I’m a mess by the time I get to work. My head is spinning, and my chest feels bruised from the inside. My heart hasn’t stopped thumping like a rabbit in the headlights since Logan kissed my neck the way he did. I can’t breathe when I think about it. I can still feel his touch like a brand on my skin. His firm, full lips were so soft and sensual, they were completely perfect. Sparks of electricity ignited and flashed across my skin from that single point of contact. All I could feel was him, in every fibre of my body, in every cell, in my soul. It was just him, and he knew it.
I ran; I know I did, but I felt that everything changed with that kiss, and I’m terrified. It’s not like he hasn’t touched me before. He’s kissed my cheeks a million times, held me in his arms all night more often than I care to remember when I’ve awoken screaming from a nightmare.
This was so very different.
So tender, so intimate, so…raw.
I panicked and gave him my standard brush-off, only this time, when I reached my room, I had the biggest smile on my face. My cheeks were burning from the stretch. I was floating. I felt the shift, and for the first time in forever I wanted to do something about it. I cursed that I had to work and right up to opening the front door, I was tempted to call in sick. Then reality hit me with a sucker punch in the shape of Logan’s evening entertainment. How the hell am I going to compete with that? I doubt I could open my legs without having a hideous spirit-crushing flashback.
Logan doesn’t deserve that.
Even if, for a split second, I thought all he deserved was a kick in the balls for being such an insensitive arsehole and inviting them over in the first place, especially after that kiss. Still, it didn’t even take a moment to realise why he did it. He’s lashing out, frustrated, and his attempt to get some sort of jealous reaction would’ve been spot on, if I hadn’t overheard the girls’ conversation earlier. He’s not actually fucking them. I don’t know why that means so much, when I have no rights over his sex life, but it does.
This is such a fucked up mess for both of us. I need to sort my head out. We can’t go on like this. I just don’t know if I can give him what he wants. I don’t think he really has any idea what he’s letting himself in for.
Does he really want to learn what the T in my name really stands for?
I grab my bag from my locker, utterly exhausted and grateful that my shift is over. I stretch my neck out to one side, pain radiating all along my spine, and there’s tightness in every muscle. My whole body is crying out for a long, hot soak in a deep bubble-filled bath. I let out a heavy pleasant sigh, thankful at least, that I won’t have to work here for too much longer.
I hate lying to Logan, and my feelings may be all over the place, but if anything, that just solidifies my decision to keep him in the dark as being the right one. I need to keep him safe, but I have to do this. I’m owed this payback. I swipe my security card and push the heavy glass door, only the lock doesn’t release. I swipe again, then rub the metallic strip of the card against my sweater when it doesn’t work on the third attempt. Sometimes the friction helps, although not today. I turn at the sound of multiple heavy footsteps rushing toward me.
Security guards, lots of them.
My forehead is numb from resting the heavy weight of my head directly on the cold metal table. There is fuck all else to look at in this clinically bare box room, and after hours of staring at the blank wall, my head just needed the support. I’m so fucking tired that I don’t move when I hear the door slide open or the hollow sound of solid footfalls echoing off the walls of the interrogation room. The Kruse security guards took me directly to the police officers waiting in the service yard. I was whisked away like a common criminal. I’m nothing of the sort.
I can almost picture a toxic cloud accompanying the now familiar stench of the detective’s stale aftershave, which hangs so heavily in the air. It may even be a classy brand of scent for all I know, but it’s been contaminated beyond anything remotely pleasant by this man’s own noxious odour. I curse that I didn’t draw in a breath when I heard the door click, and now it’s too late. I lift my head and suck in a shallow breath through my mouth and prepare to answer the same damn questions in a slightly varied way for the umpteenth time. I’ve lost track of time, drifting in and out of sleep as I have; however, what I do know is, if they don’t charge me soon, they’ll have to let me go.
Getting caught was always a possibility, and oddly, for my plan to work the way I hoped, a necessity even, but the timing here is not of my own making, and I’m mentally kicking my own stupid arse that, once again, I am being accused of something I didn’t do.
Detective Doyle is in his late fifties, and he wears every hard year of his life in the deep lines on his pallid, pock-marked face. His dark beady eyes could be black for the lack of colour, but given his fair thinning hair are probably blue. He sports a sneer rather than a smile, with thin lips pulled into a tight straight line, which look to be sticking to his nicotine-stained teeth. His light grey suit is fraying at the cuffs, and his cheap shoes have been repaired on more than one occasion. I’m not judging the man for his cheap clothes and style or lack thereof. I’m judging him for being thoroughly unpleasant and a creepy arsehole.
