CHAPTER EIGHT
Will
I bolt upright in bed, my arm coming up to shield my eyes from the Texas sunlight pouring in through the sliding glass door. It’s not unusual for me to wake up stressed out, so I follow my practiced routine of breathing through my nose, counting backwards from ten and waiting for my eyesight to adjust.
Yeah. Regaining consciousness in a funnel cloud is standard fare. I’m financially responsible for eight hundred employees, ninety-three accredited investors, Southpaw and two thriving charities.
My mother, too. We were fed the same line of bullshit for years. The difference being when I found out the truth, I wanted nothing more to do with the man. Her phone call yesterday confirmed she still wants the opposite. My father no longer supports her, however, thank God. I’ve set her up financially and even made her an investor in Caruso Capital Management. I hate the tension between my mother and me since the truth came out, but at least I know she wants for nothing.
Until I took Southpaw and drove the hell out of Manhattan with resentment and betrayal burning in my gut, every day of my life was about the bottom line. Still is, considering my accountant is still cutting checks in my absence. How else would everyone else afford to live? Songwriters can wax poetic about love fueling the world, but that’s bullshit. Hate it or love it, money is what makes the world spin. It’s what people need from me. Lots of it.
Apart from supporting my mother and Southpaw, I never wanted this kind of responsibility. Growing up, I wanted to be a boxer. Put in the time, too, training before and after school. Weekends. Hell, even in my spare time, I was landing in fights, so I’d chalk that up as practice, too. That lifestyle didn’t fly with my father—and therefore my mother was against it as well.
Before high school, my father’s yearly visits on my birthday were the best present I could ask for. I’d circle the date with a red marker and rehearse our conversations in front of the mirror, dressing in my best shirt when the day finally arrived. Those visits took on a more serious bent when I became a freshman in high school, however. My passing grades were no longer good enough, and his disappointment hobbled me, as did my mother’s red-faced embarrassment where she stood behind his chair at the kitchen table.
One afternoon, Silas took me for a walk around my neighborhood, his big hand clapping down on my shoulder and pulling me to a stop across from the park. Four men around my father’s age sat congregated around a stone table, passing a lighter amongst each other to light their cigarettes. I recognized the guys from the boxing gym. They usually hung out in the gallery shadow boxing, hooting and whistling when someone landed a good punch in the ring.
“You see those men, Will?”
“Yeah, Dad.”
“They spent ten years living. And now they’re going to spend the next fifty rehashing a single decade. Over and over. Because who’s going to remember their best years if they don’t, huh?” He’d jostled my shoulder. “You know the answer to that? No one. No one is going to remember them.”
I knew where he was going with the lecture, so I shrugged. “I’m not going to end up like that. I’m good. People are going to remember me.”
“Oh yeah?” He pointed across the street. “Black jacket fought in the Golden Gloves before you were born. I saw him myself in the Garden. One hit. That’s all it took and now he can barely remember his address. That isn’t the life your mother and I want for you, son.”
My mouth tried to smile over being called son, but I kept my features sharp, confident. Like my father. “What future do you want for me?”
He’d taken me by the shoulders and turned me to face him. “No son of mine is going to skate by with C’s on his report card. You understand me? That kind of shit is going to land you in the park, yammering on about how you threw a good right hook once upon a fucking time.” I hid my devastation, even though he tried to shake it out of me. “Don’t you want to take care of your loved ones someday? Like I do?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. You make good grades and focus on college. Make something out of yourself, like I did, or you’ll end up in the park with these losers.” In my peripheral vision, I could sense that the men had overheard, their conversation having stopped. My face heated in response, but Silas continued, not sparing them a thought. “I like a man who can defend himself. You got your temper from me and that’s fine. A little fighting never hurt nobody. But next time I come here, I want to see A’s. Or maybe I’ll start skipping visits. Putting my time where it’s respected.”
My chin came up like I’d been cold-cocked, denial rippling through me head to toe. “I respect you, Dad. I won’t let you down.”
That respect hadn’t lasted. Not once the truth came out a month ago. But it was too late, my life had already been molded into my father’s ideal. As predicted, my penchant for getting into scrapes never went away, but I still became a suit and tie-wearing motherfucker with a legion of people breathing down my neck for results. Fortunately, I know how to deliver, but the stress never goes away.
Except for yesterday. Hell if I thought of a single damn thing besides Teresa from the moment she showed up in my room, to last night, when her husky voice gave me the most brutally intense sexual peak of my life—
Teresa.
I drop my hand from my eyes, drilling the bedside clock with a look. Eight a.m.? When is the last time I slept to a normal hour? Of course I wake up later than my customary five thirty on a morning when I need to be on my toes.
“Southpaw,” I call, throwing my legs over the side of the bed. A minute passes while I drag on jeans and finger comb my hair, already thinking of my sexy, take-no-prisoners brunette who can’t help but be sweet, too. Damn, I can’t wait to get my actual hands on her. “Where you at, boy? Walk? Let’s go for a walk.”
