CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It seemed that Blake truly had heard me loud and clear about the importance of real advanced notice, because he contacted me on the following Thursday morning to arrange a meeting for the next evening. Again, he’d booked a themed room. This one, to my utter surprise, was set up like a small gym. As he fucked me hard on the weight bench, he’d told me—no, complained to me—that I kept popping into his mind whenever he was doing a workout.
We also met up on the Saturday evening, and I laughed my tits off when he ushered me into a room that was set up like a private hospital room. But I soon stopped laughing when he started playing doctor and demonstrated just how well he knew my body.
Although it had been yet another fun weekend, I hadn’t been able to fully relax. Ricky Tate still hadn’t resurfaced, and that made me nervous rather than relieved. Part of me always seemed to be holding my metaphorical breath, waiting for him to reappear. By the time Friday once again came around, he still hadn’t reappeared.
I met with Blake in the basement on Friday, but he had “business to sort out” on Saturday evening. Bastien was also busy that night, so Sarah had her evening free. She and I still went to the Vault and spent most of our night on the main floor, though we did go up to the burlesque floor for a little while. It just didn’t seem worth going to another club when none beat the Vault.
By the end of the night—or by two in the morning, I should say—Sarah was absolutely shitfaced. That might have been what inspired her to call Bastien and tell him how awesome she thought he was. He was so worried that she was too drunk to get home safely that he had Greg—the guy who escorted Laurel out of the club—to take us home. Sweet, right? Well, I’d thought so … right up until Bastien told me that he’d be informing Blake how we drank ourselves into such a state. What were we, fourteen?
I’d been geared up to tell Blake that I was a grown woman thankyouverymuch … but he hadn’t called. Not that night; not at any point over the weekend. Yeah, I’ll admit, it did bother me that he didn’t seem to care the way Bastien had. And it bothered me that it bothered me. It forced me to face something I’d been happily ignoring. I liked Blake Mercier. Liked him, liked him. A fuck of a lot.
It didn’t make sense to me. How could you like someone so much when you didn’t really know them? Maybe it was simply the case that it was easy to like someone when you hadn’t seen every side of them. Whatever. I didn’t know for sure.
In any case, I wasn’t at all comfortable with the realization that I liked him so much. Especially since it meant that it was only a matter of time before our arrangement didn’t … fulfil me as much due to it being, well, an arrangement. It wouldn’t be enough for me. And bitterness could then creep in, spoiling what little we had. Blake didn’t want emotional attachments, and I couldn’t be mad at him for that because he’d been clear about it from the very beginning.
All things considered, I had two choices: end our arrangement to save us both any later drama, or stick around in the hope that something might change on his part.
I knew what I wanted. I wanted to know more about him. Wanted to fill in the blanks. Not give up and walk away without at least trying to work out whether it was him I liked or just a fantasy I had of him.
But what I wanted and what was best for me weren’t always the same thing, which meant I had a whole lot of thinking to do. And I did, in fact, do a lot of thinking as the days went on.
When Wednesday came around, I went to visit Clear at work. She’d asked me to stop by on my way to the bar just to check in with her. I knew she was nervous about the Ricky Tate issue, even if he did seem to have done a disappearing act. She wanted to believe that he was genuinely gone—after all, his first period of harassment had been short and sweet, and it had ended rather abruptly.
“He probably got bored of trying to scare you when he realized it wasn’t working,” Clear said quietly as we stood in the computer suite of the library. The only other sounds were fingers tapping at keyboards, the whir of the printer, and the hushed talk coming from the group of students. “Or maybe he just couldn’t be bothered trying to get around your security.”
I highly doubted that either of those scenarios were true. No, I figured he was keeping a low profile in the hope that I’d think he’d backed off and I’d then drop my guard. But as I took in her pale face, restless fingers, and the skin bunched around her eyes, I said, “Maybe.”
She gave me a pleased smile, and a little of the tension left her. “I talked with your dad about it on Saturday. He agrees with me.”
No, he didn’t. But he’d told her what he knew she needed to hear, just like I had. I’d received a letter from Michael a few days ago, advising me to be vigilant and not to underestimate Ricky. “Tate might be rash and immature,” Michael had written, “but that doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous.”
He was probably right on that. “I have to leave or I’ll be late for work,” I told Clear.
