusting hard into me one last time. His cock pulses inside of me, and he fills me with his warmth. A rush runs through my body as the aftershocks roll through me. My throat grows slick and tight, and I sob as he releases my arms. I throw them around his neck. He speaks to me then, his words blending together and relaxing me until I’m no longer racked with sobs.

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” I say, throwing my legs around him and drawing him in tighter. He nods and runs his fingers through my hair.

But I do know why. Because this is what I want—far more than my job, far more than my home and the simple, quiet life I focused on for years.

I want Ash, with his black eye and the angry red scar on his cheek. Despite my past. Despite his present. Despite anything and everything standing in our way.

This is everything.

The walls of my life feel like they’re crashing down around me. Before this, I’d only been kidding myself. And it’s only now, here with him, that the world seems right again. It feels like the pieces of my existence are being restored, like everything is finally coming together.

Like the life that crumbled down and broke could now be mine for the taking.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Three Years, Three and a Half Months Ago

Cullen’s club is dark when I walk in, but I see him sitting at one of the tables, a glass of whiskey in front of him. There’s a seltzer water waiting for me. My whole body clenches like a fist as I sit down across from him.

“You said you’d keep your hands off of her. Will you?” My voice is hard with rage, even though he hasn’t tried anything. But I know what he’s capable of. Just because he let me get away with what I did doesn’t mean he’ll leave either of us alone for good. Her life—her body—he’ll spare that. But she needs to get out of town before he figures out anything else.

“Can’t see beyond the girl waiting back at your apartment, can you?” Cullen sits across from me, sipping one of the fucking vintage whiskies he’s collected. He smiles at me, much more collected than I thought he would be.

“She’s my wife.” I clutch my glass, just waiting for him to spew some evil bullshit.

“Ah, is she? All this time I couldn’t get in touch with you, I was trying to tell you to call off the hit. Bianca’s an old friend, after all. And she’s shared some information with me that enlightens this little situation.”

“You talked to Bianca? She was supposed to—”

“Supposed to get out of town. We know.” He snaps his fingers and looks to the back room. The gray door opens, and I expect one of his men to appear. Instead, I see a familiar face—almost like Summer’s. Green eyes, broad cheekbones, but with blond hair streaked gray. Her hands aren’t tied and her body is intact.

Cullen gives Bianca a nod, then gestures to me. “Ash here has gone and married your girl to protect her.”

“You told me.” She smirks at me, and something in her expression reminds me very much of Summer. The cut on her right cheek is fading into a scar. It’s jarring to know that Cullen did it—and here they are, talking to each other like they’re cozy. “She’s still going back to finish her residency, isn’t she? Tell me she is. She can’t be here. Not anymore. I asked too much of her...” Bianca walks up to the bar and pours herself a vodka with lime.

“Don’t look so shocked, Ash,” Cullen says. “Bianca is an old friend. She came by here after you told her to leave.” He finishes the last of his whiskey as he looks at me with his one eye, his face unreadable.

“I made a deal with Cullen,” Bianca says, her eyes flicking over to him. “Summer leaves, and she’s free of all this bullshit. That means Cullen’s merry gang of assholes—”

“They’re assholes, all right. But they aren’t very merry.” He laughs and then nods to her, and she pours him another whiskey, as automatically as if she were tending bar back at her pub. She brings it over to him and sits it down, wiping some condensation away from the glass with a napkin. She takes a seat in the chair next to Cullen’s and looks between the two of us, her face blank.

“You see, Jonny? Everyone’s safe as can be. The girl can go back home or wherever she wants, and my complaint with her aunt is completely done. No leverage needed.”

I look between them. Bianca cuts her eyes at Cullen, and the man shrugs like he never held a knife to her face or threatened her niece’s life if she didn’t pay fucking immediately.

“Is there money I don’t know about?” I ask.

“No,” Bianca says softly, her voice barely a whisper. Cullen puts his hand on top of hers and she nearly jumps to the ceiling. The look on her face changes rapidly, moving from fear to anger to something else entirely.

“It has to do with the fact that Bianca is an old friend of mine.”

“She was always an old friend of yours, Cullen. You’re telling me that she’s a better friend now—and that you’re somehow invested in her safety when you were talking about burning down her pub last week? Fucking shit, man.” I throw one arm up and slap my hand down on the table.

“Clever that you married the girl.” He raises the eyebrow that sits over his working eye. The other one hasn’t moved in the better part of twenty years. “It’s a rule I take seriously. You, on the other hand, well, Damian wanted to take a finger off. You know how he likes to do that.”

Damian, Cullen’s fucking nephew. Yes, I know what he likes to do in his spare time.

“But I came back to speak with you,” Bianca starts nervously, “And now everything is fine. You just need to convince her to leave.”

“Yes, she leaves,” Cullen echoes.

“Then I go with her.” I think of Summer’s words the other night and crack my knuckles, then bring my hand up to my beard, feeling the stubble. I’ve let it grow since the wedding, red and wiry. I can almost feel the dark circles under my eyes. This girl, she worries me. But there’s no way I’m letting her out of my sight, not when she’s been thinking about going to fucking Syria. “I’m her husband.”

“She’ll send divorce papers, and you’ll sign them,” Bianca says. “She needs to go. She’s had enough of this mess—and I’m sorry to say you’re part of it, sweetheart.”

What the fuck is going on here? A week ago, Cullen was telling me to take Summer and tie her to a furnace in the safe house. Now he’s palling around with the girl’s aunt and telling me to send her on her way without another word.

I decide I don’t need to know what’s going on in Cullen’s twisted brain, and I push my glass back to the center of the table. “I’ll send her on her way, but I’m fucking going with her.” Cullen cuts his eyes at Bianca and she shakes her head slightly.

“That’s not the deal. She goes alone,” Cullen says. “Bianca gave me some important information in exchange for the girl’s safety.”

“I’m not a danger to her safety. I’m her husband.”

“You’re not a danger to her safety,” Bianca says. She sighs heavily. “It’s more that you’re a danger to her in general. Anyone from up here is. Summer and my sister have a whole life down south that doesn’t involve me, and I never should have gotten her mixed up in my mess. She’ll be better off without me, and without you too.”

“She won’t be—” I think of her, sprawled out in my bed this morning, naked, beautiful. I think of the way my body craves hers. The way she craves me. In this moment, it seems more important than anything—that I stay with her just like she wants. That I become someone different.

“You’re not relieved from my service, Jonny,” Cullen says. “You have debts to pay before you can go. One of them is that you leave this girl alone for her tenure in that program or her internship or whatever she chooses. Or I’ll make sure you never see her again.”

“Cullen—”

“This is on me, Jonathan,” Bianca says. She takes my hand in hers, squeezing it a bit. Her fingers are delicate and covered with blond freckles. She catches my gaze and holds it. “You see, there’s a reason Cullen and I have history. It just happened that Summer made her way into this because she needed a place to live her last year of medical school. Otherwise, I’d still be borrowing money from Cullen, and he’d still be trying to scare me into paying him back with more interest than I have.” She cuts her eyes at him again, and he smiles. Like he’s not dangerous. Like this whole thing is a big misunderstanding. Just like Summer, Bianca rolls her eyes at him. Like he’s a cad, not a criminal.

“I don’t—” Before I can get the rest out, Bianca stops me.

“It’s a long story. And you can’t tell Summer. Not a word.”

I lean in, and she tells me.

Present Day

Summer told me we’re the worst at getting divorced, and I agree.

Wholeheartedly, and pretty much without any fucking regret. I never intended to divorce her, even though I told her I’d sign the papers.

It’s a betrayal, but it’s one I can live with.

Before her, I wasn’t a man who lived for anything, a man who thought about the future. I lived moment to moment, dirty paycheck to dirty paycheck, and the only things that mattered to me were women, gambling, and loyalty to the Flood family.

Summer doesn’t know it, but she changed that from day one. She came after I got clean, when I was figuring out that I had nothing to live for. But when that woman appeared, everything around me started to make sense. Even if we weren’t the same, even if we had come from different places and were going different places, everything in my life started to fall into place once Summer was mine.

We’re pretty much the most ill-matched couple I’ve ever known of. The only thing we have in common is that we grew up poor and got made fun of for it at school. I might have gone to college, once. And I might have studied sports medicine. But my family was all tied up with Cullen’s business, and I fell in with him after fighting didn’t work out.

I lied to her when I said I wasn’t waiting for her. That’s another betrayal I can live with.

I waited for her, and I pursued her once she was back, until she was too annoyed with me to ignore me, until she had to give in.

That’s the way you do it with a woman like Summer. Left to her own devices, she’d bury herself in her job and convince herself she never needed a man.

And now she’s here, in my condo, waking up and making fun of me for the standard level of cleanliness I keep around here. Just because I keep a certain order to things doesn’t mean I’m “OCD.”

When she bolts out of the shower this particular morning, her strawberry blond hair is still wet and plastered against her scrubs, creating snakelike patterns against the green fabric. She has on her ugly white sneakers and pulls on an oversized gray UNC hoodie, even though it’s already eighty degrees outside. I look up from my coffee and just watch her.

If I were younger, I’d be pretty bored at the idea of watching my wife at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning, running around the apartment in her baggy doctor’s uniform, looking for her purse like a madwoman, and then grabbing coffee and spilling most of it on her white shoes when she’s trying to balance her purse in one hand and her doctor’s bag in another.

But it’s far from boring, because she’s radiant, even at this hour of the morning, even when she’s getting ready to go on shift and kill herself and her body for twelve hours at a time, or fourteen if they need her. I think back to that girl I first met, immaculate eyebrows and makeup, curled hair and tube dress. Back then she was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. Now, she’s something far more—a woman, and more than that too. She’s a little clumsy still, but she radiates wit and confidence even when she’s wiping coffee off her shoes.

I was mad at Bianca for a long time. But I see the point of her words when I look at Summer now.

“Dammit,” she mutters. I raise an eyebrow at her and laugh.

“Having trouble, Sunshine?”

“Yes—dammit,” she repeats. “I’m trying to get there early so I can complete a biopsy, so I can make sure I’m the first resident Priya sees. She says I could be eligible for a fellowship...” Her voice trails off, and she avoids my eyes.

“I’m sure you’ll get it.”

“Maybe,” she says, pursing her lips together. She comes up to me and gives me a kiss, quick but passionate, fingers running through my hair. After that, she flits out of the door, nearly tripping over a fat white package on the porch. It has her name written on it, and I hold it up as she flies down the stairs to her car.

“Sunshine, this is for you,” I call out to her, feeling the heft of whatever’s inside.

“I’ll look at it later!” She rolls down the window and blows me another kiss, then peels out of the driveway and leaves me to my thoughts. The package is from somewhere in Florida. I shrug and toss it on the entry table where Summer frequently places her keys, and then loses them. It’s probably the new scrubs she ordered, certainly nothing important.

I forget about it when I realize—this is the day for another betrayal, maybe not betrayal exactly. But a secret. Four or five times, Summer has told me that she’s saving up a few hundred dollars at a time, and she can get her loans deferred until her mother is up to speed with her mortgage payments. She’s shrugged when I’ve offered to pay, telling me she has it handled.

These Colington women, they think they have everything handled. And in fact, it’s nothing of the damn sort. Her mother will be homeless, her failing business closed.

I peek out the window again and make sure that she’s gone, and my chest constricts. There are things left unsaid about what I’m about to do, and I have the feeling I’m going to make her spitting mad. But I learned a long time ago that the only things in life worth doing are the things that will cause the biggest stir.

I pick up my phone and dial the bank. They’ve told me this is an absolutely idiotic move on my part, that I shouldn’t be liquidating my savings and putting my hope into one fighter’s success. I shouldn’t be shitting on my future and depending on the idea that one gym will make it so that my wife and I will be comfortable while she pays off her loans. And I damn well know I shouldn’t be depending on Linda Collington to turn her business around. None of these women has a shred of business sense—I’m glad Summer turned out to be a doctor.

“Fuck,” I mutter as I dial Wells Fargo, heart beating fast. “That woman better not open a private practice, or I’ll be the one bailing her out in five years’ time.” I laugh as the phone starts to ring. When I hear the banker I spoke to yesterday on the other end of the line, my words all come out in a rush. “I want to transfer that money we talked about yesterday, no ifs, ands, or buts. To the little inn on the south side of the island, right across from the ice cream shop. Summerside, that’s what it’s called.”

While the bank processes the exchange, there’s silence on the other end of the line. I find myself wishing I could hear it—the thump of money being moved from one drawer to another, or maybe the satisfying clink of a cash register opening. But it’s all done on a computer screen, imaginary cash moved from one person to another, putting my jobless ass in deep, pathetic trouble.

“It’s all done, Sir. We’ll call to notify Ms. Collington of the money in her account tomorrow morning. This will take care of her outstanding mortgage balance,” the banker says, amazement in his voice. He takes a deep breath in. “Who shall we say it’s from? An anonymous benefactor?”

“Hell no. It’s from Jonathan Ash.”

I hang up the phone and rush out of the house, my heart beating fast like it does after a fight. I walk straight to the house where Josh is staying and drag his ass off of the couch that he’s been sleeping on for the past week. No matter his level of injury—and it would seem Frank got him good—this kid is training today. My phone buzzes in my pocket as I drag his sorry, injured ass to my decrepit gym that’s one step away from being condemned. I guess I don’t have any damn business sense either, so my wife and I will be depending on Linda Collington to get her shit together and run a business for once in her life.

After I finish beating the hell out of Josh and taking three or four punches I didn’t need to take, I look at my phone.

Six missed calls from New York, and no messages.

“Fucking spammers,” I mutter. I put my phone away. “I’ve got more important shit to worry about.”

“What was that?” Josh asks, clapping my shoulder where he got me with a fucking horrible elbow strike earlier.

I suck in my breath and push his sorry ass out of the door before the whole building collapses on us. “Just the ramblings of a poor man who’s done a very stupid thing,” I tell him.