My movements freeze when Southpaw doesn’t trot out of the bathroom.
Cold slithers into my blood.
“Southpaw.”
Forgetting to breathe, I brace myself and approach the small, tiled room, praying like I haven’t in years. Please. Not yet. We’re supposed to have longer. But he’s not inside. Relief is immediate and drastic. I double over, bracing hands on my knees, black spots swimming in front of my vision.
Confusion starts to trickle in a moment later. He wasn’t in the bedroom when I woke up. Definitely not in the bed, because on the rare occasions he crawls into bed with me, he takes up the whole damn mattress. I would have noticed him.
As I walk out of the bathroom, my gaze is drawn to the sliding glass door. It’s open. Did I leave it open last night? It’s entirely possible, since I floated inside on a cloud of sexual satisfaction. And more than a little preoccupied with the withdrawal I sensed from Teresa on the other side of the wall.
Not bothering to put on a shirt, I head for the balcony and step out into the sunlight, pausing mid-step at what I see. First thing I notice is Teresa in cowboy boots and a red sundress, throwing the tennis ball for Southpaw out in the field. Second thing I notice is the camera she’s holding. A small one. A GoPro, I think?
Each time she tosses the ball for Southpaw, she holds up the device, smiling to herself over whatever she sees on the screen. She captures a new angle with every throw, pacing right and crouching down.
Taking my attention off Teresa looking so relaxed and in her element isn’t easy, so it takes me a few minutes to notice her suitcase. It’s lying on its side in the grass, a purse set down on top of it. As if she was getting ready to leave.
For the second time since waking up, I’m cold. Freezing, right there in the hot sun. Commanding myself to get my bearings and handle the situation, I watch Teresa laugh as Southpaw leaps into the air, catching the green fuzz ball between his teeth and wrestling with it, shaking his head side to side.
“Good boy. Such a good boy,” Teresa praises as Southpaw prances back, definitely showing off for my hot—mysterious—LA girl. “Okay, go long.” She juggles the GoPro, trading it for the tennis ball in her right hand. “Let’s see what you got.”
Of course, she’s got an arm on her, too. Like I need one more reason to want to fuck her stupid. I want you to use me, she said last night. If she gives me an opening, I’ll be more than happy to oblige. “Morning,” I say, my voice like gravel. When she whirls around, I nod at her suitcase. “Going somewhere?”
She rubs her dirty hands together. “This place isn’t a destination. It’s just a stop on the way to somewhere else.” Her demeanor changes as I approach, her cheeks turning pink like she’s thinking about the dirty things I said to her last night. The kind of dirty things I’d like to say to her again, but with her ankles up around her ears. “You knew I was on my way to New York,” she mutters, fussing with her hair. “Stop staring.”
“Can’t. You’re already too goddamn beautiful. Then you had to go and play fetch with my dog.” Her deepening flush might as well be a stroke of my dick. “Don’t suppose I could convince you to let me drag you into bed. Might fuck up that pretty dress stripping you to the skin, but you won’t have the power of speech to complain when I’m done with you.”
Her breath leaves in a rush. “Let me ask you a question, Will. Can you really back up all that shit you’re talking?”
“Please try me, woman.”
The air between us thickens along with a certain part of my anatomy, although I don’t really expect her to agree. Which is a new one for me. Been a while since I indulged in a woman, but I remember them being pretty damn agreeable. Not Teresa. And even more unusual? I’m just as anxious to find out how her mind works as I am to see what it’ll take to get her naked. “Maybe next time,” she whispers, hair blowing across her mouth. “Like I said, I’m headed east.”
Southpaw skids to a halt between us, barking happily and turning in a circle. I don’t break eye contact with Teresa as I scratch his head. Talking about her departure is putting me in a bad mood—not that my cock has received the memo—but if we need to play games to make her understand I’m not ready to let her go, then I’ll bite. “How are you getting to your next stop? The bus?”
“That’s right. There’s a bus leaving for Nashville at nine fifteen.”
I’m still not one hundred percent convinced Teresa isn’t here at the behest of a rival fund, but damn if that theory isn’t being discounted by the second. She couldn’t be more eager to leave me standing here like a punk.
Unless that’s the idea.
Southpaw starts doing figure eights through her legs, as if he’s a teacup poodle and not a Great Dane. Mid-laugh, she starts to lose her balance and I lunge forward, catching her just before she can fall into the grass. From the cradle of my arms, her green-gray eyes catch the sunlight, a smile curls her lips and oh fuck. I am not prepared for the fresh onslaught of possessiveness that plows into my chest. It takes me a few breaths to turn the dial on it to manageable. All the while, she watches me with a vulnerable expression, like she doesn’t know whether to run or wrap herself around me.
This is her. Right here. I might have doubts about her motives for being in Dallas, but this is the real her looking at me. My gut wouldn’t be this sure otherwise.