“Okay.” She pulled me into a hug. “Love you, sweetheart.”
“Love you, too.”
As I walked out of the library and down the steps to the parking lot, the scents of books, dust, and leather were replaced by exhaust, wet pavement, and mowed grass.
“Miss Lyons!”
I tensed, recognizing the voice. Shit. Ignoring Linton, I kept on walking toward my car. Hearing the thump of heels on the pavement, I groaned. He’d obviously been sitting out here, intending to leap on Clear when she finished work.
“Miss Lyons!”
I glanced over my shoulder in time to see him almost bump into a handicap parking signpost. “Don’t waste any more of our time, Linton.”
Catching up to me, he said, “I was hoping you’d have coffee with me.”
I sighed. “You may have so much time on your hands that you can afford to sit outside a library and watch the minutes tick by, but I don’t.”
“I’m not a bad guy, you know. I’m doing my job; that’s all.”
“Good for you.” Nearing my car, I swore under my breath as I saw how close someone had parked theirs to mine.
“I suppose you’re used to dealing with people like me, wanting to know about Michael Bale and your relationship with him.”
I snatched the flyer that had been stuck under my windshield and crumpled it up. “The others were smarter than you, if I’m honest.”
“Smarter?”
“They offered incentives. Money. T.V. interviews. Stuff like that.” I tossed the flyer in the nearby garbage can. “Not that it worked. My mother and I just want to be left in peace. You say you’re not a bad guy, Linton. Prove it. Leave us alone so we can keep that peace in our lives.”
“Does Blake Mercier bring peace into your life?” It was a taunt.
Little fucker. “Now you’re just boring me.”
“Interesting that you would be attracted to a man like him,” Linton went on as I carefully opened the driver’s door, trying not to bang it into the Chevy. “Blake Mercier has a lot of personal power,” said Linton. “Lives life by his own rules. Quite the heartbreaker, too, from what I’ve heard. I know women are often drawn to emotionally unavailable men—they want to be the one to fix them. Much like your mother wants to fix Michael Bale, a man who is the definition of emotionally unavailable. The thing is, Kensey, I believe she may have done it, and I believe you helped her with that. If I could just talk to you both—”
“No. Let it go, Linton. Let it go.” Finally in my car, I switched on the engine and, not sparing Linton another glance, I drove out of the lot.
He was right that Clear wanted to fix Michael—he might even be right that she had in some ways succeeded. What was it Michael had once said to me?
“We all have a devil inside, my Kensey. You can force it into a corner, but you got to learn to live with it. It’s the only way you’ll be able to live with yourself. You’ve got to look it right in the eye and face it. Battle it. Find that inner light.” For a moment, he’d looked so unbelievably sad. “I never had an inner light, angel. Not until you and your mom came along. Without you two, my world would be a dark place once again.”
Of course, it had to be noted that Michael was very clever with words. Manipulating people was a specialty of his. He could have a long conversation with you during which you had his undivided attention. He was good at making you feel special and interesting. It wouldn’t be until later that you realized he’d replied to your questions without truly answering them. He knew how to steer a conversation and keep the subject firmly on the person he was conversing with … a little like Blake, actually.
While Linton was probably right about Clear, he was wrong about me. I wasn’t attracted to Blake because he was emotionally unavailable. I wasn’t looking to fix anyone. Wasn’t arrogant enough to believe that I could—if I did have that kind of power, Clear would be the epitome of normal by now. I was attracted to Blake for a variety of reasons. He was a smart, confident, incredibly masculine specimen wrapped up in a very pretty package. There was something flattering about catching the interest of a guy like that.
It was a shame that he was also so unbelievably evasive that he made me seem like an open book. I didn’t mind that we didn’t engage in small talk—I didn’t like shallow conversation any more than he did. But, despite having known each other for months, none of our conversations were ever remotely deep or lengthy. He still often brushed off my questions with ease or responded with a minimal amount of details—details he seemed to begrudgingly divulge. He’d usually then slam up a wall and change the subject so fast that it could give a girl mental whiplash. I always walked away feeling that I didn’t know him any better than I had before.
He wasn’t just emotionally unavailable, he was … unreachable. He was a man who didn’t want to be known. A man who prioritized time alone. A man apart.
A man with demons.
And yet, I hadn’t walked away. I was willfully ignoring those demons, concentrating on the rest of what I saw in him. So maybe I was a lot more like my mother than I’d thought.
