Five

Dahlia

 

I slammed the door so hard the sharp bang echoed around the staff room.

My heart was racing. It pounded against my ribs doing double-time, and my chest was so tight I couldn’t breathe steadily. Even my skin was on fire where he’d touched me.

Where he’d held my face, where he’d teased my hair, where he’d deliberately brushed his lips.

Damien Fox had taken hold of my personal space and ripped a hole for himself. And now, I couldn’t kill the feeling of his body so close to mine.

Of his hard cock brushing against my hip.

Another deliberate move. Another seduction tactic. Another thing to attempt to make me break.

And goddamn my body, because it’d reacted to him. It’d given him what he wanted, and I knew it. I’d seen the hunger in his eyes at my gasp. The pleasure when I swallowed. The lust when I hadn’t backed down.

I disliked him—severely. Maybe I almost even hated him just a little bit.

Or maybe I hated the way my body reacted despite the way I felt about him.

He was arrogant, rude, and cocky to the point of unbelievable. It was clear that he cared about one person in his life, and that was himself. His lack of respect for anyone infuriated me every single time he opened his mouth.

Nobody else mattered in the world of Damien Fox. He was its center and everything revolved around him.

I hated the way my clit still throbbed between my legs.

Hated it.

I stormed over to the cabinets at the back. I knew there was a bottle of cherry vodka stashed in the back of one of the ground-level ones because I was the one who’d put it there.

While alcohol wasn’t the answer, I needed something, anything, to distract me from the way I was feeling. The burn of the liquor against my throat was a damn good start.

I rifled through the cupboard until I found it. It clinked against some other things as I yanked it out, and when it was free, I instantly turned my attention to the cupboard where the shot glasses were.

Those were Abby.

The cherry vodka was stashed for situations like this where it was polite to use a shot glass but completely unnecessary.

The door clicked open.

I turned, yanking the cap off the bottle as I pointed it toward the person coming in.

Mia and Abby froze in the doorway.

“Oh dear,” said Abby. “She’s broken out the secret vodka.”

“This vodka has never been secret. Everybody knows it’s there, they’re just not allowed to touch it.” I sniffed and poured my shot. Keeping one hand on the bottle, I lifted the small glass and threw it back.

It burned as I swallowed it.

It felt good.

“I take it that didn’t go well.” Mia’s heels clicked against the floor.

I shook my head and turned around, finally releasing the bottle. “How someone hasn’t murdered him yet, I have no idea.”

“He’s hot,” Abby said. “I assume he seduces people into what he wants.”

I pursed my lips. “You assume correctly.”

“He seduced you?”

“He attempted to.” Almost successfully. “He has this stupid-ass entitlement that makes him think he can do anything he wants. Like he can have any woman—”

“Because he can and does,” Mia interrupted.

“—and get everything he wants just because he’s handsome and smooth with words. Well, he can kiss my ass, because I’m not any woman, and if he thinks he’s going to get my bar by me jumping into bed with him, he needs to check himself.”

Abby sidled up to me at the corner and poured a shot.

“Thank you.” I swallowed it in one and slammed the glass against the countertop.

“What are you going to do now?” Abby asked, leaning against the side.

“There’s only one thing you can do,” Mia said before I could. “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

I gave her a sharp look. “I’m not playing games, Mia. I don’t have the time for it. Hell, I don’t have the patience for it.”

“Have you ever seen her play Monopoly?” Abby raised her eyebrows. “I needed therapy after the first time.”

She darted out of the way with a laugh when I moved to slap her arm.

Mia snorted. “No, but now, I’d like to see that.”

“I’m not playing games,” I repeated, folding my arms across my chest.

“Listen to me.” She scooted forward on the sofa. “Damien is…persistent.”

No shit.

“You want to know why he wants your bar so badly, and it’s obvious he’s going to use his…skills…to break you down. You know that, so just go along with it. Play along with him, still holding your ground, until he realizes seduction isn’t going to get him what he wants.”

“You want me to screw him to make my point?”

“Could be worse,” Abby said. “At least you’ll get an orgasm or two out of it.”

“I fail to see how this conversation is helpful.” I ran my hand through my hair. “I don’t understand how giving Damien Fox part of what he wants will make him realize he won’t get everything else. That’s not how people learn to be reasonable human beings.”

“He’s already an unreasonable human being,” Mia pointed out with a smile. “This is called a compromise.”

“Is that what you did with West? Compromised?”

“Yes. It was enjoyable.”

“And, now, you’re married.”

She opened her mouth, then paused. “Point taken. Maybe we need to rethink this.”

Abby shook her head. “I’m going back out there. Thinking about having sex with him is starting to make me feel sick.”

I stared after her. “You’re the one who told me I’d get an orgasm out of it!”

She held her hands up as she disappeared.

I sighed and slumped against the counter.

“There are worse things you could get from a compromise than orgasms,” Mia muttered.

“Yeah,” I muttered right back. “Like herpes.”

She laughed.

I laughed.

But it was hollow.

This sucked.

 

***

 

The cemetery where my mom was buried—and now my dad, too—was tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. I’d once found the distance a hardship, but over the years, as I’d gotten older, I’d come to appreciate it. It was almost always empty when I got there, and if I were unlucky, someone else would be there.

