The last hour has been agony. The wavering of my decision to finally tell Presley that Beauregard Martin, tech guru is really me, has been the hardest decision of my life. I know that Presley feels something for me that is more than just the amazing sex. What we share is less primal and more deeply connected. Raze finding out not only about this precursor, but our current relationship as well just was not in the plan. She needs to know that much I knew, but his ultimatum blew my timeline to shit.
Which is why I find myself waiting in the cocktail bar of Le Petite Belle in the heart of Beverly Hills, dressed and cleaned up like a respectable individual for the first time in years. Suits and ties weren’t exactly my go-to wardrobe, but I had to play the part. Getting Ratchet to agree to be her chauffeur for at least the first part of the night was the hardest part of it all. He had been on my ass for weeks to tell her who Beau really was, and he was right. The time is now or never. She would either forgive me or forget me, but it was a risk I had to take with so many threats lurking around us. Like her brother. My life was dangerous, and hers was currently thrust into the middle of the murky waters of living on the edge of right and wrong.
After living in so many years of terror with her father, how could I even ask her to stay here with me? This club is what her nightmares were made of, and I selfishly wanted her to stay if she would have me. There are things I would do in this world that would make a normal man shutter in fear, and I would do them over and over again just for her. Presley was the princess in the castle, and I desperately wanted to be the one to rescue her from the dragon. But depending on how tonight goes, I might just find myself pushing up daisies and out of lives in this game. The decision was all hers on where we go from here, and that terrifies me.
The bartender in his tiny, little bow tie and French cut suit slides over to me with a bottle of champagne and a fluted glass in his hand.
“May I offer you a sample of our finest French wine, monsieur?” he asks, in a voice with a heavy-laden fake French accent.
I stare at him, and he stands there looking like an idiot with that glass and bottle of champagne, waiting for my answer.
“No thanks, Garcon,” I respond back, in my own version of a fake accent. “I don’t drink that frou-frou bullshit, but I’ll take a beer, if you have one.”
The bartender starts to open his mouth, when I notice the door opening out of the corner of my eye. My phone chimes, as a text from Ratchet flashes across the screen alerting me to Presley’s arrival.
The moment I lay my eyes on her, all of the air is sucked out of my lungs. She’s so beautiful. While it should hurt that she’s all dolled up for another man, I can’t be hurt since that other man is me. Her long, dark hair is twisted and braided like a crown at the top of her head. The simple black dress that drapes her body hugs every curve and highlights her figure perfectly. The urge to want to switch places with that dress hits hard. But it’s the heels on her tiny feet that add the knockout punch to the gut with her beauty tonight. The black straps of the shoes wrap up her calves and adds a few inches to her height. I don’t know what it is about heels on Presley, but my cock goes ridged in my pants to the point it could probably cut through a steel beam.
Her dark eyes glance around the room, as I quickly turn my back to her. If she makes me now, I will never get a chance to explain, and every single chance I would have to make this right, would leave with her right out of that door.
The too sweet voice of the hostess I met earlier fills the air of the room, as she greets Presley. I turn around and watch her lead Presley to the private dining area that I booked, and as soon as she’s out of sight, Ratchet slips into the door and beelines towards me.
“Sir,” the bartender interrupts, before he gets to me. “You need to have a tie and jacket to be served in this restaurant.”
I laugh, as Ratchet just glares at the guy.
“I’m not staying,” he barks back. The bartender begins to protest again, but I wave him off with a quick gesture. Ratchet takes a few more steps, and sidles up next to me on the bar stool.
“You ready for this, V?” he asks. “There’s still a chance to turn back now.”
“No, it’s time. She needs to know, even if it means I risk what she and I have now.”
Ratchet lifts his hand and grips my shoulder tightly.
“You may be a son of a bitch, but I’m proud of you, V.”
“Aww Ratchy, is this your version of a father-son talk? You getting practice in for Asher?” I tease back. “What’s next? Are you going to give me the talk and threaten to kick my ass if I hurt her?”
Ratchet laughs loud enough that a few of the patrons sitting farther down the bar turn and glare at him. He just smiles at his disturbance of the peace.
“Nah,” he quips. “I’m sure Raze has done enough of that shit for the entire world.”
“You aren’t kidding,” I coolly respond, thinking back to my run in with the club president. Raze’s ultimatum may have been the tipping point of telling Presley, but like I said before, it’s the right thing to do.
I notice the hostess leaving the area where Presley is waiting to meet Beau, and she turns towards me. Ratchet notices her coming close and abruptly stands.
“Good luck, brother,” he offers, before retreating back outside to the waiting car. When I decided to do this, I made Ratchet promise that he would wait in case she bolted. I didn’t want to take the chance that Presley would be exposed, if she ran. If her safety was compromised because of me, I would never forgive myself.
“Sir,” the hostess calls, “Your party is waiting.”
I inhale a deep breath, and slide from the barstool. With each step closer to the room, my heart thuds more intensely.
You can do this. She’s the best fucking thing in your life that isn’t circuits and motherboards. It’s time to man up, and see what you’re made of.
My feet fall in line, one behind the other, as they lead me to my fate. It’s like I’m a condemned man walking to the gallows, knowing that I’ll hang or be pardoned.
My hand tremors slightly, as I reach for the curtain separating the two lives that I have lived for the past few months with her. They say that the truth sets you free, but why do I feel like it’s damning me?
I take one last deep breath and slide inside.
Presley’s head is down, and her hands are wrapped tightly around the fabric napkin she grasps. Her gaze rises to meet mine, and she freezes, speechless.