I spent the next evening slogging my ass off on my book. Despite how mentally drained I was thanks to Ricky fucking Tate, my efforts paid off. Finally, the second draft was complete, which meant I could now move onto my third and final draft. After that would come the long, boring proofing stage, which I wasn’t looking forward to.
Ordinarily, I’d give myself a two-week break before moving from one draft to another, but I hadn’t been able to work at my usual pace and I was behind schedule. As such, I’d had to throw myself straight into the third draft.
I was on chapter four when Sarah turned up at my apartment, wanting to update me on life with Bastien. Unlike Blake, he considered himself to be an official Dom. They’d agreed to an arrangement of their own, but it didn’t involve keeping their outside worlds separate. They often met on weekdays at swank restaurants for dinner. Afterwards, they went to his place to ‘play.’ They also often exchanged texts, and he called her daily.
Honestly, I felt a twinge of envy—one that unnerved me—but I hid it. Sarah seemed to be genuinely excited about Bastien, and I was happy for her.
Sitting on the breakfast stool, she told me about their ‘sessions’ in explicit detail as I pottered around the kitchen after we’d eaten. “Really, it’s all been pretty tame,” she then said. “He wants to ease me into what he likes and see if it’s something I’ll enjoy. I’m not yet sure if I will, but I’ve certainly enjoyed what I’ve so far experienced.”
I smiled. “Yeah, I can tell.”
Propping her elbow up on the breakfast bar, Sarah rested her chin on her hand. “So, how are things with Blake?”
I shrugged, wiping down the counter. “If he wants to get together this weekend, I’ll probably hear from him tomorrow.”
“Has he mentioned it at all this week?”
“It’s not like with you and Bastien. Blake doesn’t text or call to check in.”
Sarah’s smile slipped away. “He doesn’t contact you for any reason other than to ask you to meet him at the Vault?”
“Nope.” Feeling the beginnings of a headache, I rubbed at my brow. “Which, in some ways, does make me feel like a booty call. But when I’m with him … well, then it’s different.” We didn’t just fuck. We laughed. We had fun. He gave me his undivided attention. At no point did I ever feel like a booty call.
Sarah’s lips pressed into a tight line. “He likes you a lot, Kensey. He really does. But some people … they just don’t have much to give, you know?”
“I know.” Grabbing the letters that I’d stacked on the end of the counter, I said, “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you about how I found my neighbor naked on the floor outside his apartment.” Sarah’s eyes twinkled. “Someone had scrawled on his back in black marker, ‘I am a twat.’”
“Really?” I asked with a smile as I tore open an envelope.
“Oh, yeah. He …”
The rest of Sarah’s words were lost. Her voice faded into the background. Because all I could focus on were the photographs that slipped out of the envelope onto the counter.
A hand rested on my arm, and I saw that Sarah was leaning forward, the image of concern. “What is it?” she asked.
“Pictures.”
“Pictures?” She took one and twisted it to face her. “Oh, these pictures are of the carnival. I wanted to go and … Hey, that’s Blake.”
“Yeah.” I put a hand to my churning stomach.
Sarah’s brow furrowed. “Who would send you pictures of Blake? And why?”
“I don’t know. I’d sure like to know who that is.” I slid a photo toward her—one that clearly showed Blake and a tall blonde. His hand was cupping her elbow as they strode toward a café. The date and time had been printed on the top right corner of each photo. “That carnival took place during the two-week period that I didn’t hear anything from him.”
Sarah bit her lip. “That doesn’t have to mean that there’s anything going on between him and the blonde.”
“He told me he was in Chicago that weekend.”
Her mouth opened. “Oh.”
Yeah, oh. “He told me he left for a long-ass business trip on the Friday, but there he is in Redwater on the Saturday.” Not all the photos were of the carnival. Some were taken of him at a coffeehouse and standing on a sidewalk—again, he was with the blonde.
Other photos were snapped of him at an art gallery, where a black-tie event appeared to have taken place. And if the date on those photos was right, the event was held on the Saturday night that Sara and I went to the Vault together because he’d supposedly had “business to sort out.” Now, okay, maybe said business needed to be addressed during the event. But considering he had a gorgeous redhead on his arm and he’d lied about the Chicago trip, I wasn’t inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“Maybe this is why Ricky hasn’t been so active lately,” Sarah said. “It wasn’t because you upped your security. He wasn’t trying to make you relax. He’s been spending a lot of his time watching Blake. But why would Ricky do that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t like Blake being around.” Especially since Ricky couldn’t watch me whenever I was at the Vault—not unless he could gain entrance to the basement, anyway.