“So, Miss Parker, do you want to tell me why you stole from your employer?” His eyes drift from my file to my breasts and linger there. His lips curl with pleasure when I fold my arms across my chest.
“I haven’t stolen anything,” I state, keeping my tone level, but I can’t hide how fucking bored I am. How many times do I have to answer the same question?
“Really?” He lifts my bag, which he brought with him this time and pulls it from the floor, tipping the contents onto the table. Small items like my keys, chewing gum, lip balm, and the odd penny scatter and roll along the surface, falling over the edge. I don’t bother to try and catch anything. I am too busy staring at all the office stationery that doesn’t belong to me, two pads of drawing paper, some inks, boxes of marker pens, pencils, and an expensive looking fountain pen. I close my eyes. This is bad; this is really bad. Maria, fuck!
“I didn’t take those.” I point to the items but I don’t pick them up. I don’t want to touch them.
“No, we can see that.” Sarcasm drips from his ugly mouth, and his smile creeps from flat impassive to smug. My mind is racing. There is a knock on the mirrored glass behind me, and the detective scowls. He pushes back from the table, all his weight on the spindly metal legs of his chair, which screech their disapproval. The horrendous noise causes a pain in my head akin to an ice pick between my eyes, and my ears feel as though they are actually bleeding. He does that every single time. Motherfucker.
I try not to move when the door closes, even if I want to howl, scream, and get the fuck out of this room. This can’t be happening. I can’t go back to prison when I am so close to being free, totally free, safe and set up for life, getting back what is rightfully mine and making the son of a bitch and his family pay for a crime they did commit.
The door opens, and this time the scent that fills the room is so different, it’s like I have been hit by a fucking freight train. Some smells are more powerful than photographs at conjuring up memories, freshly-cut grass after a thunderstorm, cooked spices wafting through open windows maybe, or in this instance, sunshine and whiskey drenches the small room, so much so I can’t seem to breathe. The only sound is the blood pumping in my ears. The air is frozen in my lungs, and it feels as if we are both transfixed in a vacuum, where it’s just us.
My eyes fall on the most beautiful man I ever loved, the only man I ever loved. He hasn’t changed a bit. His eyes widen, and just for a moment, he looks like the little boy I grew up with. I get a high definition flashback recollection of pale cornflower blue eyes, filled with wonder and mischief. The crooked smile over perfect white teeth, dimples in his cheeks, that really only show when he smiles wide and wicked, and strands of ice-white hair flopping any which way. Not now, though. Today, his hair is cut and styled for serious business. The brief moment of lightness vanishes as quickly as it came, and his expression shifts to a blank canvas. Breathtakingly handsome, but with no emotion, and, if I hadn’t witnessed that change myself, I would question whether he recognises me at all. It’s obvious he does. I do have to wonder why a few pens and a pad of paper have brought the Acting President of the Kruse Corporation down to the police station.
“Morbid curiosity,” I say out loud.
“What?” His deep voice makes the hairs on my neck prickle. It’s both familiar and strange. He has a subtle twang; he has picked up a little of an American accent, only I’m not sure which part of the States exactly. I don’t know where he’s lived all this time, but all those years is going to rub off somewhere along the line.
“I wondered what would bring you here, being a big important CEO and all. I can only think it was morbid curiosity. You saw my name and—”
“And what?” he snaps. The deep boom in the quiet of the room makes me jump.
“And nothing,” I reply and hold his gaze. I can feel his anger radiating off him in waves, and as much as I thought about this moment a thousand times, I am struggling to keep my own rage in check. It’s bubbling in my belly with a hairpin trigger, and unfortunately, he knows all my buttons.
“Where is it, princess?” His tone drops an octave, and he rolls my nickname around his tongue like he owns it.
“No nicknames, Atticus, we’re not kids anymore, and you lost the right to call me that five years ago. This isn’t some cute reunion.” My jaw is clamped shut, but I manage to push the words out through gritted teeth.
“You’re damn right it isn’t, Tia.” He slams his fists on the table, shaking the whole damn room with his fury. “Where is it?”
