chapter fifteen
Lily
WE DROVE BACK to the resort with the jeep’s top removed¸ the warm air blowing through my hair and whipping it into my face, tangling it into knots. I tried my best to work my fingers through the snarls, but it was beyond repair and I gave up. That was all I had the energy for, anyway. I sat slumped in my seat pretty much the entire way, my body weak from the two intense orgasms the man gave me in a short amount of time. After he made me come with his long, thick fingers, Max dragged me back to shore and proceeded to make me come again with his long, thick cock.
The way he looked at me, the things he said … a shiver steals through me just remembering. The man commands my body like no other. And I don’t use the word command lightly, either. When he told me he was in complete control whenever he was fucking me, I swear I became light-headed. My world was spinning, all because of a few choice words uttered in the sexiest growl I’ve ever heard. I could have spontaneously orgasmed right there on the spot, and I’ve never been the type of girl to come easily. A lot of work is always required beforehand.
Max is unlike any man I’ve experienced before, and though at first his bossiness rubbed me the wrong way, I’ve come to realize I almost … crave it. I want more of him. I want to learn more about him. It’s been fun and games for the most part, beyond the moments when he saved me—and those are important moments. I’m grateful he was there, that he never hesitated. He just jumped in and took care of the situation. Took care of me.
We spend time together¸ but I feel like I’ve only scratched the surface of who the man really is. That’s why I asked him to share something with me. Something personal. I know I was asking for trouble, opening myself up to him and posing the same sort of questions that I don’t want to answer, but the fact that I was willing to give it a shot said a lot about how I feel about this man.
And my feelings for him are conflicted. Confusing. One minute, I can’t stand him. More and more, though, I find myself drawn to him beyond the sex stuff, though the sex stuff gives us a deeper connection that I can’t deny.
I want more. I know he’s from Texas, I know he served in the military and lost friends over there. Comrades. That he’s sad about it but doesn’t want to talk about the experience, either.
Does he have deep, dark secrets? Demons that chase him? Is that why he doesn’t offer up any personal details freely? I know what that’s like. I have plenty of secrets. Like who I really am and why I’m here. I couldn’t even give him a firm answer if he asked; my vague I’m from New York answer was about as detailed as I can get. If he’d dug any further, I probably would have made up some lame lie, and knowing that makes me feel ashamed.
Shame. An emotion I don’t like to think about. An emotion I’m utterly too familiar with.
Seriously, though. It’s not like I can tell him I’m on the run from my father’s evil girlfriend who’s out to take me down no matter what the cost. And she could if she really wanted to. Convince Daddy to freeze me out. He’s done that to me before and he knows how desperate I am for his approval. For his … love.
She has it instead. All of it. He is a man who can’t give his love freely. Forrest Fowler doesn’t know how to spread it around. He’s tight with his emotions. It seems he can only focus on one person at a time; otherwise, he doesn’t know how to show affection. So right now, he can only give it to Pilar. Forget his three children. The only one getting his love is a conniving, two-faced, cutthroat bitch.
My God, just thinking about her and my father together makes me want to punch something. Or rip Pilar’s hair out of her head. Take your pick. My life is straight out of a soap opera. Who would want to deal with that? I don’t want to and it’s my life. How can I expect such a seemingly … normal, overly private man to put up with my bullshit when I’m constantly running away from it?
I’m so zoned out, so inside my head, I don’t even notice the sound at first. And then when realization hits, I know it’s not my phone that’s ringing. It’s Max’s. I look at him, my curiosity piqued, since this is the first contact I’ve seen from the real world. His world. He shoots me a guarded look, his gaze skittering away when he realizes I’m watching him, and uneasiness shoots down my spine. I sit up straighter in my seat, peering at him as he fumbles with the phone, staring at the screen like he wants to scream at it.
He’s acting weird. Almost like he’s … guilty. And he’s letting the phone continue to ring, as if he has zero plans to answer it.
My guilt radar is on high alert.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” I ask, my voice deceptively soft. I really want to yell at him. Demand he get that call so I can hear who it is. Not that it’s any of my business.
Answer it, asshole!
I clamp my lips shut so I don’t blurt that out.