“Sometimes a stupid thing is all you can do, man,” Josh says with a smile.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Three Years, Three Months Ago

“I’ll pack my scrubs. Do you think I’ll need my scrubs in Syria? Do you have a passport? It’s going to be Syria. That’s what the email said.”

“I do,” Ash says. He’s using one of his knives to trim his nails, over the trashcan, of course. His nails are already trim, and it looks like he’s just fidgeting.

It’s probably because he hasn’t been out of the country before. But I checked, and spouses are welcome. Especially spouses with useful skills. I said he could very well be a porter or—well, probably a porter.

“You do what? You think I’ll need my old scrubs? Or you do have a passport?”

“I do have a passport.” He looks up at me quickly and then back down. “Whatever happens, Summer, you can’t miss your train tonight. The flight leaves in a week. Promise me.”

I put some of my t-shirts into my bag and put my heels aside. They can stay here in Ash’s apartment—our apartment—while we’re gone. My pulse quickens. There’s something dark and secretive about his tone.

“What are you talking about, Ash? You’re coming with me. You said you were. I’m going to get on that bus with you, and we’ll be in North Carolina by the morning.” I try to sound nonchalant, like he’s being silly. Isn’t that what wives do with husbands? There are twingey pangs low in my stomach and a weird energy rising in my body.

“Just...” He looks at me and puts his knife down on the table. I notice there’s a rusty edge to it when it glints in the light. My stomach twists as I realize it looks more like old blood. “Just promise me you’ll get on that bus. I might be late—just whatever happens—get on the bus and I’ll be behind you.”

“Seriously, is this because you don’t want to go?” My body is on edge, like I’m about to jump from somewhere very high. I wring my hands. Why would I think he wanted to go anyway? Why in the hell would a man like this leave a lucrative job with his mafia boss behind? And why would I want him to? “I can request a transfer up to the third month I’m there. I can make sure we’re somewhere you want to be—maybe Turkey? I hear it’s really beautiful in some of the more rural areas—”

“Summer, stop.” He stands up from the tiny kitchen table and walks over to me, catching my hands in his. “I’d go with you to Mongolia. Or the moon. But things here are questionable right now. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be right behind you.” His face looks sad as he speaks, and I collapse into him.

“I know.” I bite my lip. “I think we can go to Mongolia if that’s where you want to go.”

He tilts my face to his and smooths down my hair with his hands. “I want to go where you want to go, but not everything is that simple right now.”

“What does that—” Instead of answering, Ash leans in and presses his lips to mine. When he kisses me, his movements are gentle and slow, hands strong against the small of my back. He pecks my lips and then sinks into me, his body hot and taut and full of longing. His lips and tongue dance with mine in a rhythm I’m unaccustomed to. It’s a slow, thoughtful kiss, not like the passionate, ridiculous, grandiose kisses he tempted me with when he first met me. Not like the kisses, full of confidence and bravado, after our wedding. He kisses me like it’s a goodbye.

As soon as the thought occurs to me, I wipe it away from my mind. I’m imagining things, aren’t I?

“You can say goodbye to your aunt, if you want. She’s okay.” He looks away when he says it, his normally confident expression changed to hangdog.

“Why would I be able to tell her goodbye? She was in hiding.”

“She paid Cullen off, somehow.” He looks at me and pauses, chewing on his lip. “But you’re still on his shit list. So you have to go. You’re going tonight. Promise me.”

“Yes, okay. I promise. I’m going tonight.” Nothing about this feels right. Everything inside of me screams, Wrong, wrong, wrong. “How the hell did Bianca—”

“Listen, I don’t know the particulars.” He says it impatiently and drops his hands from my arms, nearly pushing me away. “But he’s still got beef with Bianca. He’ll come after you again. Being away from everything here—that’s what you need to do.” The way he says it has such finality that my heart nearly stops in my chest. But after that, he smiles again.

And I convince myself, the rest of that day, that there’s nothing wrong.

Even though there’s that niggling feeling that everything is.

Present Day

I walk in after my shift, utterly and totally exhausted, like there are pieces of my brain being sucked away. It hasn’t been but a week I’ve been living with Ash and utterly ignoring the idea that we were going to get divorced, but I swear, staying up with him every night has left me without a lick of energy.

Aren’t new boyfriends supposed to energize you?

Except he’s not new, and he’s not a boyfriend, either.

Ash said something about a letter or a package, but I don’t see it when I fling my keys down on the breakfast table and slump into one of his overstuffed demin-blue chairs. They’re not attractive in the least, but they match the couch at least.

“There’s spaghetti,” I hear from the kitchen, and I laugh, leaning my head against one of the pillowy cushions. Just like an old married couple.

“I’m too tired to eat. And I’m not that hungry. I think I’m sick or something.”

“Suit yourself.” Ash appears, carrying a bowl of noodles and red sauce, offering it to me like a gift.

I wave my hand away and laugh again. “Since when do you cook spaghetti? Usually it’s steak or burgers or something manly, or take out from Blue Moon.”

He shrugs. “Since we officially became poor. And your mother became—well—less poor.”

I groan. “Ash, you didn’t. Oh God. Your gym. You barely know us.” I look up him when I say the last part, barely opening one eye. He scowls and sets the spaghetti down on the kitchen table. It’s like the headache I’ve been carrying around all day has finally decided to come into full bloom, with Ash and his stupid masculine bravado as the final catalyst. “I said I was going to take care of it, Ash. I can’t believe you—”

But I can believe him. He’s standing right here, approximately three feet away from me, disapproval and annoyance on his angular face. I should be annoyed that he’s annoyed because it was my problem, my mother, my everything. But one corner of my mouth raises into a grin instead.

“Can’t resist all this, can you, Sunshine?” He gestures to the ratty t-shirt he’s wearing, the pink, moon-shaped scar on his cheek, and the healing black eye.

I laugh and then clap my hand over my mouth. “Jesus, Ash. What the hell? You can’t just go around doing Robin Hood shit behind my back. And now you have nothing.” I try to make my voice sound angry, but I don’t have enough energy to manage it. “Nothing,” I repeat.

“That’s not necessarily true,” he says, stepping over the coffee table and sitting on the overstuffed chair with me. He’s so big he nearly pushes me off, but then he picks me up and puts me on his lap. I draw my breath in sharply. When he gets close to me like this, it’s hard to remember that I need to be angry, that I need to tell him that he can’t just liquidate everything he has to bail my mom out. “I have like $1500.”

“Oh God. Jesus tap-dancing Christ.” I do the math in my head. That means we have a total of $2500—if we’re pretending we’re actually married. There’s no way he can get his gym going, no way for him to get his life together. “Jesus fuck,” I moan.

“You keep taking the Lord’s name in vain. I’m Catholic.” He pulls my hair over my shoulder and kisses my neck. “And I won’t have my little woman doing such naughty things.” He slides his hands under my shirt and moves his fingers over my waist, sending chills over my body.

“Ash, come on.”

“I don’t want to talk about this right now.” He trails his lips over my neck and nips me gently. His voice is raw and husky, vibrating against my skin. My nipples stiffen, as hard as little beads. Heat creeps over my skin, threatening to cloud my judgment, threatening to take me over.

“This is important, Ash.” My voice comes out in a whimper. Each time with this man, I sink deeper and deeper. “Damn you.”

“What’s so important, Sunshine? I know you like to be serious, but it’s much better if we just take a little time to reconnect. I’ve been training all day.” He licks his lips, gripping my waist tighter and then licking the hollow of my neck. “And I’ve been thinking about making you come all day. What’s so wrong about that?”

He pushes his body into mine from beneath, all heat and hardness. His body holds promises deeper than any words a man can say, his hands communicating every reason why he went against my wishes, why he did it. Muscles and bone, fine gold hair on his forearms, lips touching me, fingertips searching the expanse of my skin—I’m wrapped in him, cocooned, until all I can feel is desire.

He knows this. He lifts my shirt and cups my breast through my bra.

I want to push him, want to make him talk. But I’m already wet, panties clinging against my skin.

Turning my body, I sit astride him. My nerves are set on fire, every inch of me aflame. Even my lips tingle with anticipation.

“Why’d you do it?” I try to make him look me in the eye, but he only pulls me tighter and brings my face to his, kissing me desperately, tongue dancing against mine until I’m moaning. When he stops, I’m panting, fingernails scraping against the back of his neck.

“I love you. That’s my reason.” He kisses me again, pulling my bottom lip between his, then pulls me closer so my legs are spread, right at his waist. His hands toy with my breasts beneath my shirt, cupping them, pinching my nipples through the lace of my bra, sending shocks deep into my core. He groans and moves his body so his cock throbs hard and hot against my sex. “Because I want to be with you, here. I’m all in, Sunshine.”

“Ash, there are things you don’t know.” My body thrums, heat pooling between my legs.

“I give exactly zero fucks about what I don’t know.” He hooks his thumb in the waist of my leggings, then his fingers make their way to the crotch of my panties, lifting and pulling, sliding over my wetness and up and over my button until I’m whimpering. Until I’m lost and becoming someone else, someone without any secrets, someone who doesn’t care about any of the money or the other bullshit that’s supposed to be important.

Some of Ash’s red hair has grown long, and it flops over his forehead as he pushes me back so I’m leaning against the arm of the chair, slipping two fingers inside of me all at once. His palm rocks against my clit, fingers working inside of me, wet lacy fabric clinging to me. His free hand pulls up my shirt and bra, exposing one breast, and he bends to lick and suck at my nipple, tongue traveling over my flesh as I dissolve into a puddle of incoherent whispers and moans. There are plenty of things about this man that make me uncomfortable—it’s not his background or his jobs. I don’t view him like he thinks I do. As he slides a third finger inside of me and I toss my head back, fingers laced through his hair, I pinpoint the word that comes to mind when I’m around him—excessive. Like something that should be forbidden.

His hands move like lightning, and my shirt disappears over my head. My leggings and panties follow as he throws me around, and I moan with desperation when his fingers leave my sex.

“Don’t stop—don’t stop—” I’m drunk on my own lust and absolutely incoherent, unable to think about all the things I meant to say. My muscles tense with need, and I’m babbling when he gets off the chair and kneels in front of me, wrapping my legs around his head, licking, sucking, running his tongue up and down my folds, teasing and playing with my clit as I hang onto his hair for dear life. Crying out in pleasure, I throw one leg over his back and draw him in close.

Ash unbuckles himself, his jeans falling to his knees. There’s a tremendous groan against my sex, and he sucks my button into his mouth hard, biting down on it gently. He keeps groaning as he strokes himself, lips pulling against my clit.

My body tenses and shakes, my hips bucking hard against Ash’s face. Lightning bolts reach through my body, shaking and shuddering and setting everything on fire.

Just as I start to come again, Ash slips out of his jeans and stands, lifting his shirt over his head. Before he can lift me up and carry me like he normally does, I slide down to my knees before him and take his cock in my hand. It’s already rock hard, a translucent bead at its tip. I dart my tongue out and lick it, teasing his tip and growing even wetter as he moans and absently thrusts his cock forward so that it parts my lips.

“You’re such a good girl, Sunshine.” He strokes my hair, and I relax my throat like I used to when we knew each other before. It seems like a different life, but my body remembers him, remembers how good it feels to take him to the back of my throat, to listen to him groaning. He pulls out and strokes himself, moaning and panting. I lick from his head to his shaft, my tongue making contact with the tips of his fingers, skin salty and delicious. Gently, I move his hand away and take his head in my mouth again, circling it with my tongue before taking him to the hilt. “Such a good girl,” he murmurs again. I rock on my knees, and I feel his muscles begin to tighten just before he pulls away.

My pulse quickens. “Did I do something? Did I forget how—”

“No, baby. I just want to make you come again.” He lifts me up to my feet and sweeps me up, carrying me toward the bedroom.

I shake my head. “The chair. Put me on top of you.”

He growls and swings us both down on the chair, sitting so I’m positioned right over his cock. He lifts me up by the waist and his mouth finds one breast and then the other. I try to push myself down, but he shakes his head.

“Not yet, Sunshine. I want you nice and wet when I come inside you. God I love to feel how wet you get for me.”

His breath is hot and heavy against my skin. And everything about me feels like it’s on fire, brain buzzing, my legs parted just inches above Ash’s huge, hard cock. It’s like the conversation we started earlier vanished into dust as soon as he touched me. The thing with this man—when I start with him, I don’t get satisfied. Instead, I want more, need more, until mind and body are buzzing and I can barely breathe.

“Please let me ride you,” I moan. “I just want to come. Please.” His tongue traces a line between my nipples, and he bites down slightly on one as he moves a hand from my waist to the waiting, wet V between my legs. He taps once, and then twice on my clit, pressure as light as a small breeze. I shudder, and the sweet pleasure of his touch nearly sends me over the edge. I lick my lips and think of his cock in my mouth, my body arched over him, hungry with need. Slowly, he lowers me down on the head of his cock, stretching me like he always does.

“So wet. So tight.” He lets me down a little more, and I gasp. He looks me in the eye as he cups my breasts, brushing each sensitive nipple with his thumb, “You didn’t have any other men while you were away. I can tell.” It’s a statement.

I shake my head. “No, I didn’t.”

He slides me down lower, so I’m almost at the base of his cock. I’m still not free to ride him like I want, but I feel a slight sense of relief. Still, I need—I crave—what comes next. Riding him. Coming hard while his cock is inside me.

“Tell me why you didn’t.”

“Because I—”

He brings me to the base once and then lifts me again. I cry out.

“Because I didn’t want anyone,” I gasp. “Not if they weren’t you.”

He sighs. “Good girl. Now you can have what you want.”

He lets me go, and I throw my arms around his shoulders, leaning into him and riding him. His cock is almost too big to take, but I fell in love with that feeling when I first slept with Ash—like all of my senses are focused on that one point in my body. I ride him harder, faster, angling my clit so it meets his skin with every movement. My nipples stiffen, red-pink blush building from the base of my belly to my cheeks, muscles tensing and releasing. The unstoppable tide rises from my core, and I moan loud, shuddering, falling against him.