Sarah nodded. “Stalkers like to isolate their victims.”
I sighed. “I don’t have a—”
“And Ricky will want all your attention, right? He won’t want to share it, so it makes sense that he’d want Blake gone. Ricky obviously thinks you’re dating Blake, so he sent these photographs to make you doubt him.”
Well, it had worked a treat. “We’re not in a relationship, but Blake said he wanted exclusivity.”
“It might not be what it seems like.” But she didn’t sound convinced of that.
“Either way, he lied to me. I never asked where he was that weekend that he was supposed to have called me. He volunteered that Chicago lie. And look at him with that redhead.” She was smiling up at him like he hung the moon. He wasn’t returning her smile, but there was a warmth in his eyes that made me feel sick.
“There’s something familiar about her. I could swear she’s been to the bar.” Sarah held up a finger. “Wait, yes, yes, she went there a few weeks back. Ordered a latte and sat in the corner, talking on a phone that had a silver diamante cover. You don’t remember her?”
“Was that a trick question?” My memory was terrible.
“She stared at you a couple of times. I thought maybe she was gay or had made the connection between you and Michael Bale. What if she heard that you have Blake’s attention and she came to check you out?”
“But how would she hear that?”
“I don’t know. I could ask Bastien about it,” Sarah offered.
“No, I don’t want to pull you and Bastien into this.”
She studied one of the pictures closely. “Is it just me, or does it look like he has a whopper of a bruise on his jaw?”
“Apparently, he does Krav Maga with his PT.”
“Ah, well, that explains it. My neighbor did Krav Maga for years. She’d come home with all kinds of injuries.”
I flipped to the latter few photos. They showed Blake walking to his car—such an everyday, inane thing … except that he was holding the hand of a boy who looked about five or six. A sharp pain lanced through my chest.
Sarah saw them and swore. “What are you going to do?”
“The smart thing. End it. Not just because he lied, but because he now has Ricky’s attention. I didn’t want that to happen.” And because Blake’s betrayal hurt on a level that told me I was in way too deep. We weren’t in a relationship. There was so much I didn’t know about him. But my gut twisted painfully, and there was a dull ache in my chest. “And if this little boy is his kid, Blake really needs to get out of the picture for his sake.”
“Let’s not be hasty, Kensey. We don’t know for sure that Ricky sent these.”
“Who else would do it?”
“Maybe it was someone trying to cause trouble, like Libby or Laurel. Stepmother or not, she’s got a thing for Blake. Bastien said she’s been trying to get in Blake’s pants since he was a teen. Apparently, she used to offer him drugs back then too. I’m guessing she was hoping to make him dependent on her or something.”
It occurred to me that, since Bastien was so chatty and Blake was so closed off, Sarah was likely to learn more about Blake through Bastien than I ever would through Blake himself. And how sad was that?
Just as I wouldn’t expect him to bare his soul, I also wouldn’t expect him to tell me about his children, if there were any—that was personal. I just wanted to know him, and he didn’t seem interested in letting that happen.
Sure, I could be vague on occasion. Sometimes I answered his questions honestly. If they were too invasive, I’d simply state that it wasn’t something I was comfortable sharing. I never told him bullshit stories.
Sarah squeezed my hand. “Some guys keep secrets about their female friends because they have this dumb notion that women are such jealous, insecure creatures that we can’t handle it. They hide things that they think we won’t like, as if keeping us in the dark is best all round. Really, it’s just them not wanting to be held accountable, but they stupidly do it. That could be all this is. Just because he’s with those women doesn’t follow that he cheated on you, Kensey. One could be the kid’s mom. An ex. The other … well, she could just be a friend or something.” Sarah shrugged weakly.
Shoving the photos back into the envelope, I slapped it on the counter. “I don’t know who I’m more pissed at. Blake, Ricky, or me.”
“Why would you be pissed at yourself? That’s just dumb.”
“You remember Gage, right?”
“Your most recent ex? The tattooist who’s also in a band?”