“Nashville is next for you, huh?” I settle Teresa on her feet and gather her hair in a fist to keep the wind from blocking her face from me. “There’s a national park on the way. Ouachita. Southpaw would enjoy it.”
I can see the jumping at the base of her neck. “You’re…offering to drive me?” Decision made, I nod. “But you’re on your way west.”
“We’re not on a timetable, so it won’t hurt to backtrack a little,” I say, pulling up a mental version of the map in my glove compartment. “Break up the trip to Nashville into two days. We can stay in Arkansas tonight, check out the park tomorrow morning, then decide what comes next.”
I already know I’m going to want more of you.
She searches my face. “Do you always go to these lengths to sleep with a woman?”
“Never.” I step closer, bringing her tits up against my stomach. She closes her eyes and licks her lips, making me groan. “Do you always tell the kind of secrets you told me last night?”
The wind blows the seconds by. “Never.”
“Good. They’re mine now.” I lean in and catch her bottom lip between my teeth, tugging it gently before letting go, giving the spot a soothing kiss. “And I want more of them.”
Is it panic that flares in her eyes? Or indignation? Maybe a little of both. “You can’t just demand secrets from me.”
“I can if I’m willing to give you some in return.” I tip my head at the GoPro clutched in her hand. “Maybe we can start with how much you love that camera.”
If possible, she seems jumpier about my interest in the camera than she was about giving up actual secrets. With our noses an inch apart, I think she’s going to mouth off some more and try to put me in my place, but her shoulders sag instead. “Will, I…”
Tell me, baby. Tell me why you’re here so we can straighten this shit out and move on. “What?”
She steps back, putting a couple of feet in-between us. “I’m guessing your Chevelle doesn’t have a navigator.” With a wink and a toss of her hair, she starts back toward the motel, Southpaw on her heels. “If I’m going to be in charge of directions, I need coffee first.”
“We’re in full agreement there,” I murmur, a weight sinking in my stomach. Moving to join her, I reach her suitcase and purse first, picking them up. “I’ll go put these in the trunk.”
Teresa sways a little, fingers flexing at her sides. Like she wants to snatch the items out of my hands but can’t. “Such a gentleman.”
“When the occasion calls for it.” I give a quick whistle. “Mind keeping an eye on Southpaw while I’m at the car? You can wait in my room. Won’t take me more than fifteen minutes to shower and pack when I come back.”
“Sure.” She saunters backward toward my balcony, a too-bright smile on her face. “See you in a minute.”
“Not if I see you first.”
I think a corner of her mouth dips, but she turns away before I can be sure, hopping with fluid grace over the balcony bars. Southpaw follows. Teresa turns and gives me one last look and disappears into my room.
For a few beats, I stand there in the empty field, knowing what I’m about to do is a betrayal of trust. She’s left me no choice, though. I’ve got a growing interest in a woman who could be deceiving me. If that’s the case, I have to protect myself.
And possibly Teresa. For the first time, it occurs to me that whoever sent Teresa could have some kind of leverage that’s forcing her to compromise me against her will. If that’s the case, the sooner I find out the better so their heads can roll and she can be free of any duress she’s under.
Standing beside my open trunk two minutes later, I pause for a beat before taking Teresa’s wallet out of her purse. First thing I see is a picture of an older couple, both of whom share Teresa’s default mischievous expression. The woman leans into the man, a bouquet of flowers resting in her arms. Her parents.
I bypass a gym membership and a couple credit cards, landing on a rectangular receipt from a shipping company with a tracking number. I unfold it and make note of the recipient address. The Film Institute. That doesn’t answer any pressing questions about Teresa’s motives or identity, but I’m damn well interested, so I tuck that nugget of information away for later and continue on to her driver’s license. I’m already positive her last name isn’t going to be Smith, but a sharp jab catches me in the throat nonetheless.
Teresa Valentini. LA address.
Grateful she didn’t lie about her first name and zip code, I screenshot the identification with my phone and forward it to one of the numbers on my speed dial. As soon as the message goes through, I hit call on the same number.
“Yeah, it’s Caruso. I just sent you something.”
“Received,” says the brisk, faceless voice on the other end. “What do you need to know about her?”
“Everything. Specifically, if she has any ties to QLR Management or Century Investments,” I say, listing several other cut-throat New York funds in direct competition with mine. “Run her information against everyone on their payroll. And mine. Update me as soon as possible.”
“On it.”
After snapping the trunk closed, I go through the front entrance of the motel, feeling guilty despite the reason I ordered a background check in the first place.
I’m guessing your Chevelle doesn’t have a navigator, she’d said.
Too bad I never told her what kind of car I drive. Unless she went back to her room last night and took a much closer look at the Instagram account, she has no way of knowing the model. She’s either a closet car enthusiast, interested enough to stalk me a little online—which I don’t mind one bit—or she’s done some homework.
I intend to find out.