“I love you. I never stopped.” The words fall out before I can stop them, and they come in a rushed whisper, my chin on Ash’s shoulder. I’m panting hard, nearly crying. Ash takes over, lifting my hips and using me like he likes.

“Good,” he growls, thrusting into me from below.

We’re so close, so connected that I feel his voice rumbling through me, climbing through my body and invading my consciousness. I moan, my body utterly lightweight, as Ash holds me by the waist and brings me down again and again onto the full length of his cock.

I grip his shoulders and stare into his eyes, focusing on the whitish tips of his lashes. The waves build in my body again, starting where he fills me and expanding out to every cell, every fiber. I come, slower this time, my pleasure drawn out, eyes rolling back in my head. There’s nothing that will keep me from falling now, nothing to make me not want him. He might not know that, might not comprehend it in the visceral way that I do. I cry out and bear down against him.

He groans, muscles tensing, coming inside of me and filling me. He bucks hard into me, his kiss brutal and deep, red stubble rubbing against my cheek.

“My beautiful girl,” he says, his hands roaming over my body. I’m still throbbing around him. And the man, even though he’s fucking thirty-five, is still hard. I collapse into him, legs still splayed, muscles sore.

“Yeah?” I close my eyes and welcome his kisses. There are still burdens, yes, but it feels like we’re not beholden to them anymore.

“I was faithful to you, Summer. Every minute.”

My pulse quickens. I never expected that he had really waited for me. It must have been difficult, looking like he does. I can nearly hear panties setting on fire each time we walk on a crowded street.

He doesn’t wait for me to reply. Instead, he pulls me closer and whispers in my ear. “When the time is right, I want you off of that pill. We might not have the money now. We might not be steady enough—but I want a family. With you.”

My blood runs cold, and I freeze against him. I’m glad he can’t see my face. Because this is the one thing I can’t give, the one thing I can’t even try, not after what happened.

“I can’t...”

I can’t. I can’t. I lost the first one. The doctor said after it happened once, it could happen again.

The words stick in my throat, and I feel hot tears streaming down my cheeks. I’ve given up my anger, my grief, and all the ideas I had about a life in this little town. But this is the one thing I can’t give up.

“Don’t say anything now.” He kisses me again. “But I’m ready. Now, or any damn time.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Three Years, Three Months Ago

Penn Station

By five in the afternoon, I develop a good enough lie that my wife believes me and heads to the damn station by herself. The bus leaves at seven, and I told her I’d be there at the very last minute.

I considered telling her I didn’t want to be with her, that I didn’t love her, that I wanted my life here more than I wanted one with her.

But when I looked at her face today, excited and nervous and exuberant all at once as she packed her frayed green scrubs, I knew I couldn’t do it. What’s more, I knew she wouldn’t go without me.

So here I am, sitting a safe distance from her stop at Penn Station, another anonymous man with a black hoodie pulled up over his head. My heart is heavier than it has ever been, and somehow I feel more alive than I ever have—but it’s because of the pain, pervasive, like it’s pounding through me.

What kind of man marries a woman just to break her heart? Just to watch her walk away?

Throat tight, fists clenched, I fight whatever the hell is happening in my mind and the bullshit it’s doing to my body at the same time. For a few seconds, it feels like I might heat up and explode from the inside, like one of those people you hear about who spontaneously combusts.

Jonathan Ash has never felt like this.

And never over a woman.

An old man passes by my bench, his arm so close it nearly brushes the fabric of my hoodie. He turns and looks at me, catching my eye, laugh lines crinkling up as he smiles.

“Waiting for someone?” He asks, voice raspy.

“No,” I grunt. “Just waiting.”

“That’s too bad,” he says and turns to walk away, leaning into his cane.

“Why’s that?”

He turns back to me and shrugs his shoulders very slightly. “Life is better when you have someone worth waiting for.”

The old man wanders off, leaving me with that bit of ridiculous crap advice that sounds like it came off the back of an inspirational coffee cup.

“Wait—” I shout after him, but he can’t hear me and walks off to the trains.

When I turn, I see Summer, wearing her green dress and a pair of sandals. I hadn’t even realized it was warm today. I pull my hoodie tighter over my head and watch her, trying to fight the rage swirling inside. At first, she looks calm, maybe even excited. I can’t help but think what an excellent doctor she’ll be, who she’ll become. Maybe Bianca was right—it’ll all be better without me. I shift uncomfortably, and a pain strikes me in my chest, like my lungs and heart are constricting together all at once.

At 6:45, right on cue, I see my cousin Damian catch her by the arm. He’s even bigger than I am—and he looks like he works for the mafia, which isn’t a coincidence because he most certainly does. Summer reels back and drops her suitcase, nearly falling over the bench behind her.

I can’t hear the fucker, but I think he’s saying the lines he’s supposed to say. Summer tries to fling herself away from him, but he keeps her grip on his arm.

If you can’t say something yourself, send your bigger, uglier cousin to do your work for you, you miserable fucking asshole. You didn’t even need to marry her—and there she is—the only fucking good thing that ever happened to you—leaving.

I watch as Summer’s demeanor changes. Instead of pulling away, she clutches Damian’s arms like she can’t stand anymore, and she starts crying. I’ve never been good at reading lips, but I can almost hear what she shouts across the station.

“I’m an idiot. I’m such a fucking idiot!” She screams the last part and stomps hard, narrowly missing Damian’s foot.

Damian looks like a deer in the headlights. He’s not exactly the type to comfort a woman. But I give him one thing—he stands there like I told him to, and then he walks Summer to her bus and watches her get on.

I watch her get on too. Cullen’s deal—written and signed by a lawyer, per Bianca’s wishes, said I had to stay away until her program was complete. However long she decides to stay.

I crack my knuckles and watch the bus depart.

“I love you, Summer,” I say. “And I’m not signing any goddamn divorce papers.”

Present Day

Summer wakes up in the morning, totally fucking frantic, like there’s an emergency at the hospital and she can’t possibly get there in time. It’s the only time I’ve seen her act like this, but I check her phone, and it’s free of notifications. But she keeps pacing back and forth in front of the bedroom door, wearing one of her long night-shirts and near tears. I hop up and pull on my clothes, heart pounding.

We’d gone to bed like normal. She was happy.

Wasn’t she?

The only thing that was different was what I said, and that was a good thing, wasn’t it?

Shit, you fucking idiot.

I run out into the living room—or what passes for a living room in my shitty condo—and catch her when she’s passing by. “Summer—” I start.

She nearly freaks out when I touch her, but then she calms down and lets me lead her back to the sofa. She sits as far away from me as she can, then curls up in a ball and pulls a blanket over her feet.

“I’ll just wait,” I say. “You can tell me what’s going on in your brain when you get your shit together.”

It takes her a good goddamn long while of breathing and calming down, but then she finally talks. “I had a dream,” she says.

“Okay. Whatever it is, it wasn’t real.”

“It was real.” She says it with deadly certainty. “I’ve been dreaming it over and over in the past week, and tonight was the worst yet because—because you couldn’t leave well enough alone.” She spits the last words out at me, but then she takes another breath. “I’m sorry. We just got back together—”

“Tell me the dream.”

When she looks at me, her eyes are puffy and red, like she hasn’t slept at all. “It’s always the same. I’m in a hospital in Damascus, and I’m alone.”

“Damascus—” Shit. Summer was in Syria after she left, and then she vaporized out of there so fast it was like she was never there at all—no explanation, and no information on where she went after that for five months.

“And the doctor is coming in. I’m bleeding and I can’t stop. They tell me that there was a baby with a heartbeat, but she’s gone.”

“She?”

“And then the doctor tells me it would be dangerous for me to try to get pregnant again.” She pronounces her words slowly, and her hands are active and fidgety like they are every time she’s nervous.

“It was a dream. Just a dream, Summer.” Because of the way her voice sounds I know that’s not quite true, but there’s nothing else I can really say.

“It wasn’t. It was real. Not quite like that, but... I can’t get pregnant.”

“How do they know that?” I knit my eyebrows together.

“Ash, do you hear what I’m telling you? I can’t get pregnant. I can’t sustain a pregnancy. Screw the fact that we’re fucking broke. I mean, forget that, right!” Her voice is wracked with the grief she’s been hiding all this time.

“Doctors aren’t always right,” I say. I try to take her hand, but she pulls it away.

“Ash, I was pregnant when I left.”

It feels like the walls are crashing down around me, like the world is melting away and I’m back at that bus stop, watching her go.

“You weren’t,” I whisper.

“I didn’t know.” She pulls away further and puts a pillow over her knees. “I had no idea. I’ve always had endometriosis, and my old doctor said I’d probably have a lot of trouble getting pregnant because of that.”

She looks up at me, and I nod, like I’m taking all of this in—like I could possibly understand it or get it in any real way. Like my heart’s not about to explode, because nothing she’s about to say could possibly be good.

“What happened?”

“I didn’t think I could—and then I did. I was.” Her voice is quieter now, like she almost can’t bear to say any of it. But the words come out quick and steady. I give her credit for being able to get any of it out, because I couldn’t speak that clearly right now if someone held a gun to my head and told me to string two sentences together. My heart is pounding out of my chest.

She takes a deep breath. “I lost it. It had a heartbeat, but I had so much scar tissue—I lost it. I had surgery in Damascus, and then I transferred to the Ukraine. And I put it behind me.” Her voice breaks at the end, but then she clears her throat and wipes away her tears. “That’s why we can’t—I can’t.” She sighs and keeps wiping away tears, but they keep coming.

I go to her and pull her into my arms, but she tries to push me away. “I should have been there,” I tell her. I kiss her on the top of the head, and she pushes hard against me.

“Stop it, Ash. You made a decision—and I didn’t tell you. You couldn’t have been there.” Again, she struggles against me, but I don’t let her go.

“I had every plan to go, Summer. Cullen made me stay.”

“You didn’t,” she mutters. “You left me there. You didn’t even say goodbye.”

“I watched you get on that bus. I had Damian make sure you were safe. And I paid Cullen off and came to North Carolina a month after that. I knew you’d be back—”

“No. No, you weren’t there. Bianca told me you kept working for Cullen, that you went to Jersey.”

“I didn’t. I watched you. And I let you go.”

“Why?” Her voice cracks, and she starts crying again, but this time she folds into me and holds on to my arms.

“You were better without me.”

“I wasn’t. I was so alone. Losing a baby is the loneliest thing in the world.” My shirt is wet with her tears.

I remember that feeling in the pit of the chest, the one I sat with when I watched Damian walk Summer onto the bus, when she left New York for good. And I watched her go—to a fate far lonelier and more painful than any I could have imagined. I hated myself so much for letting her out of my sight, and that hate comes raging through me all at once again, far worse than I’ve ever felt it before.

“I fucked up, Summer. But I did it for you. I swear I did it for you.” My throat constricts like it did that day, but this time, I let tears come to my eyes. I hold Summer, and I my tears fall. “I love you so much. Please, please stay.”

I hold her close, and we’re both quiet for a long time. I close my eyes and feel her breath evening out, her body relaxing. She wipes her eyes again and looks up at me.

“Why wouldn’t I stay?”

I laugh even though everything inside of me still hurts. “Well, I am amazing. I understand your decision.”

“What about—”

“A kid? Well, aren’t you a doctor? There are things you can do, right? Fertility things?” She bites her lip and laughs, maybe a little morbidly. “And we can adopt. I don’t care.”

“Those kinds of things, they take years. And money we don’t have.”

I shrug and kiss her on the top of her head. “Life is better when you have someone worth waiting for.”

She lets that sink in. And I think it might be somewhat better advice than you’d find on the side of a coffee cup.

“Why did Cullen make you stay, Ash?” Her voice changes, and my stomach drops. I was hoping we’d come to that at a different time. “What did he have hanging over you?”

“Maybe it’s best if we discuss that some other time, Summer.”

“I think it’s best if we discuss it now.” She shifts away from me and raises an arched eyebrow. If her face wasn’t puffy as hell, she’d look like she does on any day—calculating, intelligent, and frankly curious.

“Bianca worked out a deal with Cullen. You’d leave New York, I wouldn’t follow you when you left the country and—you’d be provided for.”

She nods like it makes sense. “Okay. I get that part. Bianca is my biological mom, so...”

I pull back from her in confusion. “Shit—you know that?”

“I’m not stupid. My mom—Linda—she has the same thing I do. Endometriosis. I don’t think she could have kids. And her husband died the year before I was born.” She looks small when she says it, another bit of pain she’s had to live with—another hurt I didn’t know about. “Bianca doesn’t know I know. But I know. But still, it doesn’t make sense. She doesn’t have any money.”

“Cullen’s the one with money, Summer.”

Her eyes grow wide as saucers when she looks at me. “Jesus Christ. No—”

“When he’s gone, you get half of everything he has.”

“What happens to the rest?”

“It’s Bianca’s.”

She claps her hand over her mouth and runs to the kitchen sink, dry heaving and then clutching the counter, knuckles utterly white. I run over to her and catch her as she’s about to fall.

“Got any more secrets to share, Ash?” Her voice is still hoarse from crying, and she nearly croaks out the words.

“I’m fresh out.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me before?” She holds onto me for support.

I grin. “It’s in the letters I sent you. The ones you didn’t read. I made sure you couldn’t divorce me for withholding information.” I shrug. “When I figured out you hadn’t read them—by that time, it didn’t seem like my story to tell. Not one I’d readily offer up, because it’s full of fucked up batshit craziness.”

“Christ.”