The ringing stops and he appears relieved, which only makes me more suspicious. He dumps his phone in the center console, where it sits between us, dividing us. Guilt on one side and suspicion on the other. “I’m sure it’s nothing important. They’ll leave a voicemail.”
They will. No definitive he or she. I’m over-the-top suspicious now. Especially when that phone of his starts ringing again. He’s grimacing as he glares at the center console for the briefest moment, his eyes immediately going back to the road. He grips the steering wheel, heaves out a harsh breath, and then with a muttered curse, he reaches down and answers it, bringing the phone up so he’s holding it tightly to his ear.
I’m holding my breath, anticipation rolling through me—and not the good kind—as I wait to listen to his side of the conversation. I try my best to appear nonchalant, but I’m tense. He’s tense.
This isn’t going to end well.
I hear a voice. Most definitely a woman’s voice, from the high-pitched, almost screechy sound of it. She’s angry. I can’t make out what she’s saying, but I can decipher the fury in her tone and it almost sounds familiar. But I can’t quite place it.
“I’m on it,” Max says, his voice tight, his jaw clenched. He looks furious and he won’t even glance in my direction, keeping his gaze firmly on the road. I should be thankful for that. I don’t want to get in a wreck.
But I also want him to look in my direction and mouth an apology. I want him to slip his hand over my knee and offer a reassuring squeeze. Something, anything that indicates he isn’t up to no good. Because I have the sense he is. That he’s hiding something, doing something that I won’t like.
It scares me.
“I told you I would call you—” He’s cut off; I can hear her yelling at him as he silently fumes, his nostrils flaring, his mouth drawn into a thin line. He says nothing, just takes the verbal beating, and I’m dying to know exactly who this woman is that he allows to talk to him in such a horrible manner.
I may not know much about him, but from what I’ve learned so far, he’s not the sort to take this type of treatment. He’s always in charge, always in command. And even when he’s not giving direction, he has this ease about him, this quiet confidence that tells everyone he knows who he is, what he wants.
“I’m busy right now,” he bites out when the woman finally stops her tirade. “I’ll call you when I get back to the hotel.” She starts to speak and he’s the one who cuts her off this time, saying, “Yes. I will.” He yanks the phone away from his ear as if it’s about to bite him and he hits the red “end call” button, then throws the phone back into the console’s cup holder.
Nothing is said for long, tension-filled minutes and I hesitate, unsure of how I should approach this. Afraid because I don’t want to approach this. Any other time, any other guy, I’d be all over his shit. Ready for the fight. Accusing him of cheating, of leading me on, of tricking me, of acting shady, because hell yes, right now Max is acting 100 percent shady and I don’t like it. My invisible bullshit antennae are pricked, standing on end, because I have a nose for this sort of behavior. Though this time around, Max and whoever he was speaking to were acting pretty obvious.
And maybe I’m aware of this kind of behavior because I’m always up to no good myself. A long time ago I realized I was drawn to bullshitters who are just like me. They can’t tell the truth, don’t want to be in a committed relationship, none of that. They just want to party and have fun all the time and … that describes me perfectly. At least, it describes my past behavior and patterns perfectly.
I thought this guy was different. I believed I got through to him a little bit. And I thought maybe I could be different, too.
Maybe I can’t.
Finally I can stand the tense silence no longer. “Everything okay?” I ask.
He says nothing for a moment, and I can almost see the cogs turning in his brain as he tries to come up with an explanation for what just happened. “Yeah,” he answers. “Everything’s fine.”
That’s it. That’s all he says. I stare at him, willing him to look my way, but he won’t.
Guilty. He has guilt written all over him. In bold, bright red slashes, all over his skin, his face, in his eyes, in the way he fucking sits. Damn it. I thought I could avoid this. I’m on vacation. Sort of. This should be a casual thing. An island fling. So why am I wound up so tight?
Why do I care? Why do I want … more?
“Who was that?” My voice rises, is a little sharp. I sound angry. And I really don’t give a crap how I sound.
“No one important.” He, on the other hand, sounds disgusted. At me? Or at himself?
Fuck his dismissive answer. “She sounded pretty important to me. As in, she’s really pissed off at you. What did you do?”
He flicks on the blinker and hits the brake, slowing the Jeep so he can turn onto the road that leads to the resort. “Trust me, Lily. You don’t want to know.”