I frown and look at the table and then at the floor where the debris from his tantrum and Maria’s haul is now lying. His eyes follow mine, but there seems to be no light dawning, so I point sharply to the supplies.
“Exhibit A, Atticus. There’s your stuff.”
“Cute. You think I give a shit about a few pens, Tia? I want to know where my fucking money is,” he growls, his knuckles white as they grip the table. I hold the fierceness of his glare and match it with my own.
“What money?”
“The money that is missing from the company bank account, Tia, that money.” He leans on his hands, his face inching closer to mine. I can smell the faint scent of whiskey, and on him, it always smelled so sweet, so heady. I swallow the lump in my throat, fighting off the images of our past that are bombarding me and making it really difficult to stay focused.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie to me. This isn’t the first time you’ve been caught with your hand in the cookie jar,” he sneers, and I scoff out a bitter laugh.
“Cookie jar, fucking cookie jar! You piece of shit, you’ve got some fucking nerve!” I stand up, and we are now just millimetres from each other, our noses practically touching. His eyes look like a crystal clear azure ocean this close up, and even filled with suspicion and a heavy mix of hatred, they are utterly mesmerising. “You make it sound like I got a slap on the wrist for being a naughty girl. I didn’t steal shit from your family, and I got sent to jail for six years. Six. Fucking. Years. Atticus. Your family ruined my life, and you stood by and watched, you bastard.” My voice cracks, but he is unmoved. He stiffens, and his reply is as cold as the look he levels on me.
“You only served three.”
“For good behaviour, yes, but it still ruined my fucking life. How was university in the States, Cass?” The pitch in my voice rises, and I hate that I’m losing what little composure I had, but damn it, this is like the floodgates of years of pent-up emotion, pain, and ultimate betrayal unleashed.
“No nicknames, remember?” he snarls.
“Did you go to all the frat parties, Cass?” I fire back, ignoring his retort. “Fuck lots of lovely cheerleaders? Was Misty the best cheerleader girlfriend a jock like you could wish for? Was your first time a dream, Atticus? Was it? Because mine was a fucking nightmare.” Tears flow onto my cheeks, taking us both by surprise, and I roughly dry them, thankful there are just a few when I can feel the tidal wave building. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“What are you talking about?” His voice softens, and that’s worse. I shake my head and tighten my lips.
“Nothing, it doesn’t matter.” I draw in a steadying breath, and with enormous effort, I calm my tone before I continue. “I didn’t steal then. I didn’t steal this stuff here. And I haven’t taken your money either, but it doesn’t matter, does it? I have a record, and you didn’t believe me back then, so why the fuck would you believe me now?”
“You’re lying,” he counters, and I almost laugh, but there is nothing funny about this situation.
“No, I’m not,” I repeat.
“Yes. You. Are. Or have you forgotten, princess, I know you.”
“You knew me,” I correct and watch his face for any sign that my words mean anything to him. His jaw is ticking, and he purses his lips like he’s thinking through some complicated math, but whether that problem has anything to do with how he feels about me, I’m clueless. I no more know this man in front of me than I do Detective Doyle.
“I want my fucking money back,” he growls out slowly, fire and anger burning in his glare. He doesn’t believe me. Well, no fucking surprise there.
“And I want my fucking life back, so I guess we are both shit out of luck, aren’t we?” I snap, setting my jaw tight and tipping my head to one side in defiance.
“Oh, princess, you know I don’t believe in luck.” He pulls away from me, and I feel his loss, the heat, the connection. For fuck’s sake, what’s wrong with me? After all that time, after everything, why do I feel anything at all? It must be that I’m in shock. That’s all this is; I just wasn’t expecting the draw, the pull, or whatever it is. I wasn’t prepared for him, period. He affects me, and that’s a worry I wasn’t anticipating. I didn’t think I would see him so soon, or at all, if I’m honest. I think I was hoping for not at all, and now I know why. For the second time today, I want to kick myself for being an idiot. Why should any of this come as a surprise? It’s always been him.
He walks out of the room, and my hands grip the table to stop myself collapsing. I suck in a slow deep breath, trying to remain composed when I feel anything but. My head is a mess, racing with question after question.
What the hell was that? What the fuck am I going to do? I can’t go back to jail.
What about Logan?