“Do me a favor, Sunshine?”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t tell anyone I told you. That asshole is still alive somewhere, and I’m reasonably sure he’d find his way to North Carolina and slit my throat.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Three Years, Two Months Ago

It’s five o’clock in the morning, Syria time. I’m awake, and I should be getting up for my shift in the medical tent, but I have jet lag, and my body aches like I’ve been awake for days, the pain centering in the tip of my shoulder, just where the blade meets the arm. The pain pulses and radiates, extending down my left side and into the pit of my abdomen, creating a perfect circle of agony.

The pulled muscle—or whatever the hell it is—just adds insult to injury. I spent last night awake, on and off, dreaming about Ash. I tried calling him, dialing him again and again from my phone, but he never picked up. The last call mechanically informed me that his number had been disconnected.

Gone. Almost like it never happened—the wedding, the honeymoon, the plan to leave together. It’s like none of it was ever real.

I turn over onto my left side and cry out from the pain. A full body cramp makes its way up from my leg to my shoulder, so I turn the other way instead. Lying on my right side, the feeling lessens, and I can close my eyes again, even though my teeth and fists are clenched tight. Like any good doctor in the field, I can work my way through the pain and wake up in time for a stiff coffee and some early morning appointments. There are people who need me more than I need to lie here.

Still, I don’t move my legs. It’s my third morning here. The first morning, the feeling was barely noticeable, just a low cramping in my side, poking at me on and off. The shoulder pain started just last night, and that’s the real bitch in all of this.

It seems like a physical manifestation of my guilt and regret, my fucking idiocy.

I belong here.

I am a doctor.

There is only this job, this place, and the burning ache, like a shot of lightning, wrapping its circle around my body, around my consciousness, taking over my thoughts.

I drift in and out of conscious thought, thinking of Ash’s crooked face and the heat of his body, the way he made me do things I never thought I’d do, the thrall he kept me in.

I’m free now. If I could only get free of my shoulder, float away from my body.

I absently wonder if it was the bus ride, or the sleepless nights spent at my mother’s empty inn, or the crying on the flight into Cairo that did it.

There’s a voice calling me from far away, one I barely recognize, and I can’t open my eyes. They feel heavy and hot. I have a sharp memory of my mother pressing a cool washcloth to my eyes when I was trying to fall asleep as a very young girl. Her hair was strawberry blond, like mine is now. I remember reaching up to touch it, twirling it between my fingers. She told me she was coming back very soon, and her smile looked sad. But it’s a silly memory. It isn’t right. My mother has red hair. I smile anyway and think of the washcloth against my head, delicate fingers smoothing down my brow.

It’s so good to be loved, better than anything else I know.

I choke out a sob and raise up my hands like I’m reaching for someone. Someone is calling me, but it’s not my name.

“Dr. Ash, we need you in the medical—”

“Collington,” I say, but it feels like there’s cotton jammed in my throat, and I can’t manage the squeak out the word. “Collington,” I try again, attempting to move my heavy muscles so I can get out of bed. My legs stick where they are, and I realize my arms are still raised. I put them down heavily and open my eyes. The room is spinning, and I’m dizzy, even though I’m still lying down. It’s the very tip of my shoulder that hurts, like someone has a chisel and they’re hammering it down between the bones.

The woman calling my name touches my arm, and I shudder, trying to pull away. Her cool hand goes to my forehead and then my cheek.

No, get up. It’s time to go to work.

“Dr. Collington—is that what you said? You have a fever. Were you exposed to anyone who was ill before you arrived?” The doctor—or nurse—speaks quickly, her words jumbling together.

I shake my head slowly, and now it feels like my whole head is filled with cotton. It’s a pulled muscle—or no, a pulled muscle doesn’t feel like this. There’s a part of my brain that wants to generate an answer, pulling out some information I learned a long time ago when I was a candy striper with Natalie at the hospital.

“Does anything hurt, Dr. Collington? We need you out there today, but you can have medical leave if—”

I point to my left shoulder and then down to my abdomen, my eyelids barely fluttering open. There’s something I should know. “My shoulder. The tip. It’s...”

Shit.

My eyes open wide, and I sit up straight, adrenaline flooding my body. I’m counting backwards from the time I left to the time I got here, picturing a calendar in my brain.

I grab the woman’s arm and look at her scrubs. She’s a nurse. “Get the doctor,” I tell her. “Any doctor. It doesn’t matter. We need an ultrasound machine.” The nurse backs up like she’s scared, but I grab her arm hard, and she comes to. I nearly collapse with the pain, but there’s enough energy coursing through my body to keep me conscious.

I’m breathing through it, my gut clenching through the pain. There’s a chance I’m wrong, but even the nurse knows I’m probably right. There’s a bright, stultifying pang in my abdomen, and I fall back to the bed.

“Ultrasound,” I mumble. “Now...” I must pass out for a second, because when I wake I feel the chilly gel, the ultrasound wand. “I consent to whatever you have to do. Just make sure I live.”

After that, sounds and conversations come in bursts, and I follow them like a lifeline, like scenes from a TV show when I’m falling asleep but want so desperately to know what happens next.

“Measuring seven and a half weeks.”

“Left fallopian tube.”

“Rupturing as we speak.”

A weak heartbeat. Is it mine or—

“Get the medevac. We need to get her to Damascus.” A pause. A husky female voice, the gynecologist on staff. I’ve met her. “I don’t care how much it costs. A ruptured ectopic pregnancy counts as a surgical emergency, no matter where the fuck we are.”

After that, everything goes black, and I wake up in Assad University Hospital, a tiny incision on my left side held together with stitches and glue. They tell me I was conscious on the way to the hospital, talking about my husband and telling them to call him, but there was no working number listed. But I don’t remember that ride at all. Instead, the repeated image, false memories imposed over real ones, of cool hands against my forehead.

“Hush now. I’ll be back, girl.”

In Damascus, a very good surgeon removes my left ovary and fallopian tube, and with it, an amniotic sac and a tiny embryo that would have lived if only it had implanted in the right place. It even had a heartbeat on the ultrasound, for a brief moment in time, a tiny flicker that ended as soon as it had begun.

I don’t cry. Instead, I eat ice chips, try to talk with nurses and doctors using hand gestures. There is silence. And the hushed voice of the doctor who removed my ovary, telling me about the scarring she found, about the very real possibility that I’d never have children of my own, asking if there’s anyone she can call, if my husband has another number. She holds my hand in hers, even though I can see that she’s uncomfortable when I shake my head and say that no, there’s no one I would like to call. No one at all.

Slowly, methodically, I fill out paperwork during the week I’m in the hospital on IV antibiotics and bedrest. I won’t quit Doctors Without Borders, but I will bury myself even further away, somewhere cold and punishing and nowhere near Damascus. The day the transfer comes through, I get an email from Ash on my phone. I read it, and then delete it.

And after that, I don’t bother to read his emails at all.

Instead, I create memories of Ash, tucking them away until it seems harmless to think of him from time to time while I clean my tiny apartment in the Ukraine.

It’ll all be over when I get home, I tell myself. I have myself convinced of it. And soon enough, Ash’s letters and emails quit coming. And he seems like a memory, frozen in time, more than ever.

Maybe I should read his explanations.

Maybe I should go back in time and wait for him to tell me he loves me. But this cold apartment is my reality for three years, and the distant memories of a tall, redheaded man are a warm, golden daydream before everything broke and I realized who and what I was.

Present Day

The locker room is empty when I come in for my shift.

“Good,” I groan. I slump down on the bench at the back of the room and close my eyes. It’s like I woke up with a tequila hangover and then had six or seven people beat me with boards.

A brief memory flashes through my mind, but I can’t grasp it before it’s gone. I shudder with fear and an old longing I absolutely cannot place.

Stomach virus? Gastritis?

A wave of nausea hits me, and I think about the chicken and white bean chili Ash made me last night. It had smelled absolutely horrible when he was cooking it, like he’d taken every spice in my cabinet and combined them in a screaming mess of smells. But it tasted excellent going down, especially when I smothered it in cheese and sour cream and ate it with chips.

My stomach clenches, and I can barely breathe.

An image—light and sound—flashes through my mind violently. I could hear a flicker of a heartbeat, nausea and pain sweeping over me.

No.

My stomach lurches.

“Food poisoning. Maybe the chicken was—”

Oh fuck.

I crawl over to the trash can in the corner and dry heave once, and then again. I almost wish I could vomit because my whole body feels hot, bloated, and swollen. All at once, everything seems like it’s on fire—my ass and my stomach and even my breasts. I heave hard again and finally empty the contents of my stomach. A wave of relief so powerful comes over me that I thank God, the universe, and the hospital administration for the trashcan in the corner and my ability to vomit into it. I sit back onto my haunches and look up to see one of the nurses staring down at me with her hand on her hip. My pulse speeds up, and my gut tightens like I might start the process all over again.

I push the memory from my mind like I have for the last three years. It’s not something I can think about. Not something I like to think about.

I ran.

This would never catch me.

This hasn’t caught me. It’s not possible.

“You okay?” The nurse looks at me quizzically, cocking her head to one side.

Why does it feel like I got caught doing something I shouldn’t?

I nod and wipe my mouth on my sleeve. Fortunately, the only thing that comes away is drool. It wouldn’t be a good look for a resident to be sitting in a corner of the locker room, with vomit smeared all over her face.

“Stomach virus? It’s not the season for them.” The nurse comes over and helps me to my feet. I look down at her name tag. Zelda. Why didn’t I know that before? I’ve seen her dozens of times.

I shrug. “Zelda, thanks. I’d really prefer to just work my shift. I’m feeling a lot better now—just gross and like, a little dizzy and buzzed—kind of like I’m—”

“Drunk?” She takes my arm, and shamefully, I lean against her, my head spinning. She’s wearing some kind of vanilla-scented perfume, and that makes me want to barf all over again. But there’s nothing left in my stomach to come up.

It was cold in the hospital room when I woke up, and it hurt, not like the shoulder, but like a profound emptiness that could not be filled.

I knit my brows together and look over at her. Beneath the reddish purple dye job, her roots are brown, and her eyes the same color. She’s maybe ten years older than I am, but somehow she’s still hip with her tiny diamond nose piercing and messy, purple-hued bun.

“How did you know? How I feel, I mean?”

It was all pain. One moment of a heartbeat flicker. No hope—all signs of life were gone.

“That’s how it was with my first one. With the second, it was more exhaustion that nausea. But they say it’s different every time.” She raises an arched eyebrow at me. “Maybe we should run your bloods and—”

“The first one what?” I already know the answer. It strikes me that I’ve seen this nurse before, walking out of the hospital day care with a little girl about four years ago.

And each time I see her, a pang of longing, deep and angry.

She’d be three now.

“The first kid.” She starts walking me over to the door, and I freeze. “The first one was a boy. You’ve seen Ella, right? Looks just like her dad. He’s one of the nurses in pediatrics. Their dad, not the boy. The boy is seven—”

I start counting on my fingers, rewinding the days and trying to remember when I started my last pack of pills. I envision a calendar in my head and almost vomit again when it pops up in my mind.

“That’s not—this isn’t possible. I have endometriosis. I lost my left ovary and tube three years ago. The OB said that IVF was my only—”

“Oh.” She walks me out of the door and down the hall to the lab. She leans in close and brushes my hair back over my shoulder. “You know what you didn’t say? ‘This isn’t possible because I didn’t have unprotected sex with my boyfriend.’”

“Husband,” I croak. My throat feels like someone forcibly opened my throat and poured acid down my gullet. Actually, that’s just about what happened, except my angry stomach was the person.

She shoves a cup into my hand. “Pee in this. Then we’ll take your blood if it’s positive. Should be able to tell how far along you are.”

“Oh God.” I look at the cup in horror. “Okay. Everything is going to be okay.” Zelda pats me on the shoulder. “Give me the stick and I’ll test it myself. I’d be five weeks. Take my blood, and schedule me for an ultrasound—tomorrow.” Zelda shrugs and hands me a pregnancy test, and I head into the bathroom next to the lab. As soon as I complete the test, two parallel pink lines show up.

My heart starts beating fast, vision failing, twisting and turning.

In my line of work, I’ve seen plenty of faint lines, lines that indicate tiny amounts of hormones circulating in a body. But this line is bright fucking pink and appeared in less than ten seconds.

Is there pain?

There’s no pain.

I close my eyes and put my hand to my stomach. By five weeks, there’s an amniotic sac, and a tiny yolk that will nourish the embryo until the placenta is done growing. The embryo itself is “no larger than a grain of rice.” I remember that from my bio text book in college.

And I remember it from the ultrasound picture. The doctor who removed her gave me the picture to keep. I keep it with Ash’s letters.

It had been so strange to me back then. The endometriosis was always there, looming, barely helped by birth control.

Scarred.

Despite the lingering feeling of nausea, a warmth spreads through me as I straighten out my clothes and look back at the pink lines on the test. The sensation lasts only for a few moments. When I look in the mirror and straighten out my hair, the grief rushes over me in a wave so powerful, it almost knocks me down. I sob and put my hand to my stomach, a ghost of the old pain coming back.

It’s strange—since I started seeing Ash again, the pain hasn’t hit me like this. It’s like that empty space was finally starting to fill up.

It seemed fun, when we’d gotten together again. It seemed almost inconsequential that Ash was still working with criminals in town, even if it was only peripherally. He’d assured me that his business would be clean from now on—there were just a few details to work out, and then he’d make his gym legit. A crushing weight settles over me, and I throw the empty cup in the trash. I slip the pregnancy test into one of the lab’s plastic bags as I walk out the door and move briskly down the hall. By now, someone’s surely paging me for the day.

Zelda appears from nowhere and stops me as I turn the corner. “Hold out your arm,” she orders me. I do as she says, and she takes my blood while I stand in the hallway. “Repeat in forty-eight hours. We can get you in today for an ultrasound.”

“Tomorrow is fine. There’s no pain. It was—it was ectopic last time.”

“Got it.” She pats my hand.

I smile wanly, and she nods and then vanishes back to the lab where she draws and catalogs blood all day.

I don’t think she’ll spread secrets, but there are secrets in my life far more damning than this one.