“I’m sure I don’t,” I retort, my entire body going stiff when he finally looks my way. I see something in his eyes, something I don’t like.
Wariness. Uncertainty. And that ever-present, shitty guilt.
“If you’ve got a girlfriend or you’re married or whatever …” I pause, inhaling sharply, shocked at how much more those words, and the possible reality they suggest, hurt than I care to acknowledge. “Now is the time to admit it,” I finish, crossing my arms in front of my chest, my heart thumping so hard I swear he’ll be able to see it beat beneath my thin tank top.
Again he says nothing and I want to hit him. Yell and scream and carry on like the woman did on the phone. But I do none of that. Instead, all I feel is … hurt. Disgust.
Shame. That maybe I’m the piece on the side, the secret affair.
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he says wearily, but he still won’t look at me. His hands grip the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white. “And I’m not married either, Lily. I swear. It’s just … it’s complicated.”
“Complicated,” I repeat, hating that word with everything I have. Life is complicated. Everything is fucking complicated. That’s just the way it is. So when people use it as an excuse, a reason for why things are shitty or why they can’t explain their actions, I don’t find it complicated.
I find that single word one giant, stupid excuse. The same excuse I gave Rose when I first got to Maui.
Ugh. That word sucks.
“Yeah.” He blows out a harsh breath and turns onto the hotel resort’s drive. “It’s work shit, nothing major.”
Nothing major. He’s almost … flippant. Acting as if I’m making a big deal out of nothing. And maybe I am, though that doesn’t make me feel any better. He’s behaving like a total dick and I’m acting the jealous shrew and what the hell am I doing, reacting this way? I’m a big girl. I knew what I was getting involved with. I have my own secrets.
I guess I just didn’t expect him to have so many, too. “What do you do, anyway?” I ask, wanting to know. Needing to know.
No answer. Asshole.
He slows the Jeep as we approach the front of the hotel, maneuvering carefully so he doesn’t hit one of the many eager hotel employees that hover in the drive, ever ready to assist us and meet our every need. Their over-the-top help annoys me, especially right now. I want to be left alone. I don’t need some pretty boy smiling at me as he opens my car door. I don’t want someone greeting me with a cheerful aloha and asking how my afternoon was. What would they do if I answered them honestly?
Well, it definitely started out amazing. Went on a scary ride through a Hawaiian jungle and laughed and screamed and got turned on by how confidently Max drove. Got in a little argument with him before he fucked me by a waterfall and gave me two orgasms. It was so good, I saw stars, damn it, and it’s the middle of the day. Oh, and then asshole over here got that call from work—wink, wink, nudge, nudge—and it ruined everything.
I keep my lips clamped shut and won’t even look in Max’s direction. It’s easier that way. No more words are spoken as he stops the vehicle and puts it into park, an employee opening my door at the same time Max gets out and says he wants the Jeep parked in valet.
My earlier high is totally gone. The euphoric, almost sleepy state the delicious orgasms put me into is long forgotten. Those little revelations we shared? Null and void. I’m mad. Irritated. I don’t need this kind of shit. Some complicated guy entangled in too many complicated relationships. Whatever just happened had to deal with his work?
Yeah, right.
Without even acknowledging him, I start toward the entrance of the hotel, my back stiff, my head held high. I refuse to look back. I don’t want to see Max, don’t know what I would say to him even if he stopped me to talk.
“Lily.” He calls out my name and I hesitate, wanting to turn to him. Wanting to run into his arms and let him whisper lies in my ear.
It’ll be all right. That call was nothing. She’s nothing.
You’re everything.
I’m so stupid to be imagining this. Like this is some fairy tale and I just found my magical, perfect prince, when really, he’s just another toad. I’m being ridiculous, but I can’t help it. I like this asshole.
Probably too much.
Slowly, I turn to find him standing directly behind me, looking torn. “I gotta go make a phone call. Take care of a few work things.”
I nod stiffly, lifting my chin, firming my lips. Emotions threaten, foreign ones I don’t recognize that I am desperate to shove away. My lips tremble, my eyes sting, and I blink hard. I’m being rejected. Certainly not for the first time, though I usually like to beat them to the punch.
Definitely won’t be the last time I’m rejected, either. I’ve dealt with it all my life.