“Yes. What did I do when I found out he’d cheated on me?”
“You rolled your eyes, grumbled that the guy needed a kick to the balls, and then dumped him by phone. The latter was cold, but he deserved it. And you didn’t care enough to confront him.”
I nodded. “I was with him for four months. He was a nice guy right up until the end. But the only thing that was hurt was my pride.” I jabbed a finger at the envelope. “But this … This hurts. You know, I have to ask myself if what initially set off my alarms about Blake was that a subconscious part of me knew he had the ability to get under my skin—I never thought I’d use that expression, but that’s how it feels.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I think you’re under his skin. I just don’t think he knows it. Or maybe he does and that’s why he holds you at such a distance. The women in those photos … I don’t know who they are, but he’s not looking at them the way he looks at you. Like he’s fascinated, hungry, and charmed all at the same time.”
I frowned. “He does not look at me that way.”
“He does. He just doesn’t do it when you’re looking at him. Even Bastien said that Blake’s different with you than he was with other women he … well, not dated.”
“Bedded.”
She sighed. “I think you should talk to him. Give him a chance to explain. And, of course, give him a ration of shit for lying to you. If nothing else, you’ll feel better afterwards.”
I nodded but, really, I wouldn’t feel better at all. I didn’t want to confront him. What would be the point of demanding answers when I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to believe those answers? Personally, I didn’t see any point at all in it. So when Blake called me the next afternoon just as I arrived at work, I let it go to voicemail. Maybe it was cowardly, but I preferred to think of it as avoiding an unpleasant conversation. There would be nothing constructive about arguing with him, would there?
On my break, I took my phone from my locker to find that I had four missed calls from Blake. There was also a text message, but I didn’t read it. Just returned the phone to my locker. I slammed the door a little too loud, which made Sarah jump.
“What did the fucker do now?” she asked.
“Nothing. It’s just that I was hoping Blake would give up after a couple of calls if I ignored him.”
Sarah snorted. “One of two things will happen. He’ll turn up at your place later and demand to know what your problem is, or he’ll leave a ‘fuck you’ voicemail to soothe his ego. I’m leaning toward the first.”
But she was wrong. He didn’t turn up at my place. He didn’t leave a voicemail either. No, he turned up at the bar only an hour after Sarah had made her prediction. I was in the middle of taking an order from a group of bikers. I felt him before I saw him. Felt the way the air charged. I was just about to turn when a hand curved around my nape. The hold was firm, possessive, and tight enough to be a little punishing.
“Hey, baby,” he said, voice cold and hard as ice. When I looked into his eyes, I saw that they were just as hard. His brow slowly lifted. “Something wrong with your phone?”
“Hi, Blake,” greeted Sarah, sidling up to me. Her chirpy tone didn’t match the cool look she gave him. “Kensey, I’ll take care of this order for you.”
I gave her a nod of thanks and turned back to Blake. “We’ll talk outside.”
He swept a hand toward the open doors that led to the outdoor seating area, mockingly gallant. “Lead the way.”
“Everything all right, Kensey?” Sherry called out from behind the bar.
I shot her what I hoped was a reassuring smile and said, “Fine.” With that, I walked through the open doors, glad to see that no one was out there.
As I faced Blake, he folded his arms across his chest and watched me. Waiting. Expecting an explanation. And then I got pissed, because the lying bastard owed me an explanation. The anger hadn’t been there at first. I’d felt hurt, betrayed, and even sad. I hadn’t been able to find my mad, too caught up in my panic at just how hurt I felt.
“You going to tell me why you’ve been giving me the cold shoulder?” he clipped.
I narrowed my eyes. “You said you were in Chicago the weekend that you didn’t call me. Said you left on the Friday. Is that true?” If I hadn’t been watching him so carefully, I might not have noticed the way he imperceptibly stiffened. “Is it?” I repeated—it was a challenge; a dare for him to deny it.
A muscle in his cheek ticked. “No.”
I clenched my fists. “Why lie? Why come up with some bullshit story about a trip?”
“There was a trip to Chicago. I just wasn’t there that weekend.”
“Because you had a date at a carnival with a blonde.”
Shock flashed in his eyes, and his arms slipped to his sides. “What the fuck?”
“You said we’d be exclusive.”
“We are,” he gritted out.