The secret husband.

My mother’s failing business.

Every bit of illegal shit that happened in New York.

What’s one more secret? I’ll add it to the pile and deal with it when it becomes a reality, if it becomes a reality.

I put on a clean lab coat and bag up the vomit, tossing it conveniently into one of the medical waste containers as I move along to the emergency room. Before another episode hits, I stop at the pharmacy and pick up some anti-nausea meds.

Hope is of no use. It’s not a certain thing.

There’s no time for starry-eyed fantasy. I’m a medical professional. And I know as well as anyone that this embryo might not make it past the first twelve weeks. If it lasts beyond that and I start showing, then I can let that warmth take me over again. And then, and only then, can I tell Ash.

We’re your typical husband and wife, and this child—no, this collection of cells—won’t make it any different.

Wait and see.

As I move throughout my day, I find myself wondering if it might be a boy, like Zelda said. I still have that buzzed, humming feeling, and I wonder if it has to do with the new resident I’m harboring.

Best not to think about it. Not until it starts to matter.

Still, I find myself patting my lower belly, even though it’s not really anything yet. Just a collection of cells, a tiny thing.

I’ll see if it’s in there tomorrow, but there are no guarantees of anything at all.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Present Day

Dr. Summer Colington is acting weird as fuck. Not that she’s ever really normal. She’s a mess, leaving keys all over the apartment and absentmindedly rearranging my spice rack so it’s not alphabetical. She’s taken to eating noodles with butter as her sole source of nutrition, and she rushes out of the apartment in the mornings like an absolute madwoman, like the hospital might disappear and vanish if she’s not there at least an hour early.

When she walks in the door in the evenings, she’s quiet, absorbed in looking at her phone or studying her textbooks.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was keeping something from me. But that’s all over now—isn’t it? We know we’re fucking broke, and we know the whole history, both of us.

This night is no different.

My phone is buzzing in my pocket when she opens the door, and I ignore it again. The woman standing in front of me takes my full attention. There are dark circles under her eyes, and the space beneath her cheekbones looks hollow. She’s as skinny as when I met her in New York, jeans hanging off of her body. She glances at me and then averts her eyes like she’s ashamed. She’s worse tonight, worse than she has been. It’s like someone has taken the light inside of her and snuffed it out, replacing her enthusiasm and charm with dark gray worry.

“Sunshine,” I say. I stand behind the sofa and watch her as she unpacks her things. It almost looks like her purse is weighing her down.

“Hm?” She looks at her phone absently, and collapses in one of the chairs.

“What’s going on?”

“Oh, nothing. I have a stomach virus or something. I’m not sure what’s going on.” No eye contact, and she starts with her hands, twisting them in circles. “But I think that’s it. I haven’t been sleeping great since we talked...” Her voice trails off and she stops, her face growing even paler, if that’s possible.

“I told you that time isn’t an issue. We’re not leaping into it—the uh, parenting thing.” The words feel strange rolling off of my tongue. Before Summer, I’d never even considered being part of a family. Cullen’s fucked up family was my fucked up family. I was the only child of an Irish mobster, deeply in debt to a bigger, meaner Irish mobster. After I failed at fighting, I did the only thing I could do and went to pay the family’s debt.

It was Summer who made me see a way out of it. It was Summer who made me realize that staying in New York would leave me in the clutches of Cullen’s men forever.

And in the three years she was gone, I dreamed of her. Often, the dreams were about her freckled skin, her breasts in my hands, her body crashing into mine and begging for more.

But once, I dreamed of her holding a child, a toddler with bright blue-green eyes and wispy blond hair. And then the dream came again and again.

I’m glad I didn’t tell her about that bullshit, because I’ve gone and made her feel like this—guilty, sad, and alone. Something tightens in my chest as I stand over her, and I realize it then—when I told her I wanted a child, I took her back to the nightmare place, the hospital where she lost her child. Then, like a fucking asshole cherry on top of an asshole cake, I let it slip that the head of a particularly violent faction of the Irish mafia in New York was her father.

Summer doesn’t respond to me.

Instead, she quietly flips through PubMed articles on her phone. To Summer, reading studies on intestinal parasites is what reading a comic book or romance novel is for someone else. I lean forward and look over her shoulder, pretending I’m just shifting. The studies she’s reading seem to involve endometriosis and miscarriage. When I see it, pain hits me, my throat growing tight.

“Summer—” I start, but I’m not sure what I should say.

She drops her phone and covers it with her hand, then looks up at me. Her green eyes are dim. “Yeah?”

“There’s something wrong.” I reach out and touch her hair lightly. She looks like she wants to flinch, but she doesn’t. “If it’s about the other night... I’m just so...” I pause and swallow hard. “I’m just so fucking sorry I wasn’t there. I’ll never forgive myself. I just want to make it right. How can I make it right?”

She touches my hand, her caress lighter than a feather brushing against my skin. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Ash.” She pulls her bottom lip in and chews on it. “I was really angry, but I’m not anymore. We were pawns in a sick game.” Pausing again, she squeezes my hand, but weakly. “I’m mad at Bianca. I’m mad at Cullen. But we can’t undo the past.”

“You mentioned the fellowship—is that something you want? I don’t care how much you work as long as I’m the one you come home to.”

Her breath catches, and tears come to her eyes. I stand there like an idiot, leaning over her, wondering if I said the wrong thing. But she’s still holding on to my hand.

“I don’t know what I want right now, Ash. But I know I’ll figure it out. I thought that’s what I wanted.” She leans back and closes her eyes, and I come around the couch and sit down next to her.

There’s nothing right about what’s happening to her right now, and that constricted feeling comes back to my chest. It’s unfamiliar—it’s not the same warmth I felt when I first saw her again, and it’s not the feeling of agony I had when I left her. When I look at her—sallow-skinned and deeply, deeply sad, I realize what it is. It’s fear—something I don’t usually feel, not for another person. I sigh and reach out for her hand.

“I’ll get the money for the gym, somehow. Josh’s fight is coming up. We’re going to be okay.”

She opens her eyes and moves closer, leaning her body into mine. “I know. You’re the one I’m coming home to. And that’s good, no matter what happens.”

“Are you okay, Summer? Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.” She sighs and moves in closer, and I hold her. I never thought I was the type of man who would need comfort from someone else, from a woman, no less. But holding Summer reassures me that we aren’t all the things we lost—we’re bigger than the pain of the past. As long as we have each other, we’re far better off than we were before. “We’ll get good news, I hope.” She opens one eye and looks at me. “Can we still afford this apartment?”

“Barely, Sunshine.” My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I take it out again.

It’s Natalie, Josh’s stepsister. Josh is injured, it says. Might not be able to fight.

Fuck.

My chest constricts again as I slip my phone back in my pocket.

“In this case, ‘barely’ is the same thing as yes,” Summer says. “Sometimes ‘barely’ is bad, but in this case it’s good.”

My phone buzzes again, but I don’t look at it this time. I’m not in the mood for any more bad news. Instead, I pull Summer over on my lap and kiss her. The kiss isn’t wild or passionate, nor is it a grand gesture. It’s meant to reaffirm everything I’ve said to her, starting with the first time I said I loved her. I kiss her until she melts into me, until color returns to her cheeks and she no longer seems on the verge of meltdown. She drops her phone, puts her hands beneath my shirt and lifts it over my head, fingers tracing each one of my tattoos.

There’s a deep, distant sadness in her eyes still, but she’s flushed pink, and she kisses me again. Her shirt comes off, and I fall into the rhythm I adopt when I want to make her come. I realize as I’m pulling off her jeans, as I’m exploring her tight, perfect sex with my fingers and tongue, that I know her body now. I crave her in the same way I always have, but there’s relief and comfort when I slide my cock into her and hear her gasp, when I ride her, slow and certain, until she shakes against me and whispers my name, telling me she loves me. I hold off for a long time, making her come twice, and then a third time before I can’t stand it anymore, and I have to let go deep inside of her, shaking and shuddering.

“You’re fucking sexy as hell, even when you’re sad,” I tell her.

She looks at me quizzically, her legs still wrapped around me. “What makes you think I’m sad?”

Her hips move against mine, and she feels so sweet and warm that I might be able to go again. Leaning over her, I cup her breasts and roll her nipples between my fingers. “You just seem like it.”

“I’m worried,” she says. For a second, it looks like she might say something more, but instead she tightens her grip around me and lifts her lips to my ear. “Fuck me again,” she whispers softly, “so I don’t feel anything at all.”

I groan and feel myself growing harder inside of her. She gasps and kisses me, moaning when I thrust inside of her again and oblige her excellent suggestion.

Later, when we’re sleeping, naked bodies entwined, I have an idea.

It’s stupid and foolish and full of grand gestures, and it’s probably a terrible idea, especially for two people who are broke and depending on Linda Colington to get her shit together and run a successful business.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Present Day

I saw the baby a week ago. The ultrasound technician said she usually couldn’t see a heartbeat at five weeks, six days. But there it was, next to the yolk sac. A tiny flicker, 156 beats a minute. Strong, healthy, promising.

For an hour, I allowed myself a tiny speck of hope.

There was an amniotic sac, exactly where it should be, nestled in for a long journey.

There’s no reason it won’t survive. No reason.

I lean against the wall of the locker room. My stomach is beyond fucked up, and exhaustion settles over me. Then I hear a familiar voice fill the room, and a hand settles on my shoulder. I nearly jump to the ceiling, and I turn around to see my friend, Natalie. Another girl with a thing for fighters. She pulls me into a hug, and I relax into her. Even though she’s a few years younger, she’s been my best friend since what feels like the beginning of time.

“Natalie! Congratulations on your first shift!” I put on my peppiest voice, and thankfully—for once—a blush rises in my cheeks. When I looked in the mirror this morning, my skin was positively gray. The excitement takes me over, and I jump up and down with her and squeal. She makes me feel like we’re ten again, pretending that we’re nurses. But we’re doctors now, and as I hug Natalie, a feeling takes me over that’s stronger than nausea, more persistent than exhaustion. It’s a feeling of hope.

She brushes a silky blond lock behind her ear and looks down, almost embarrassed. “It’s so weird to be back in town,” she says.

I laugh and hug her again. For a second, it feels like there’s a stitch in my side, a throbbing pain, deep and low in my pelvis. But I ignore it. “You’re telling me, Nat. It’s weird as anything. It’s been—how long has it been?”

“Two years.” She smiles. I visited her at school on one brief trip home. I’d seen my mother and my aunt. And I had never run into Ash. The father of my child. My children. I gulp hard and almost start crying again. The idea of telling Natalie rests on the tip of my brain, but I know she has things to deal with that have nothing to do with me or that tall, redheaded man who’s wormed his way back into my life.

“You seen Josh yet?” I ask her. “He had a fight last night, right?”

“Yeah—he—I—I’ve actually got to get going.” She blushes, almost as bright pink as I do when I’m embarrassed. “End of my shift and all. There’s a bunch of stuff I’ve got to do today.” Natalie grins and squeezes me tight again before she picks up her purse and leaves, hair bouncing behind her, a spring in her step that I’m not even sure she’s aware of.

“Bye Nat!” I don’t think she catches the weird desperation that I hear in my own voice.

She turns and smiles at me, and a big part of me feels like I’m home again for good. As soon as she walks out of the door, my stomach clenches again. Or is it something lower, something in my pelvis? The pain hits hard, and I almost fall to my knees. It feels like the top half of my body is trying to separate from my bottom half, and I wish Natalie were still here. With her encyclopedic knowledge of all things medical, she’d know what to do, what to say. I walk over to the door, my lower back throbbing, and peek my head around the corner. Natalie is nowhere to be seen, so I take a deep breath and put on my scrubs.

There’s nothing wrong. There’s nothing wrong. I keep repeating it in my head.

The cramping and pulsing continues as I walk down the hall, then a hard cramp zaps through my center, followed by a hot rush of fluid. Even before I look, I know that it’s blood, hot, sticky, coppery, full of iron and terror.

“For one day. For one day, I was okay. Goddammit—” I mutter to myself, walking toward the lab. In the seconds it takes to get to there, it feels like the only thing I want in the world is this child, this life, the untenable hope that things might be okay. It’s a hope that I can’t navigate, one I can’t really have. A bright plume of blood hits my scrubs, and I start sobbing at the door of the lab.

“Can someone—I need someone to get me an ultrasound—”

At the same moment, both Priya and Zelda walk into the lab. Zelda drops the files she’s carrying and Priya grabs me by the arm firmly and takes me down to one of the private rooms. She looks at me, and I think she’s going to say something like, “What is this now?” But instead, she just nods to Zelda and places a hospital gown on my lap. The pain eases enough for me to strip out of my bloody pants as Priya draws the curtain and Zelda runs through the door. Before she pulls the curtain back, I text Ash.

Get to the hospital, now. I need you.

I stare at the screen while Zelda takes my vitals and Priya looks through my chart. To her credit, she maintains complete professionalism and doesn’t even look up as she takes down my information. “Female, twenty-eight, five and a half weeks pregnant, presenting with abdominal pain,” she mutters to herself, just like she’s in a room full of residents.

“HCG was 2000 on Monday, and 4500 on the nose today,” Zelda says as she wraps my arm in a blood pressure cuff. “Patient’s ultrasound showed a healthy pregnancy yesterday,” Zelda says, patting my hand. “And there’s no reason to believe it’s any different today.”

“Certainly not.” Priya looks up, and to my surprise, she smiles. “We’re just making sure,” she says softly. There are voices outside the door, and I might be hallucinating, but one of them sounds like Ash.

“My wife—” I hear him say, and there’s a tall shadow moving outside of the translucent window.

The door opens, and I see Debbie peaking her head around the corner. “Your friend is here. Says he’s your husband.” Debbie raises her eyebrow and looks at me meaningfully. Tears sting my eyes. This isn’t exactly what I had planned when I thought about revealing the secrets that I thought weighed me down. Life often doesn’t give you what you expect, however.