Thanks, Daddy.
“Maybe I’ll … see you later?” He says it almost hopefully, and the tone of his voice lights a flicker of hope within me as well. But then I squash it down and tell all that useless hope to go to hell.
“Maybe.” I shrug, taking a few backward steps. I need to get away from him fast. Standing too close allows me to smell him, really see him. His hair is mussed from the wind and I remember how soft it is. How the short strands curl around my fingers. And the dark stubble that lines his cheeks and jaw, how rough it is, like sandpaper. How I like to feel it brush against my skin. His hands are big and they know just how to move over my body, touching me in all the right places. Places I didn’t know even existed. His mouth, those soft, warm lips, that hot, insistent tongue … “Or maybe not.”
Max frowns and I feel an odd sense of pleasure seeing it. I want him to hurt as much as I’m hurting. Or get angry. It’s easier when we’re angry. Then the hurt is hidden and all I can focus on is how mad I am. “Don’t be like this, Lily,” he says, his voice low but firm.
I stop in my tracks, irritation coursing through my veins and making me want to yell. To rage and hit and scream. “Be like what, exactly? Suspicious? Uncertain? Irritated that you claim whoever that was calling you is involved with your work, yet you won’t tell me what you do?”
He takes a step closer, his hand automatically going for my arm, but I jerk away from his touch before he can reach me. “There’s nothing going on. What I do for a living is … confidential. I just can’t talk about it.”
“Oh, right. You can’t tell me what you do, but you can go ahead and fuck me by a waterfall in broad daylight where anyone can see us. That’s just great.” The sarcasm is thick and I want to smack him. Just pop him on the side of the head and tell him to go fuck himself.
“Keep your voice down,” he mutters, glancing around as if he’s afraid someone might hear us, but I’m too far gone for that. I couldn’t care less. And this time when he makes a grab for my arm, he’s successful, pulling me toward him despite my obvious reluctance. “Why are you so angry?”
“Why can’t you be honest?” I throw back in his face, immediately feeling guilty. I’m one to talk. I’ve been lying to him the entire time we’ve been on this stupid island. He doesn’t know who I really am or why I’m here.
His gaze darkens as he studies me and I swear, it feels like he can see right through me. See the lies and the façade that I throw up so no one can discover the real me. I have that wall up all the time but right now, in this very moment? It’s twice as thick and pretty much impenetrable.
“I don’t think you’d want to hear what I’d have to say if I was going to be honest with you,” he says, his voice a honeyed, Southern drawl, oozing over me and making me warm despite the ugliness of his words. “I think you much prefer those pretty little lies we all tell, now don’t you?”
My heart sinks at his knowing gaze. “I don’t like liars,” I whisper.
“I don’t either. Not usually,” he returns, letting go of me, pushing me away the slightest bit as if he can’t get away from me fast enough. I don’t like what he said, the implications behind his words.
I don’t either. Not usually.
Is he referring to me? Does he know somehow that I’m lying about … everything? Though I was honest with him. I wanted to open up. He’s the one who was so resistant.
“So is this it?”
I blink at him, confused. “Is what it?”
“This? Us? You’re pissed and you don’t believe me, so it’s over? You’re done with me?”
“I …” I don’t know what to think, what to say. I can only gape at him like a stupid fish. He’s acting like we’re in some sort of relationship and he can’t believe I want to end it. Talk about confusing.
“Right.” His expression shutters closed and that’s it. He’s thrown up his own wall and it’s a doozy. One I’ll probably never be able to climb. “See ya around,” he mumbles as he turns and walks off.
I watch him leave, desperate to call his name, ask him to come back. Ask him to stay one more night with me. It’s amazing how one little thing changes the course of your day. Not even an hour ago Max had me naked by a waterfall, his mouth latched onto my nipple, his hand between my legs, his cock heavy and insistent against my thigh. I’d begged him to fill me, to fuck me, whispering his name over and over, my hands in his hair, my body undulating beneath his.
And now he’s walking away from me without a backward glance. His shoulders are stiff, anger coming off him in obvious waves. I ruined it. He ruined it, with his stupid phone call and the angry woman and how he tried to hide information from me.
I don’t need a man like that. No woman does. He’s nothing but trouble.
But so am I. I don’t know how to look for anything else.