“Really?” I gave a derisive snort. “What else have you lied to me about?” He didn’t respond, just looked at me, as if expecting me to drop it. Exasperated, I waved a hand. “Just fucking go, Blake.” I headed for the bar, cheeks flaming with hurt and—
“She’s my stepsister. The blonde. Her name is Emma.”
I slowly turned back to face him. “Why not just say you were with your stepsister, if it’s all so innocent?”
“I don’t like talking about my family.”
“That’s a piss-poor excuse, Blake. And let’s be honest, you don’t like talking about anything personal.”
“There are things I can’t tell you.” He covered the space between us in two long strides. “How did you find out that I wasn’t in Chicago?”
“There are things I can’t tell you.”
He swore under his breath. “Kensey.”
I raised my hands. “Look, I think we should just end this now.”
His eyes blazed. “What?”
“I’m tired, Blake.” I sounded it, too. “Tired of sleeping with a guy who holds me at such a distance that I feel like I could be anyone to him. Tired of having to guess what you’re thinking when your gaze goes inward. Tired of wondering what I said that made you switch from hot to cold. Tired of being mentally drained from all that guessing and thinking and my imagination running wild. And that’s not your fault. You are who you are, and you were clear what our arrangement would and wouldn’t be. But I can only be who I am. And this … I’m tired.”
He heaved a sigh. “Kensey, baby, you of all people know what it’s like to have something dark in your life that you can never escape. I don’t want my shit touching you.”
That took me off-guard. “And you don’t want to share it.”
“Just like you wouldn’t want to share the ins and outs of your relationship with Bale. I respect that.”
Oh, that pissed me off. “You don’t avoid the subject out of respect for me. You avoid it purely because it doesn’t interest you. I don’t interest you. Not as a person. And you have no desire to know me. Hey, that’s fine. Just don’t pretend differently.”
His nostrils flared, and I could almost feel his anger. “Everything you do interests me. And fuck if that doesn’t annoy the shit out of me. I don’t like not knowing where you are or who you’re with. I don’t like how close you are to Cade or that the outside world doesn’t know that you belong to me. It all drives me fucking insane. As for me having no desire to know you? I do know you.”
“Blake—”
“I know you’re highly self-sufficient, slow to trust, and despise attention. I know you’re curious as a cat, a total neat freak, and you don’t draw energy from being around other people; that energy comes from inside you. I know you’ve got shit time management skills—don’t even deny it—and you don’t need the approval of others to feel good about yourself. I might not know every little detail about your past and personal life, Kensey, but I know you.” He put his face close to mine. “And you know me.”
I understood what he was getting at. Even though he was terribly evasive and had built a wall around his deeper emotions, I knew him in some ways just from the interactions we’d had. Knew he was a study in control. Knew he could be side tracked but never distracted. Knew he was the kind of person who acknowledged his weaknesses while playing to his strengths. Blake was self-focused but not selfish. He moved at his own pace and to the beat of his own drum. He knew exactly what he wanted and took control of his own destiny. But that was really just a profile, wasn’t it? Just his social persona. I still didn’t know him.
He gripped my chin. “Look at me, Kensey. I lied to you about Chicago, yes. But I haven’t touched another woman since I first met you.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then who was the redhead at the art gallery? Another stepsister?”
More shock rippled across his face. “What the fuck is this, Kensey? Where are you getting all this?”
“The redhead?” I pushed.
His jaw tightened. “A friend.”
“Really?” I drawled, doubtful. “So if the blonde is your stepsister and the redhead is simply a friend, neither of them is the mother of your son?”
His face scrunched up. “I don’t have a son. What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Sandy colored hair. Chubby cheeks. Approximately five or six.”
He exhaled a heavy breath. “Kyle is my nephew. Step-nephew. Whatever. He’s Emma’s son. And yes, really, Tara’s just a friend. If you want to be specific, she’s also my best friend’s sister. Or was. He’s dead. Committed suicide when he was seventeen.”
The grief in his tone took the wind out of my sails. “I’m sorry,” I said stiffly, though the words were genuine.
He let out a long sigh and wiped a hand down his face. “Kensey,” he began, voice softer now, “I know how it might seem, especially since I lied to you about Chicago, but there’s nothing between me and Tara. Nothing at all. She, Bastien, and I are working on a project together. He was with us that night at the gallery. Who went to you with tales about me?”