After my mom was murdered a month before my tenth birthday, I’d been completely lost. I had to stumble through my teenage years with the long-distance help of aunts and closer help with family friends who stepped in to be my female influence, including my mom’s best friend, but it wasn’t the same.

I didn’t have anyone to help me choose a hairstyle. I had to buy my prom dress with my dad, and as great as he was, shopping wasn’t his thing. Fights with my best friend, new bras, boys, starting my period—all the things I needed my mom for, all the things she should have been there for, were all struggles for me.

I remember the first time I spoke to her grave. I’d started my period that morning and I was using tissue. I was scared to tell my dad because it was that awkward topic, and so, I’d come to the cemetery for some comfort. I cried and told her everything I would have said to her if she’d been alive.

I’d left feeling weightless and with a sense of purpose. I’d shown up at her best friend’s diner in the middle of the lunch rush. Paula had taken one look at my tear-stained face, taken me to the back, and wriggled it out of me. Then, she’d fed me a chocolate milkshake and a burger and handled everything—a sanitary pad from her purse and a trip to the store, plus that chat with my dad.

I’d realized then that my mom was still there, in a way. The act of talking and laying everything out without the fear or interruption or judgment had gotten me through my teen years. Before I’d left three months ago, the weekly trips had become updates on life in general, like I was writing a letter to a rarely-seen grandma who lived on the other side of the country.

It was soothing and cathartic.

Which was exactly what I needed right now.

I tugged up my yoga pants and pulled open the gate to the cemetery. The old hinges squeaked as it moved, and if I weren’t used to it, the loudness of it would have probably freaked me out the way it used to. I was too familiar with everything.

I juggled the two small bunches of flowers and bottle of water as I closed the gate. My sneakers crunched along the gravel path as I walked to the back of the graveyard where my parents were buried right next to each other.

The lump in my throat was thick and almost painful. I hadn’t been back here since the day I had buried Dad.

If I didn’t need to let everything I was feeling out, I probably wouldn’t have been there today, either.

As I approached the white, marble gravestones that marked their graves, I slowed down. It took everything I had not to burst into tears while I was still several feet away from them.

I managed to keep it in until I’d sat down. I arranged the small bunch of carnations in my dad’s vase and then gave my mom the six red roses. The water inside the bottle fit both vases perfectly, and only then did I sit back in front of my mom’s grave.

Glancing to the other headstone, I said, “Cover your ears, Dad.” And then, I smiled.

The smile didn’t linger long.

I ran my gaze over the headstone. Melinda Lloyd, 07-29-1963 - 09-07-1998. Beloved mother, wife, and friend. Always loved. I swallowed hard and rubbed my hand softly over the grass that covered the ground in front of me.

Like a tidal wave, everything came rushing out. All my inner thoughts from the past few days. My frustrations and my delights. My apologies and my promises. It left me quietly, not stopping until my eyes had dried and my throat was raw from the emotion I felt.

Yet, I was lighter. I could breathe again. There was no longer the crushing weight of confusion pressing down on my chest.

Sure, I didn’t know what would happen now. I didn’t know if I was making the right choice or if I was about to do the stupidest thing of my life.

Fact was, I had to go to dinner with Damien Fox.

I had too many questions not to. My father had always insisted that one day my curious nature would get me in trouble and I should have been a reporter, but maybe this was worth the risk.

Why did he want my bar?

Why was he so insistent he’d get me into bed?

And why had my father hated him?

 

 

***

 

Me: I’m rethinking your offer of dinner.

 

Damien’s reply was almost instantaneous. I knew it would be. I’d waited until the middle of the afternoon before texting him, and something told me he’d been waiting for my message.

He knew it would come, after all.

Cue eye roll.

I hit CTRL-S on the document I was working on and unlocked my phone by tapping in the code.

 

Damien: You are, are you?

 

I smirked and picked up the phone to reply.

 

Me: Are you surprised?

Damien: Not at all. It was only a matter of time.

Me: I haven’t agreed to anything yet, you know.

Damien: But you will. There’s no other reason for this conversation.

Me: Has anyone ever told you that you’re kind of arrogant?

Damien: Some people think it’s hot.

Me: Those people are idiots.

Damien: True.

Damien: Shall I pick you up at 7?

 

Fucking hell—was that…a question mark?

 

Me: Did you just…ASK?

Damien: Yes. Don’t expect me to do it again. It was horrible.

Me: But I forgot the question.

Damien: Scroll up your phone, sweetheart. It’s right there.

Me: I would, but I think making you ask again would be more fun.

Damien: *picture attachment*

Damien: There.

 

I tapped the attachment to see it better and burst out laughing. He’d sent me a screenshot of the message where he’d asked me if he should pick me up. I didn’t know if that was ridiculous and petulant or leaning toward freaking smart. I wanted him to ask again just to be a pain in the ass, and he totally found a loophole so he didn’t have to ask again.

Because technically, he didn’t.

I loathed to call him smart. So, I didn’t.

 

Me: LOL.

Me: No. Text me a time and place and I’ll see you there.

Damien: You made me ask again just to say that, didn’t you?

Me: Absolutely. Time and place, Mr. Fox. I don’t have all day.

 

Five minutes later, I got my response.

 

Damien: 7:30 at Figaro’s. I’ll be in the corner booth waiting for you. Don’t be late.

Me: Bring your manners, and I’ll be on time.