Cash
Something dangerous stirs my blood. Rage toward the guy I found kissing Jules. Possessive anger toward her for searing that image into my head. Underneath the anger, my heart is shredding, and I don’t like it.
I’d have to be blind to miss the plea in her eyes. The silent offer of explanation. Despite only meeting her two months ago, I know her. So I know she’s beating herself up right now for what I saw. I know that she’s conflicted, caught between her feelings for me and the asshole who suddenly decided to fight for her.
I enter the lobby of my building, nodding toward security on my way to the private elevator. This is the last fucking place I want to be right now, but I don’t feel like getting a hotel room or crashing on my brother’s couch again, and Jules is obviously…
Busy.
The thought of what they might be doing wrecks me, and I’m tempted to turn around and storm her place. I’d toss that guy out on his ass, except I don’t want to do that to her.
She needs closure. She needs to move on from him before there can be an us.
The elevator doors open, and I drop the flowers and food onto a table and wander further into the darkness. As I stall in front of the wall of windows in the great room, I can’t help but wonder if I’m just a rebound for Jules. The possibility is a jolt to my gut, a slam to the heart. At the center of my being, I don’t believe it’s true. I refuse to believe it’s true.
We connect in a way I’ve never experienced with anyone. That has to count for something.
The penthouse is silent and still, which is weird since it wasn’t much different with Monica here. All the lights are off, and I’m not inclined to turn one on. By way of illumination from the city lights, I take in the disarray of our home.
Even in the darkness, I note the evidence of the authorities. Yellow tape, disrupted furniture, fine powder from dusting for prints.
The bloodstain where Lydia was found.
With a shudder, I move into the kitchen and grab a bottle of whiskey before pouring three generous fingers. This night calls for a drink. Maybe two or three. I toss back the first, pour another, then make my way back into the great room where I sink into a chair to sit and stew and drink alone. I don’t know how long I sit here. Long enough for it to start raining. Long enough for my brother to show up.
Not bothering to be quiet about his arrival, he strides into the place as if he owns it. He’s so much my carbon copy that security probably didn’t even stop him on the way in, and that takes my mind right back to that photo of Monica screwing around in our bed with someone else.
Anyone going over video footage could have mistaken Kaden for me, just like the authorities did.
“I wasn’t sure I’d find you here,” he says, breaking into my dark thoughts.
“Forensics finished up this afternoon. Got the all-clear to come back.”
“Has there been any news yet?”
“Not from the police. The private investigator I hired discovered that Monica paid Hirsch a large sum of money about three months ago.”
“Seriously?”
Several long moments pass as I study my brother, searching for any hint that he’s hiding something. “Did you ever meet Lydia Hirsch?”
He shakes his head. “No, never.” His forehead creases. “Do you think this Hirsch woman threatened Monica in some way?”
“I’m not sure. Whatever she got caught up in, it’s not good.”
“Jesus,” he mutters. “How are you holding up?”
Propping my elbows on my knees, I look up at his towering form in the darkness. “Whiskey happens to be my best friend right now.” I sound pathetic. Probably look more so, but I can’t muster the energy to care. The last forty-eight hours are catching up to me. I take another long sip of the amber-colored alcohol.
“I got a visit from two detectives today.” He settles into the chair next to me, content as I am to have this chat in the dark.
“Are they considering you a suspect?”
“I don’t think so. Surveillance footage proved I never came up here to the penthouse that day.” He glances around the space, taking in the mess. “You should’ve stayed clear of this place until after the cleaners come through.”
“That was the plan. I was supposed to be with Jules tonight.”
“What happened?”
“I found her in a lip-lock with her ex.”
“Shit. Really?”
“Yep. Seems to be a reoccurring theme.” I shoot him an accusing glance.
He chooses not to rise to the bait. “Maybe she’s not ready to move on yet. She shot me down pretty quick.”
The reminder of his date with Jules threatens to boil my blood, and I’m tempted to tell him that she rejected him because he’s not me, but I bite my tongue. Taking cheap shots at my brother isn’t going to fix shit even if it would make me feel better.
“Maybe she just needs some time,” he adds.
I don’t want to give her time. I want to go back to her place now and pin her to the damn wall. I want to bend her over the couch and fuck her hard from behind. I want to withhold her orgasm so long that she’s in tears as she begs to come with every breath.
Yeah, I’m definitely angry, and there’s no denying it, but I can think of no better way to exorcise that anger, to claim what every fiber of my being knows to be true…
Jules Harley is mine.
My cell vibrates from inside my pocket, and my heart jumps with a shot of adrenaline.
It could be news about Monica.
More than likely, it’s Jules.
Both options split me down the middle. Kaden remains quiet, a curious glint in his eyes as I reach for my phone. Two deep breaths later and a swipe of my thumb, and I have my answer.
Jules: Please come back so we can talk.
Relief crashes over me. If she’s asking me to come back, then that means she’s alone. My thumbs hover over the screen, and I’m so close to replying, but I can’t find the right words. Every time I close my eyes I see her in his arms. And then I see her in mine.
I wish like hell I could rewind time, go back to Saturday morning before we fell into bed together. I’d do so much differently, starting with opening my eyes to Monica’s complete downward spiral.
A knife slices through the pieces of my heart. I’d change so much…yet I wouldn’t change a thing.
Another text comes through, and I startle, coming back to the here and now.
Jules: You left before I could explain.
“Is that Jules?”
I nod at my brother.
He makes a point to look at the time on his cell. “I should get to the club. Go talk to her. Air that shit out,” he says, rising. “At least give her a chance to explain.”
Jesus. I let out a breath, and some of the tension in my body dissipates. I’m not sure there’s anything to explain. No matter how I look at our relationship, I can’t find solid ground. We gave in when we should have stayed strong.
We fell in love knowing we’d face a bumpy road full of baggage, so how can I blame her for seeking closure—or whatever it is she’s looking for—with her ex when I’m still wearing a fucking wedding ring?
When my wife is still missing, not to mention possibly responsible for murder?
I can’t.
Not logically.
But that’s the screwed up thing about love—it defies logic. Love turns logic on its pathetic head.
Fuck logic. I want her with every breath inside my lungs, with every drop of blood in my veins. Nothing will quench this soul-burning thirst until I have her underneath me, hot and naked and begging for more.