“Send him in,” I say, lying with my feet hanging off the edge of the table, covered only in my scrub shirt and a hospital gown draped over my lap. Zelda begins to set up the ultrasound machine, and Priya’s eyes go wide when Ash walks in. It wasn’t a decision to contact Ash. It was more like instinct. With the anxiety, the pain, the horror rising in my body, I reached out to the one person who made me feel truly safe.

“What’s wrong, Sunshine?” He comes and kneels next to me, taking my hand and holding it, his touch firm and reassuring.

There’s no more tucking these memories away, no more denial or separation, only him and me no matter what our history.

“I’m—I was—” Tears roll down from my eyes, pain dredging up from the past as Zelda brings the ultrasound machine around to the front of the bed.

“Best just to take a look,” she says, eyeing Ash. He grips my hand, and Zelda puts on gloves and nods to me. “Here we go, Dr. Collington.”

The touch of gel against my skin shocks me into reality, and Zelda moves the wand right to the spot where she saw the sac yesterday. There’s a click, and the sound turns on in the room. “See there?” she says. “Nothing to worry about in the slightest. Well, there’s a little subchorionic hematoma. But you can take a few days off, and you’ll be fine. It’s a little one.”

Ash’s jaw drops, and he looks at me, his brows knitted together, eyes questioning. The sound of the tiny, flickering heartbeat ticks on inside the room. There are no arms or legs, and the picture looks eerily alien, a tiny life glowing on a screen, causing all this trouble inside of me. Ash grips my hand so tight it feels like it might fall off, and then he smiles.

“That’s our—you’re—is it?” He stumbles over his words, sounding more like me than himself. We hadn’t ever talked about this—it was never a part of the plan for us. But here we are, together in a cold hospital room, looking at our future child on a screen, together, our lives intertwined and finally—almost—resolved. There’s the small issue of money, and the fact that Ash had the idea to declare bankruptcy and move back to New York.

But with the way he’s holding my hand, I’m sure he’s not going anywhere right now. He’ll be here, by my side, even if everything goes south. There’s more than just a marriage certificate connecting us, and there always has been, ever since that night we went home together.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Present Day

Summer is still leaning on me when we come into the apartment, and she jumps when she flicks the light on.

“Shit,” she says. “Why is Josh here?” Josh is in fact asleep on my couch, shirtless, with a pillow pulled over his head. There are papers strewn all over the floor that I keep immaculately clean, and there’s a whining sound coming from behind the sofa. Josh doesn’t stir, and Summer looks at me with wide eyes.

“Look, Sunshine, I forgot to tell you. I thought you were sad about not being able to have a kid the other night, and now it turns out that you can—with all the monitoring and stuff that they suggest.”

There’s a disconcerted yap from behind the sofa, and Summer raises an eyebrow like she can’t possibly comprehend what she’s hearing. “And you did what, exactly?”

“I got a—”

Josh sits bolt upright and looks at both of us in confusion. “Is it time to walk the puppy?”

“No,” she whispers. But it’s not the same kind of “no” that I heard when I told her Cullen was her father. It’s quite a bit better than that. She rushes behind the sofa, and I hear a crate opening, followed by excited yapping and girlish squeals—the kind I haven’t heard from Summer in a long time.

I throw a pillow at Josh and sigh. “Get out of here, man. You need to be in a bed, fucking recovering. Thanks for looking out.”

Josh gets his bearings and claps me on the shoulder, then looks back briefly at Summer, who stands up from behind the sofa. She’s holding a tan, white, and black Corgi puppy that weighed six pounds at his first vet visit. The puppy looks around in confusion and then licks Summer on the cheek, making little excited yelps. Summer grins, her face lighting up, happiness glowing from within.

“Looks like she likes it, man,” Josh says. “Don’t know what’s going on with you two, but I wish you the best of luck.”

“We’re... seeing each other.”

And we’re married. And she’s pregnant. But there will be plenty of time to reveal that shit after everything else gets figured out.

Josh walks out, and the door closes, leaving the three of us together. I’m not counting the baby quite yet since the puppy takes up a whole lot more space.

“You’re crazy,” she says, but she can’t stop smiling. The dog licks her again, and she comes over and sits down on the sofa, holding the Corgi like it’s a human child. The puppy struggles, wobbly legs flailing around. Summer strokes its pink belly until its movements become slower and slower and it falls into a light sleep.

“We can take it back.” For some reason, my heart is beating hard and fast. I’ve fucked up so many times with Summer. It doesn’t seem like a puppy would be a major fuck-up on the grand list of fuck-ups, but you never know.

“Don’t you dare.” The puppy’s legs move in its sleep, and she laughs. “We might not have enough money to pay for its shots, but my mom fucking loves dogs, and she can pay back some of the money she owes you by dog-sitting and buying food or whatever.” She snuggles the puppy closer, and it licks her lazily.

“She doesn’t owe me any money, Sunshine. We’re family.”

“We’ll need the help. Especially with—especially with the possibility of another addition.”

“I know we’ll figure it out. We’re resourceful people.”

“And I’ve heard having a puppy at the same time as having a baby is a great idea,” she says.

I raise my eyebrow and touch the puppy’s cold nose. Then his eyes pop open, and he leaps down from the sofa like he has some place else to be. “Really?”

She laughs and gets up to follow the puppy. “Fuck no, Ash. This is among the stupidest ideas we’ve ever had. I say ‘among’ because it seems like you and I can come up with some pretty fucking stupid ideas.” Absently, she reaches down and pats her belly, even though it’s just as flat as it was before—flatter, maybe, since she started eating two servings of buttered noodles a day, followed by absolutely nothing else. “What should we name him?”

“I’ve never been good at naming anything. I had a dog when I was a kid,” I say, stretching and yawning. “But I named it Jonny. I had a stuffed bear too, one I carried everywhere. I named that one Jonny too.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket again, and I pick it up as Summer chases off after the puppy. The damn number is from New York again. “I’m not interested in whatever life insurance bullshit you’re selling,” I say.

“Ash?” A voice I barely recognize speaks to me from the other end of the line. It sounds like she’s far away, or underground. Just like what it used to sound like when Cullen called me from his soundproofed apartment in Soho.

“Bianca?”

Summer whips around and looks at me, her mouth hanging open. “I haven’t heard from her in a year,” she whispers at me. I wave my hand, holding the phone closer so I can hear whatever Bianca has to say.

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with you and Linda for the past two weeks,” she says. “Where the hell have you been? I don’t have Summer’s number—”

“Linda’s phone got cut off, and it seems she hasn’t gotten it turned the hell back on, Bianca. What’s going on?” I swallow hard. The last time I spoke to Bianca, she told me to stay away from Summer. I haven’t exactly disobeyed the Family’s orders, since I waited to see her until after she was done with her time abroad.

Summer makes wild gestures, like she wants me to give her the phone. From the look on her face, it seems like she’s damn well ready to confront her birth mother about the whole messy business. But after what she’s been through today, I’d imagine it’s not the time. I put a hand up, because I also have an inkling about what Bianca’s going to say.

“Cullen was...” Her voice is suddenly full of emotion. I didn’t spell it out for Summer, but I know that the two parents who abandoned her have been living together the past three years. Talk about a happy family. “He was very sick. I know Summer didn’t want to hear from me, and yours was the only number I had.”

“He was sick?”

Bianca gasps, like she’s trying to catch her breath. “He’s gone, Jonny.” I hear her sob, like she’d kept her emotions from bubbling up until this very moment. “A few days ago. He sent a package to Summer.”

The girl in question—a woman now, my wife—stands in front of me, looking fearful and anxious and understandably sad. “What’s happening?” she whispers.

I raise my hand again. “What package, Bianca?”

“All the details of his will. And an account he put into her name. It’s supposed to be paid on death. She needs to get the money transferred to her account before these wise guys up here figure out what Cullen has done.”

“Christ,” I mumble. “Really?”

“I told you this would happen someday, Ash. I take it you took back up with her, didn’t you? Her mother said as much a few weeks back.” I don’t answer because there’s a slight disapproving tone in her voice, and I know she has no goddamn right to say anything about what Summer does with her life. She abdicated that right twenty-eight years ago. “I trust you can tell her to open that damn package and do what she needs to do. I swear, that girl—so disorganized.”

“Yes, Bianca,” I say through clenched teeth.

“No need to get testy, Ash. You never divorced her. This impacts you, too.” There’s a shrug in her voice, like I should be graciously accepting her call. She doesn’t know it, but Ash offered me money the day Summer left—money that made sure I stayed away from her for good. Call it pride or love that came two decades late. Summer could have the money for all the trouble these two caused her, but I wouldn’t take money to stay away from my wife, a woman I wanted from the moment I laid eyes on her.

“It’s her choice what she does with it—” My heart is pounding hard. I know what this means for Summer—medical school loans paid off, maybe a down payment on a house. It all depends on how much it is. And I don’t want to ask.

Summer stomps her foot and runs over to me, grabbing the phone from my hand and bringing it to her ear. “B—why are you calling Ash? It’s not about—” She pauses, and I can hear the cadence of Bianca’s voice on the line. “Oh shit,” Summer says. She turns to me and sits down heavily in the overstuffed blue chair. The puppy appears, pushing a white box across the floor, nipping at it desperately and chewing on the edge of it. “Yeah, Jesus, okay B. I’m—I’m sorry, I guess. Pancreatic cancer is a bitch. I know—” She pauses, searching for the right words to say to a mother who abandoned her about a father who never knew her. “I know this is a loss for you, B.”

Summer holds the phone away from her ear, and I hear Bianca’s voice. “I hope you can forgive him,” she says. “I love you, Summer. If you look back at everything I’ve done, love was always the reason.”

“I love you too, B,” she says as tears form in her eyes. I gesture for her to give the phone back to me. She does, and I click the off button before Bianca can add any more emotional touches to the conversation.

Summer looks at me, face stricken and gray again. “What is happening?” The words come out in a whisper.

“Everything, all at once.” I get up and pick up the puppy and the package. I sit the puppy on her lap and put the package on the coffee table in front of her. The Corgi leans its head into Summer’s chest, and she scratches its floppy ears. “First of all,” I say, looking at her seriously. “We need to give this puppy a strong Irish name.”

She laughs and squeezes the little dog to her chest. “I guess we do.”

“Darragh?”

“No one can pronounce that.” Her eyes flick over to the white box on the table. “What about Emmett? That was my grandfather’s name. He’s the one family member that doesn’t have shit to do with this.”

“Well, he can’t speak for himself. Maybe he did, and we just don’t know. Your family’s pretty shady.”

“Look who’s talking. Here, take Emmett.” She hands me the hapless puppy, and he yelps and wiggles like he can’t quite control his body.

Tentatively, Summer picks up the white package and opens it. A heavy stack of papers sits inside, all very legal looking and notarized. “Is this really what B said it is?”

“I think so.” I can’t help but think of the divorce papers she served me with after she first saw me again. These are a damn sight better than those papers—but I don’t say anything because I don’t want to give her any ideas.

She flips through the stack, eyes scanning the pages, and then she sits back into the chair with a deep, shaky breath.

“It’s—it’s a lot.” Her eyes meet mine.

“How much is ‘a lot’?”

“A lot,” she says again, raising her eyebrows. “Like more than I’ve ever had in my bank account, plus more than my mother’s ever had in her bank account.”

“Summer, how much?”

“Five hundred and thirty-six thousand dollars.”

“Five hundred and thirty-six thousand dollars?”

“That’s exactly what I just said. I know you’re old,” she says, laughing. “But can you not hear?”

“Wow—that’s—that’s a significant amount of money.”

“It is.” She twirls her hair between her fingers and blows air between her lips in a put-putting sound. “Can I just leave this on your coffee table until tomorrow? I can’t with this right now. I really can’t. I’m not supposed to be happy that someone’s gone. And while we’re at it, I’m not supposed to be pregnant either.”

I tilt my head and shrug. “Emmett probably needs to go out. Let’s take him to the beach. It’s September—the tourists are gone.”

“Nags Head or the Manteo boardwalk?”

“We’ll go to the boardwalk. We can get dinner and go see Linda. Introduce her to Emmett.”

“She’s going to freak out,” Summer says. Then, suddenly, the tears come. I’m not in the dark like I was last time.

There’s so much, all at once. The journey here has been weird and twisted, arduous and long. But I always knew I’d come back to Summer—I always knew this day would happen. Not exactly like this, because I couldn’t have known, but a day we’d remember forever, one we’d talk about when we’re old and not beautiful anymore.

“Should we get married?” I ask her.

She looks at me and starts laughing hard through her tears. “Why not? Second time is a charm.”

“I think it’s the third time.”

“Whatever. Either way, our divorce lawyer is going to be very confused. And so is any kind of officiant. What will we call it?”

“Renewing our vows, or maybe ‘Saying our vows sober this time.’ Would that look good on a card?” I stand up and take her hand, leading her out to the car and picking up Emmett’s leash and collar on the way.

I never doubted this day—and I hope that Summer has as much faith in herself as I do in her. She stands on her tiptoes and kisses me before we get in the car.

“I love you, Jonathan Ash.”

“I love you, Summer Colington. Every day for all of these years, and each one going forward, for the rest of our lives.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

When the tourists are gone for the summer, Kill Devil Hills feels completely different. There aren’t cars up and down Beach Road, and the ice cream shops close up, except for the one that’s right on the corner near our neighborhood. The sirens aren’t going off at all hours of the night, and sometimes the emergency room is almost empty save for the few locals and fishermen who seem like constants. It’s during the summer that everything feels alive, bustling with people who only see the place for a short part of the year.

I missed it when I was away, and I didn’t know that I’d ever want to be back. There was a way I envisioned my life going, and it didn’t have anything to do with the life I came back and found, right here, waiting for me.