“Here and here.” Atticus slides the piece of paper in front of me, pointing to two lines where I need to sign. This is it. It may be black ink in the pen, but I know damn well this is my blood on the paper. I scratch out my signature and grip the pen tight to stop myself using it as a weapon and end up having a murder charge added to my probation for Category 1 theft. I just made my deal with the devil, and I wonder, not for the first time, if the nightmare I keep waking from was actually a premonition. Atticus swiftly takes the papers from me, as if I might change my mind. If I could, I would. I racked my brain for three hours after the detective came in and offered me a choice of rock and a hard place. I couldn’t come up with an alternative. This wasn’t in my plan, but really, what choice did I have?
“I can’t believe you’ve done this. You must have some serious sway and some high-ranking officials in your pockets to get this sort of deal. Is it even legal? Tell me this isn’t really happening?” I stand and grab my bag from the chair. Atticus is holding the door for me to leave the room with him.
“Oh, it’s really happening, princess, and I will only say this once: This was your choice.” His face is impassive, and I can’t fathom why he is doing this.
“I didn’t have a choice, did I?”
“You could tell me where the money is,” he clips, and I tighten my lips and shoot daggers his way. It’s my stock response to that question. “Don’t look so broken up, princess, I’ve just saved you from finishing your probation and some serious extra time inside. All you have to do is spend the next twelve months with me. It’s not exactly a hardship. I live in the fucking penthouse at Number 1 Blackfriars.”
“Stop calling me that. I don’t give a flying fuck where you live. I do care that now, I have to live with you, and if you really believe you still know me, then you’d remember I’ve never cared about material shit,” I fire at him, my eyes narrowing, and if I had heat vision, he would be a smouldering pile of ash right about now.
“Well, you took my money for some reason,” he counters as I pause on the threshold, his tall frame towering over me. I tip my head to keep the eye contact. All the time I knew him, he never once scared me. How times have changed. I can feel my tummy tighten with something akin to fear, yet I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing just how terrified I really am.
“I didn’t take your money,” I repeat.
“Yes, so you’ve said. I’ll have my pen back, please. Can’t have you picked up on another theft charge before we’ve even left the station,” he quips, and my jaw drops.
“Really? Jokes? This is so far from funny, it’s unreal,” I bite out, venom dripping from my tone. He leans down, and I have to arch away from him to keep the distance.
“This is as real as it gets, princess. For the next twelve months, you’re mine, and I will get my money back.” He holds my stare, his blue eyes darkening to the colour of a bottomless ocean. He searches my face, but his expression is unchanged, handsome with a hint of hatred. I struggle to see any sign of the man I used to love, not that it matters. He’s not here for me; he’s here for his money. He lets the door close, and I follow him along the corridor.
There is a Range Rover with blacked out windows and a suited driver waiting with the back door open. Atticus nods and steps aside to let me in. His hand hovers close to the base of my spine, but it doesn’t touch. I can still feel the heat as if he did, though. I’m in so much trouble. I shuffle to the other side of the seat, as far as I can from Atticus, which is a challenge since his long legs spread wide, and he drapes his arm over the back, his fingertips just millimetres from me. I swallow the lump in my throat and turn to face him, shifting a little farther away as I do.
“I have to get my stuff, and I have no idea how I’m going to explain this to Logan.”
“Logan is your cat?” His thick blond brows knit together, clearly troubled, but I doubt he’s in a sharing mood.
“Not exactly.”
“Boyfriend?” His jaw ticks, and his tone is clipped with irritation.
“It’s complicated.”
“I understand.” He brushes off whatever that was, and he is once more a stony-faced statue. I can’t begin to get a read of him at all. I sniff out a light laugh.
“I doubt that. I don’t understand it myself.” I can’t help my smile when my minds drifts to all things Logan and us. I let out a heavy breath. “He’s not going to be happy.”
“He cares about you?”
“None of your fucking business,” I snap, and he grins and waves me down, my hackles clearly showing through all my layers of clothing.
“Calm yourself, I’m not prying. I meant, he cares enough about you that he wouldn’t want to see you back in prison?” Atticus clarifies.
“No, he wouldn’t want that.”
“Well, then, he’ll be fine,” he states and turns away, his eyes fixed on the bustle of the city as we crawl our way out of town. Mine do the same, and I really hope I’m wrong when I mutter to myself,
“No, he won’t.”