Her eyes flash from nervousness to rage in a split second, and I briefly wonder if she might be related to Ratchet with how fast the switch flipped in just a second flat.
“You son of a bitch. It’s been you the entire time,” she seethes, standing up.
Fuckity. Fuck. Fuck. Where’s the fucking abort mission button, when you need it?
“I can explain, Presley,” I beg, rushing toward her, in an attempt to block her escape. She shoves me, but I stand my ground. Every part of me is screaming to grab ahold of her, bringing her in tightly, until she screams out her pain and anger, but I can’t do that. Presley isn’t some spoiled little girl who wants to put on a show or be pacified like a child. She’s an educated woman who is angry as fuck at me for my deception. If I have a chance in hell of repairing this, I have to let her talk, and I have to hope she listens to reason.
“You want to explain why you’ve been lying to me? How long have you been catfishing for the fucking club?”
I raise my hands up in surrender, as she tries to push me aside.
“Please, Presley. Just sit down, and I will explain everything. This isn’t what you think.”
She shoves me again.
“Hear me out, and afterwards if you still want to leave, you can. I won’t stop you,” I offer to her. She glares at me, and I can’t help but notice that her hand is clenched at her side. I stand my ground, and she slowly eases back into her chair. Her beautiful face is plastered with judgment, as I sit down across from her, making sure to keep my distance. I have no doubt that she knows how to throw a punch with her parentage, and I want to get through this without being branded with another black eye. The one her brother gave me was finally starting to fade away. I didn’t need another one so soon.
“You have five minutes. Nothing more.”
I sigh at her angered indifference, and open up to her like a patient on her therapy couch.
“It looks bad. I’m fully aware of that fact, but I wasn’t catfishing you,” I start. My hand slides from the table, and into my pocket, as I retrieve my wallet. Fingering my ID, I slide it over to her. I watch intently as her eyes fall to the thin piece of plastic containing my most personal information, including my real name.
“Beauregard Martin is my real name. I’m a tech guru, and I work for your brother’s security company as a technical specialist. That is a private sector job.”
She scoffs audibly at my explanation. Jesus, I’m going nowhere fast.
“The man you met online is me. The only thing fake about what transpired between us was the photo I used on the profile. When Ratchet came for Ricca, he asked me to look into you and make sure that Ricca was not only safe, but that you wouldn’t hinder her chances for getting Asher. I never thought that what started off as protecting my family and my brother would turn into this,” I tell her, motioning between us with my hand.
“I was just a job to you,” she retorts. “A job that you just so happened to start falling for the target. How do you expect me to believe a word that you are saying? You’re a part of a club that buys and sells deceit like a fucking candy store. You forget that I lived that life, and I ran from it.”
I try to reach out for her, but she quickly tucks her hands under the table, effectively shutting me out again. I grab my ID and slip it back into my wallet, as this train continues to derail in front of me.
“The club isn’t like that anymore. Can’t you see that? You came to us for protection, and your brother and my club has put everything on the line to protect you,” I fire back. Her insistence that the HRMC is the bad guy in this situation starts to grate on my nerves. This is my fuck up, and she isn’t allowing me to take full ownership of that.
“Presley, I know you’re angry with me. I own that lock, stock, and fucking exploding barrel, but the club isn’t the enemy in this. I am.”
She scoffs again. Jesus, she’s just as stubborn as her older brother. I guess the apple really doesn’t fall far from the pig-headedness tree.
“Angry? You think I’m angry? Try motherfucking pissed. You’ve lied to me, deceived me into thinking that you felt something for me, and for what? To spy on me for your club?”
I try to reach for her again, and yet again, there is nothing from her. This ship is sinking faster than the Titanic, and the only lifeboat left is reserved for her.
“I fucking love you. Don’t you realize that,” I loudly proclaim. “I have guarded you, protected you, and while doing so, I have fallen in love with you, despite the fact that this entire fucking thing has been eating away at me. I wanted to tell you from the moment you walked into my clubhouse, but when the target was painted on your back, I had to put my club above my personal agenda.”
Presley stands and takes two steps towards me, stopping just in front of me. I rise to meet her, and am met with her hand slapping me across the face.
“That is the problem with men like you. Everything else is more important than the truth. You lied to me, and what’s worse is that I let you in. I let you break down those barriers I spent so many years building, after my father’s club tore them down. I gave you a piece of me that I can never get back, and I’m sick just thinking about how stupidly I played into your plan.”
Presley glares at me one last time, before heading toward the curtain. She stops just short of exiting the room, like she is fighting an internal battle.
“Give me a chance to make this right.”
“You are all out of chances, and I’m all out of fucks to give, so go fuck yourself,” she yells at me, and stomps out of the room.
“Fuck!” I scream, and lay a punch to the doorframe that once held Presley. “Fucking idiot.”
I center myself, and start out after her, before the hostess and the manager I assume storm into the room. Both of them yell at me, and threaten to call the cops before I grab my wallet, throwing a couple hundred dollars back into their faces to shut them up. I shove them both out of the way, and chase after Presley.
As soon as I break the plane at the front door of the restaurant, I know something is wrong. Presley is nowhere to be found, and Ratchet is lying on the ground with blood seeping from his shoulder and leg.
The sound of screeching tires a block north tells me that this has gone from bad to the worst fucking night of my entire life. I do the only thing I can. I slide my phone from my pocket and call Raze. If he was thinking about killing me for sneaking around with Presley, then he is definitely going to kill me now for losing her.