I gave a little shake of the head. “It doesn’t matter. Like I said, I’m tired—”
Blake’s strong hands captured my face and cradled it gently. “Baby,” he whispered. “I didn’t want or mean to hurt you. Didn’t know that I could.”
“I don’t like that you can.”
“I don’t like how much my gut’s twisting at the hurt on your face. You’re not supposed to matter, but you do.” He slid his hand around my nape and drew me against him. I didn’t melt into him, but I didn’t fight him either. Just stood there as he held me, breathing in his cologne and silently berating myself for not pushing him away.
He trailed soft kisses down the side of my face. “I want to see you tonight.”
The guy had some front. “Blake—”
“I haven’t seen you in almost a week, which is bad enough. Now I’m hearing that someone filled your head with shit that would make you think I’ve betrayed you, and I’m seeing that you’re hurting and pissed because I lied to you. If you want to end this, I can’t stop you. But at least talk to me before you do.” He tugged on my ponytail so that my head fell back. “Come to the Vault tonight,” he coaxed, rubbing his nose against mine. “We don’t have to play. We can just have a drink, a meal, talk—whatever you want. I just want to see you.”
God, was I really caving? Yes, yes, I was. “I don’t think—” And then his mouth was on mine, hungry and seeking. His tongue swept away my objections as he took and demanded. But there was a new softness there … an apology? An effort to soothe?
He ended the kiss with a gentle nip to my lower lip. “Missed this mouth. Always do.” He curled his hand around my chin. “You want some truth? It’s been one hell of a shitty week. I’m not kidding when I say that knowing I’d see you this weekend was the only thing that kept me from going nuclear. Finding you like this, hurting because of me … it’s a kick to the gut. Let me fix it.”
Oh, did he really have to say that? I was trying to stay pissed, but he was making it hard.
“Come to me tonight, baby.”
“I’m—”
“Tired, I know. But you can give me an hour just to hear me out. Right?”
I looked to the ground, as if there would be some inspiration there. But, no, there wasn’t. I lifted my head and, even as I called myself all kinds of names from ‘stupid’ to ‘doormat’, said, “Okay.”
A slow smile curved his mouth. “That’s my girl.” He kissed me again, softer this time but no less hungry or demanding. “Rossi will pick you up at six.”
“I can drive—”
“I know that, baby. I’d pick you up myself if I didn’t have a ton of shit to do at the club.” He gave my nape a squeeze. “I’ll meet you in the basement. Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Face soft and lazy with approval, he planted a gentle kiss on my mouth. “See you later.”
I watched him stride to his car with that confident, dignified gait, wondering if giving him a chance to explain made me weak. “You can come out now,” I said as he drove off, knowing Sarah would be within earshot. There was no way the girl wouldn’t have eavesdropped.
She walked outside, her expression surprisingly soft. “Did you hear him say that seeing you hurting because of him was like a kick to the gut? That was so sweet. And he said you mattered.”
I worried my lower lip. “Do you think I’m being stupid by agreeing to see him tonight, considering I don’t know if I can even believe a word that comes out of his mouth?”
Sarah pursed her lips. “There’s nothing stupid or wrong about hearing him out before you decide to walk away. You’re due an explanation.”
I nodded, taking a deep breath.
“I also think that if you don’t go, he’ll just come looking for you anyway.”
Yeah, so did I. The click-clack of heels was swiftly followed by the appearance of Sherry. I groaned, anticipating what was coming.
Planting her hands on her hips, she glared at me. “You going to tell me what the hell that was about? You said you’re not dating Blake. Your mother—”
“When you’re ready to tell me about the riding crop and handcuffs I saw in your locker, I’ll tell you about Blake,” I said.
Sherry spluttered, cheeks flushing. “They were gag gifts.”
Sarah’s eyes twinkled. “Ooh, she lies, Kensey. How shall we break her?”
“I’m willing to forget what I saw if your mom is willing to forget that Blake just showed up here,” I said. “I’ll even do her the added kindness of telling her who started the rumor that your dad wore her panties to work.”
Sherry’s eyes bulged. “Dodger did nothing of the sort. And there’s no such rumor.”
“There soon will be if you don’t agree to hush up.”
Her mouth tightened. “Fine. But other people saw Blake come here and make a beeline for you. It’ll get back to your mother somehow. Good luck with that.”