The house isn’t big, but we knew from the moment we saw it. The floors are all made of palm, paler than bamboo and warmer than tile. The bedroom is just big enough for a king-sized bed and a bassinet right next to it. The first time I saw it, I was only two months pregnant, and we had no idea if this pregnancy was ever going to make it.

We stood on the porch, and I placed my hand over my belly, willing something to happen inside—willing something to move or keep growing or give me any kind of sign.

“You know too much about medical stuff, Sunshine. Stop worrying. Let’s go inside and see what this one is like.”

Until that day, it felt tenuous, like a joke the world was playing on both of us, like this thing that was neither real nor imaginary. If I think back on it, the pregnancy was kind-of like looking for a house. We’d seen ten that never felt real to us, that never felt like anything close to a home. It began to feel like there wasn’t anything that would suit us, that there wasn’t a house on the market that we could put our finger on and say, “This one is ours. This is the place.”

“I only know too much because I studied. It’s a good thing. It means I know what can go wrong—”

“That’s the problem. You have to listen to me, because this time, despite everything else in our lives, absolutely nothing is going to go wrong.”

Ash peered into the living room, eyes growing big as we waited for the realtor to show up. She was late, but after we stood waiting, talking about what we wanted, she arrived in a frazzled mess. It felt ceremonial when we followed her inside and saw the floors, the living room that extended toward the kitchen, black granite countertops and white cabinets that looked more like they belonged in a farmhouse than a beach cottage. Light played through the windows, and mottled shadows of the trees from outside danced over the floor.

Even before we walked onto the screen porch and saw the sprawling backyard, I knew I was already home.

Some days, I come home late, and some nights, Ash is home long after midnight. The road isn’t an easy one. Even though we’re technically still young, we feel much older. The road that we took to get here was winding, and there were twists and turns we didn’t expect.

On this night, though, everything feels just right. I waddle over to the sofa, already carrying what feels like far more than the weight I’ve gained. Ash will be home shortly. For now, I’m content to put my legs up and wait, eyes closed, savoring our hard-won peace. It’ll all be turned on its head in the next few months, but that’s a different kind of upset than the ones we’ve been used to. It’ll be one that’s welcome, one that’s needed.

When I hear Ash at the door, my eyelids flutter open slowly, and I watch as he enters. His red hair gleams in the afternoon light, looking more like copper than ever. If I look hard enough, I know I’ll see a strand or two of gray. He hates it, but it just makes him look even more like the man I love.

“You have anything to share with me, Sunshine?”

“Let me see. There’s laundry in the washer that I don’t want to deal with, so you have to put it in the dryer.” I pause, and point over to the kitchen. “And I got take-out from the diner over on Beach Road. So you can bring that over here, because I’m not getting up.”

He goes to the kitchen and picks up the greasy white bags and two of the hand-fired plates Bianca sent from Brooklyn in December. “And?”

“And you can pick up that envelope too.” My face breaks into a smile.

“You promise you weren’t looking today?”

“I promise.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there, baby.” He puts the greasy food down on the Ikea coffee table and dishes it out over two plates, giving us both huge handfuls of French fries.

“Debbie will get the ultrasound tech to do it again next week so you can see. But I didn’t want to wait any longer—and no, I didn’t look.”

He holds the envelope in one hand and opens it, getting a grease spot on the outside flap. When he pulls the card out, he looks at it in disbelief and then meets my gaze, his eyes dancing.

“You looked at it!” I say, grabbing it out of his hands. “We were supposed to look at it at exactly the same time.” We’re both laughing, and my heart is pounding hard, nearly racing out of my chest. I hold the white index card in my hand and flip it over quickly.

Ash leans in and kisses my cheek. “It’s a boy,” he murmurs, placing one hand on my belly. At that moment, the baby gives a resounding kick that makes him feel much larger than his twenty weeks, nearly bruising my rib in the process. Ash looks at me when he feels it and kisses me again, longer and warmer this time, like one of the hungry, passionate kisses from when we first met. He doesn’t hold anything back—his hands roam over my body, hitting each sensitive place, cradling my tender breasts and the round swell of my belly.

“Food’s getting cold,” I mutter.

“Forget it, Sunshine. That’s what microwaves are for. I think I’ll have my dessert first.” He moves a hand under my dress and squeezes my thigh, then makes his way to my panties and pulls them down.

“You can’t just—” I stop mid-sentence. Ash is already coaxing moans from my throat, sending deep vibrations through my body, making me seethe and writhe and ache. “You can’t just—”

“We’re grown-ups, Summer. And we can do exactly what we please.”

His lips cover mine, and my back arches in delight.

Much later, when we’re lying on the couch and the cold French fries and wilted salads look at us accusingly from the coffee table, we slip on our clothes and eat shortcake for dinner, doling out extra whipped cream on each plate. Maybe once the baby is born, we’ll put on a show of making adult choices, and maybe we won’t, at least not until he can remember anything about how we behaved.

“Henry,” I say, the taste of strawberries still on my tongue. Even though it’s cold outside, the shortcake tastes like summer. “After your father.”

Ash nods and looks at me, taking another bite of cake. “A complicated man.”

“The way I look at it, we never would have met if it weren’t for him.”

“Might be true. Or maybe I would have found you anyway.”

“Sounds like you’re being romantic,” I say. “When I first met you, you told me you had no intention of being romantic. That you probably wouldn’t see me again.”

“I said a lot of bullshit back then. But in all this time, I haven’t met another woman like you, and I don’t think I will again. It’s forever with you, Sunshine. And no more funny business. I’m on the straight and narrow.”

“Doesn’t sound like you, Jonathan Ash.”

He finishes the cake and then brings the dessert plate to his mouth and licks the whipped cream. “Still fighting. Still got men doing what I say. But this time, it’s for their own damn good. I’m running a clean club, and I’ve got everything in line.”

“In four months, nothing will be in line.” I lean back on the sofa and pat my belly. The baby kicks my ribs gleefully. I don’t say it, but it seems like he’s a fighter, just like his dad. And I have the strangest feeling he’ll be born with a shimmery tuft of bright red hair. “You won’t be able to lick the plate in front of Henry.”

Ash laughs and pulls me into his arms. “We’ll see about that. We can figure out rules when the time comes.”

We talk about Henry and eat more shortcake until long after the sun sets, arms and legs tangled together. It finally feels like we’re back where we both belong, like this place has been waiting for us the whole time, like the drama and the time and the space apart was only preparing us.

I’d like to say I knew it all along, but I was never that smart when it came to Ash. He was a piece of the puzzle I didn’t know how to fit into my life.

But sitting here, with this life inside of me, I close my eyes and finally know that every bit of it is complete.

Excerpt from A Perfect SEAL

Prologue ~ New York City, 2014

The water sluices over my skin, hot and steaming. Like it’s purifying me. Taking me away from what happened at the party.

Fists flying, bone crunching against cartilage. My brother’s face, bleeding. Not by my hand--or I don’t think so, anyway. I can’t remember. It all fades when I think about it too hard. I didn’t even want to be there, in the fluorescent lit hotel ballroom, even though it was a party for my college graduation. For my new job at Cochran Securities. None of it seemed like an accomplishment, especially not the job. I’m Pierce Cochran after all, and it’s not exactly surprising that my father hired me at his firm the second I got out of school.

Everyone I loved was there. My mom, my dad. My younger brother, Logan, who got out on leave for this very occasion. And Arie. Beautiful Arie. Teasing lips and sweet, wide eyes. She was the only one I wanted to see.

The blood runs through my fingers.

When I walked in the room, I wished I was anywhere else. I set my own ass up for all this bullshit. The fight, the harsh words. The embarrassment. If I had to guess, this is why I’m currently standing in the shower of my hotel room, washing blood from my fists.

My hands ache. My shoulder muscles are in knots.

I close my eyes and lean my head against the shower wall. It’s cool against my throbbing head. I try to piece together the events of the night. But it’s all smoke and haze, slipping through my fingers like the red blood and water of the shower.

There was whiskey, then more whiskey, and gin with Dad. The final encore was a trio of vodka tonics. That really fucking finished me off. The alcohol took things from reasonable to unreasonable. And Arie. I kept staring at her. Watching her. Going over the supple lines of her body in my mind. I went to her and tilted her head towards mine, telling her that tonight was the night. It needed to be the night. But we fought, like we always do about this one damn thing. She’s been saving herself for marriage, and I’ve been patiently waiting for almost ten years for her to give it up. I think I stalked off to play pool with Logan when she told me ‘no,’ yet again.

Pool with Logan. Lining up my shot and trying to get just the right spin, then whiffing royally thanks to my drunken vision. Logan snickers, then takes aim, sinking three balls with a satisfied grin. He’s kicking my ass, and I hate losing to anyone, let alone my little brother.

Then I look up and see Arie slowly slipping off her sweater, exposing her smooth, glowing shoulders, and the curve of her firm breasts under a thin blue sundress. She’s driving me crazy, making it impossible for me to focus on the damn game. She looks at me with a stare so dirty, I could have fucked her right then and there; I imagine filling her perfect little mouth with my thick cock.

And seconds before, she’s telling me we were waiting. Still waiting.

She does this to me, especially when she’s been drinking. She teases me, even though she has no intention of following through. She makes me want to just… throw her down on this pool table and fuck her in front of everyone. And yes, I know just how messed up that is.

Everything that happened after that is a blur of fists flying and breaking glass.

Two frat boys I don’t recognize saunter into the hotel bar where we are having my party. They’re definitely not with us; they look like they’re on vacation from Iowa, or another flyover state. They definitely aren’t from the city.

The heat of the water burns against my broken, bruised skin, but it eases some of the pain in my throbbing muscles. I watch as blood pools at my feet, and my mind starts to put the pieces of the puzzle back together.

Did I hit them first, or did they hit me?

The guys walk right up to Arie, and they start chatting her up. One pushes a lock of her curly black hair out of her face, while the other runs a finger down the bare skin of her arm. My vision starts to go cloudy with rage.

I set my cue down on the side of the table and take a step in their direction.

Logan puts a hand on my arm. He tells me to stop and take a breath, to think through what I’m about to do, but when I lock eyes with Arie, I know there is no going back. Then I see one of the frat guys reach down and grab her ass.

And I see red.

The last thing I remember before waking up on my hotel bed is the sound my fist made when it connected with the taller kid’s jaw.

Even without clear memories, my body bears its share of physical reminders of what happened. My abdomen and chest are covered in bruises, and I can feel more on my back from where I was probably sucker-punched in the kidneys. I begrudgingly turn off the water, and grab one of the plush hotel towels to dry my hair. When I brush the towel against my head, it hurts, and when I pull the towel away, it’s stained with blood. I reach up and find shards of glass in my hair, as if a beer bottle were broken over the top of my head.

I probably had that coming.

I walk out of the bathroom naked, with every intention of just collapsing back into bed and dealing with my pissed off family in the morning.

But then I freeze.

Arie is swathed across my bed, asleep, her little blue sundress creeping up her beautiful thighs. One glance at her like that and I’m already thinking about all the different ways I could fuck her. I don’t know if that was her intention, but now it’s all I can think about. A soft groan escapes my lips, and Arie opens her eyes, smiles mischievously, and stretches seductively.

“Hey, baby,” she whispers sleepily as she brushes her hair away from her face. I can’t stop staring at the way her filmy dress hugs her curves in all the right places, the way tendrils of her hair fall onto the slope of her shoulders, against the line of her neck. My defenses are collapsing.

“Shit, Arie,” I mutter. My teeth are clenched tight.

I don’t need this tonight. My body is aching, and I know I’ve made some stupid decisions my father will make me pay for tomorrow. But as I walk up to Arie, as I tower over her and see the way her small form is shadowed in my massive frame, I feel myself getting hard. My cock throbs. I reach out and touch the curve of her cheek, soft and warm. She leans into me.

“Pierce,” she says in a hushed voice. Her eyes sparkle, but we’re both on our way to sober right now. There’s something different about this time.

Goddamnit. I’m drawn into her cool blue gaze, and I have to struggle with my self-control not to just grab her, throw her down, and fuck her senseless. Arie raises an eyebrow in a clear effort to appear seductive, but she begins to blush, and she breaks eye contact with me out of nerves. Somehow, this is even hotter. Even the makeup she is wearing can’t hide her shyness, her doubt, the fact that she doesn’t know if she’s making the right decision.

It’s all turning me on so much, I think I’m going to lose my mind.

“What are you doing in here, Arie? This isn’t a good idea if we’re just going to end up in the same place we always do,” I growl. I know I’m being a bit of a dick, but this hasn’t exactly been my night and I’d rather just go to sleep if she’s going to leave anyway. But suddenly, she reaches up and grabs my hand.

“Thank you for protecting me tonight,” she says. Her voice is barely a whisper, but now, I can hear a hint of arousal behind it. She swallows hard, and I see that hint of nervousness again. “I was thinking--we’re getting married soon, anyway. Right? You’re the one for me, and I’m the one for you. And all that.” She blushes deep red when she says it.

I take another step toward her.

“What are you telling me right now, Arie?”

“What do you think I’m telling you, Pierce?” she teases. Arie leans back on the bed and spreads her legs ever-so-slightly, revealing a pair of pink lace panties. The corner of her mouth tilts up in a playful smile, and I am completely overwhelmed by lust. I’ve been in love with Arie since I was seventeen years old, but all I feel for her in this moment is pure, unadulterated lust.

I stare at her beautiful body and let out an exhalation of air before I slide on top of her. I lock my hands on either side of her, trying to sort out where my common sense has disappeared to as my cock hardens and the desire to slide inside of her pulses through me.

Arie stares up at me with a determination in her eyes that I have never seen before. She lets her hands drift down my torso, touching me as if we are meeting for the first time. Gingerly, she pulls the towel away from my hips. My cock is already hard, straining, the skin tight and hot. Her eyes grow wide when she catches sight of it.

“It’s big,” she murmurs. “Really big.”

I wait, and try to breathe in deeply as blood flows to my cock. I can’t imagine anything in the world that could convince me to pull away from her in this moment. And when she bites her lip, when she gasps as her hand drifts over my shaft, I’m an absolute goner. I imagine letting her stroke me, coming all over the expanse of her perfect, pale body. My balls filling and releasing.

But tonight is about something more than that.

I take her by surprise, falling on to the bed next to her and crashing my mouth down onto hers, pressing passionately against her, and tracing my tongue around the lines of her perfect lips. She moans and claws at my chest, grabbing at my neck, like she’s trying to pull me in even closer to her, eliminating all of the space between us. When I pull away, she moans as if I’m denying her oxygen.

“This is what you want, Arie? Are you sure?” I ask, still somehow shocked she’s in my bed right now. As I look down into her crystal blue eyes, my girth throbs. It’s so hard it’s almost painful.

“Yes,” she whispers. “I’ve been thinking about it. It’s all I think about. Maybe if we just get it over with, we won’t be so focused on it anymore. You are my forever guy, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” I say. I brush my thumb over her bottom lip. “I’m your forever guy.”

I push my pulsing length against the warmth of her panties. She’s already wet there, like she’s been considering it ever since the moment she told me to buzz off. Getting wetter and wetter until she couldn’t stand it anymore. “You want me to fuck you tonight, Arie?”

“God, Pierce, I said…” she starts. “Fuck. Yeah I do.”

My fingers press against the wet fabric of her panties. There’s heat there, almost molten hot against my hand. I close my eyes and open them again. I’ve imagined this moment a thousand times, and I want to make sure I’m not dreaming.

“You feel so good, baby,” I say. I stroke her with more pressure, moving down to her pussy, and she starts to melt. I pull her panties to one side, sliding my fingers over her slickness, up to her clit and down over her delicate folds. She shudders, hips arching up beneath my hand, like she’s pushing against me, begging for more. Needing it. I slide the lace of her panties down to her knees, and she kicks them off. They land in a crumple at the foot of the bed, and she laughs. A blush rises over Arie’s body, making her turn the most beautiful shade of pink. I let my hand hover over her sex again, and I realize that all the pain has vanished from my body. There’s a doctor’s cure. A goddamn beautiful woman giving it up for the first time. Wet and ready, the hem of her dress pulled up over her hips.

“You want my fingers inside you?”

She nods, pink spreading to her cheeks. “I do.” She arches her hips toward my fingers. “Please.”

I bring my hand to her again, and I thrust two fingers inside of her, unable to control myself. I growl, pressing the base of my palm hard against her clit. Her voice comes out in a soft, strangled moan, and she throws her head back, hands finding her breasts, fingers tugging at her nipples. They’re stiff beneath the fabric, like tiny bullets. I feel a pearlescent bead of precum at my tip.

I work my fingers inside of her, listening to her moan. The soft rise and fall of her breath tells me when she’s getting close, and I pull away, leaving her empty on purpose.

“And you want me to fuck you? To come inside of you?”

She nods. “Yes.”

“I don’t know if I believe you,” I growl into her ear. “It’s been almost ten years, Arie. Why now?”

I plunge my fingers inside of her again. She’s tight. I groan. I’ve known this part of her body many times. I know how to make her come for me, body shaking. But I’ve never entered her, not truly. Never made her mine. I watch as goose bumps spread all over her skin, highlighting her increasing arousal. She gasps for air, as if she can’t breathe, and she licks her sweet lips as she considers my question. I study her beautiful face closely, as if she’s a stranger in my bed. With each passing year, Arie hasn’t aged; she has always looked fresh and young and new. It makes me want to protect her. And ruin her. In equal measure.

Arie’s eyes are closed tight as she processes her pleasure, and she tries to stifle a whimper.

“Things change, Pierce,” she chokes out. “Like I said, I’ve been thinking about it forever. I want it now.”

Arie’s hips begin to writhe from her excitement and she squeezes her thighs together snugly. I nuzzle my nose into the curve of her neck, taking in a deep breath of her as she moans with pleasure. She smells like gardenia on a warm, summer day and it’s more intoxicating than all the liquor I had at that stupid party.

All I can think about is filling her up with my cock, taking her over and over again, letting her feel just how hard she is making me. I want her to know what she’s been missing all these years.

“I’m going to make you scream tonight.”

I don’t know what comes over me, but I reach down and rip her dress off her in a single motion. Arie gasps, but I cover her mouth with my own as I keep caressing her sex, parting her slick folds, making her moans flood into my mouth and increase my hardness ten-fold. I show her no mercy as my fingers explore the soft, warm flesh of her wet pussy.

Our tongues dance as she shivers beneath touch, and I have to pull away to watch her body react to me. I trace my fingers across her warm flesh, watch her squirm when I blow cold air against her neck. I am barely suppressing the urge to bite and mark her flawless skin, to make sure the whole world knows she’s mine.

Arie’s long black hair fans out all around her, framing her face like a dark halo. I snap away her bra, and her beautiful breasts, the breasts I’ve imagined a million times, fall free. My cock stiffens as I take in the curve of her full, voluptuous form. She opens her eyes and stares at me with overwhelming passion.

“Keep touching me, Pierce. Never stop touching me,” she sighs as she closes her eyes again.

I take hold of her chin and tilt her face up so she has to make eye contact with me. For a moment, she looks like a movie star, a painting, an angel glowing from the inside out. I can’t believe this is my Arie.

“I don’t believe you’re ready for this,” I say, hating myself for holding back. This is what I’ve wanted for ten years and I’m going to fuck it up, the way I fuck everything up. There is no reason Arie should still be with me. She’s too good for me. I’m a useless asshole, and everyone knows it. Everyone but Arie.

She just smiles and shakes her head, as if she’s lost in a fog of sex and desire. She isn’t going to back down.

“I'm not kidding,” I say, “I’m not sure what you want but I don’t think you're not ready for this.”

“Shut the hell up and fuck me, Pierce,” she says in a voice more self-assured than I’ve ever heard come out of her.

That’s all it takes to scramble my brain beyond reason.

I move in close, so close we’re almost touching, and I feel the heat behind the warmth of her full lips.

“Your wish is my command,” I say with a growl.

She slides her hand down the rippling muscles of my chest, pausing on my abdomen, drifting lazily over the bruises that have formed from my fight earlier. When she wraps her tiny, soft-skinned hand around my stiff cock, it sends signals to my brain that propel me into a state of pure lust.

I groan as she grips my shaft. In one quick movement, I lift her up with one arm wrapped around her back so I can support her voluptuous frame. I take hold of one of her breasts and cup it firmly, squeezing it, then I lean down to lick her erect nipple.

She moans raucously and begins to stroke my cock with even more eagerness. Her body tenses up, and I set her down on the bed so I can bury my face between her full breasts, comforted by the warmth of her fullness. I tilt her breasts together so I can suck both her nipples, letting my tongue trace them as I pluck them with my teeth, and she writhes underneath me.

Arie caresses my cock to the point where I think I might come in her hand, and my body reacts in kind. My cock is practically burning with pleasure, twitching wildly against her palm, as she coats the head with my own fluids.

I can’t take any more foreplay. I grab her thin wrists and pin her down to the bed. I use my hips, and line up my cock between her waiting legs, pressing the head against her honeyed inner lips. She pants, and her mouth opens every-so-slightly, her breasts heaving with every moan she emits. I can’t help but grin at the anticipation that flickers across her face.

Her sparkling blue eyes go wide as we register what is about to happen. The earth stops spinning and I feel a wildness coiling inside me. Every ounce of self-control is long gone. My whole body is wracked with desire for her.

I take hold of her shaking thighs and thrust toward her soft center in one smooth motion. She cries out and waves of passion spread through every inch of me. She is so tight that I can only get my tip inside of her. If I push any deeper, I know I will lose control and explode inside of her immediately. But I don’t want this to be over right away. Not by a long shot. I want to take my time with her.

I push inside of her a little further and her whole body contracts. I watch as her full lips quiver in a combination of pleasure of pain. Her eyes are clamped shut, and her breath is coming hard and fast. Her pussy feels like it’s on fire.

“Does it hurt?” I ask. I’m panting, holding myself still, beyond all reason. Part of me wants to force myself inside, feel how tight she really is. But I wait. I love this woman, after all.

Her face contorts but she says nothing. Her silence is all I needed to keep going. I probably should slow down, should take her inexperience into account. Instead, I push deeper into her warmth, welcomed by an overwhelming wetness that is only making me harder. I hold her arms over her head, and kiss and bite at the perfect skin of her graceful neck.

“Tell me how it feels,” I whisper into her ear.

“It… it…” she stutters.

“Tell me,” I say again.

The muscles in my stomach shake violently, as her pussy tightens desperately around my cock. I go mad, grabbing her full ass and plunging all of the way inside her. Her eyes open, and go wide, and she cries out. Her pussy grips me like a vise, pulsing around my cock. She’s all smooth walls and hot wetness. I could stay here forever, living in this place that she’s given to me, and me alone.

“Tell me now,” I demand. I pull back and thrust inside of her again, groaning.

Arie bites her lip, hard, to hold back a building scream. I thrust again, harder this time. I don’t care about anything else. All I care about is making sure she knows she’s mine. Arie moans beneath me. I feel more in control of anything than I have in my whole life, as I thrust again and again, without mercy. Arie scratches her nails down the length of my back and let’s out a long groan.

“It feels so full. Oh God. It’s so good. It feels like I’ve been empty all my life and now--shit, don’t stop.” Her eyes meet mine, her lids hooded with lust.

I take that as my cue. I thrust again, falling into a delicious rhythm. Skin against skin. Warm, hot. Every movement an answer to my prayers.

“Pierce, oh God, Pierce,” she breathes. She babbles, and some of the words sound like my name. Her rapturous cries alone are almost enough to make me come. I pause and bring my mouth to her nipples again.

“I can feel you all through me,” she pants.

“You're so fucking tight,” I say, grasping for purchase on the headboard. I pull back, then thrust forward and fill her pussy again. Her burning, soft warmth encircles my painfully hard cock and sends a flash of light to my head.

“Fuck me, Pierce!” She screams. “Oh, God, Pierce!”

The headboard slams against the wall as I power into her. Her beautiful black hair falls around her face as she screams my name in violent throes.

“Pierce!”

The lamp on the bedside table falls over, and the light bulb shatters. I let loose a torrent of curse words. But it’s not enough to stop me--I am intent on possessing her, and taking her virginity. I slam my cock in and out of her pussy as if it is mine for the taking. I cannot stop fucking her. I am intoxicated by the way her entire body pulses as I rhythmically push and pull inside of her, feeling her fitful shudders of desire.

Suddenly, there is a flurry of knocking on the door outside. It’s insistent, but not enough to distract me from the task at hand. Arie doesn’t even seem to hear it; she just wraps her legs around my waist as I shove inside of her again and again, grunting like a maniac.

The knocking becomes more furious, and now angry voices are shouting my name. It sounds like they might knock down the door, and I’m not about to give up this moment for anyone. I wrapped my arms around Arie’s waist and pick her up as I stand up from the bed. Then I walk her around to the other side of the bed, get down on my knees, and set her down on the floor on her back. She still doesn’t seem to be fully aware of what is going on outside the door, and I’m glad for that.

I lean down and kiss her slow and deep, sliding back inside of her, feeling her wetness.

“Fuck me, Pierce!” she cries out.

My vision becomes blurred by a lusty fog, and her ecstatic moans make it more difficult to hear whatever is going on outside of the door. I feel like it is only a matter of time before they bust inside, but so far, so good.

I probably should care that a group of men are shouting my name, and identifying themselves as the police. But I don’t.

Being inside of Arie feels too amazing; I grit my teeth together and close my eyes, hoping to shut out the world. I don’t want to be interrupted, don’t want this moment with her to end. She hugs around my neck, and I feel like I am stretching her to her breaking point. I can feel the tight clenching of her pussy warning me she is about to come, and come hard, so I shove myself balls deep into her warmth, and I feel a familiar fluttering in my sensitive cock.

“Mr. Cochran! We are coming in! This is your last chance to open the door of your own free will!” The voice on the other side of the door is pissed, at the end of its rope. But I’m also at the end of mine and nothing is going to stop me right now.

I lower my face to Arie’s, and I see she is totally lost in her own world, too far gone in a haze of pleasure.

“Oh God, Pierce,” she cries as she comes. “Come inside me. Please--fill me up--”

“Shit,” I groan. “That's it, baby. Come for me.”

The door flies open as she rides my cock to the end. I can’t do anything but let loose a long, guttural howl as I release inside of her. We both explode in ecstasy, just as a pair of handcuffs slam closed around my wrists from behind.

* * *

One-click A Perfect SEAL today while it’s still $0.99! Always free on Kindle Unlimited!

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For a FREE copy of Lexi’s first book, click here!

Long Shot: A Bad Boy Romance

Also now available!

Two Feet of Thunder: A Ménage Romance

(Featuring the brilliant writerly talents of Lexi Whitlow, Alexis Angel, Nicole Elliot, Alyse Zaftig, C.M. Seabrook, J.B. Duvane, Eddie Cleveland, Teagan Kade, and Jess Bentley

You’ll have as much fun reading it as we did writing it! (And it was a delightfully, fantastically, hilariously amazing fun time to write.) Be warned: it’s super f*cking dirty.

About the Author

Lexi Whitlow is a small-town girl from Virginia. She spent her early years growing up between Virginia and North Carolina, playing in the dark rich dirt of Eastern North Carolina at her granddaddy's farm. She's a mom of a six-year-old boy and a seven-month-old girl. Life is hectic, but it sure is sweet.

She holds a master's degree in English literature from the University of Virginia, and her mom is so proud she's "using her degree."

Lexi harbors a not-so-secret love for bad boys. She loves fighters, tough-as-nails cowboys, bikers, and criminals. Her husband is a scientist... but he has the heart of a bad boy for sure. 

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