I didn’t intend for the kiss to be a chaste, standard good-bye kiss, but I didn’t intend for it to be so . . . stimulating, either. It’s like we’re combustible, like we have one default setting between us—fire.
Her lips are enough to make me ache in all the right places. The pain in the ass, however, is that I can’t do anything about it. Instead of carrying Marissa back to her bedroom and doing depraved things to her, I’ve gotta escort this ballsy bastard back to Dual.
When I lift my head, I’m surprised to see that Marissa looks angry rather than turned on like I am. Her eyes fume for a few seconds before she puts her hands on my shoulders and rises to her tiptoes to whisper in my ear. Her words leave me in no doubt as to why she’s mad.
“If you ever kiss me like that again just to make a point, I’ll slap the taste right out of your mouth. I don’t care who’s watching.”
When she leans away, she’s smiling politely, but her eyes are like sparkling firecrackers. If anything, I’m even more turned on.
I can’t help but grin.
I’ll be damned. She can be feisty.
“Fair enough,” I say before turning back to Gavin. I give him a broad, cold smile.
I hope that smug prick is squirming on the inside.
EIGHTEEN
Marissa
I’ve cleaned the kitchen, polished the floors, scrubbed my bathroom, had a shower, and given myself a pedicure. As I sit on the edge of my bed, surveying my bedroom, I realize there’s absolutely nothing I can do to keep my mind off Nash. I knew he would get under my skin; it happened almost immediately. There’s something about him that’s so familiar, beyond his being the twin of a guy I used to date. It pulls me in like a physical tie.
It helps that I was primed to latch onto someone like him. I wanted to get lost in something far from the normal, far from what’s expected in my life. I needed it, needed him. Still do. But I didn’t expect it to be this . . . intense.
Every few minutes, my mind will stray back to last night, to his hands and his lips, to his body and his words. I get all hot and bothered within seconds. And that’s aside from the sweat I broke while cleaning.
It’s not such a bad thing, my attraction to him. It’s the emotional distance I feel from him that’s bugging me. I suspected he’d be in and out of my life like a flash of lightning—bright and electric and then gone without a trace—but on some level I must’ve expected him to be a little more open with me, a little more . . . feeling. But it’s like the only thing he feels is my physical presence, my body. And, of course, anger. Lots and lots of anger. It’s always there, hovering just beneath the surface. It’s like nothing is stronger than that, no feeling or person or emotion.
I think he loses himself in me much the same way I lose myself in him, only his is much more temporary and transient. As soon as his mind strays from our physical connection, from desire, he’s right back in his miserable past and his equally miserable present.
What bothers me most is that I’m starting to suspect there’s nothing I can do about it. No way I can change it, no way to make a dent in his life and his heart the way I think he’ll be making one in mine.
Hearts don’t often break even. One person is usually more hurt while the other is more relieved. But in this instance, there is likely to be devastation on one side. And it’s likely to be me. Yet here I am, thinking about him, anxiously anticipating the next time I’ll see him or hear from him.
You’re like a schoolgirl with one horrific crush.
Or maybe a glutton for punishment.
There are a thousand reasons I should stay away from him and only one that I shouldn’t. But that one reason is powerful enough to keep me right here, in the thick of things.
He’s the forbidden fruit. And I’m tempted beyond what I can resist.
With a growl of frustration, I walk to my closet to put on some presentable work clothes. I’ve got to get out of the house. But I don’t want to go to work. I figure a trip to the library will be both distracting and productive. At least I can continue trying to build a case, a case I know little about against people I know nearly nothing about.
* * *
Three and a half frustrating hours later, I’m driving home, considering calling one of my law professors for some guidance. What gives me pause is that it would be utterly humiliating to admit that I knew where my career was going because I was a spoiled little rich girl with a future set in stone, one that had nothing to do with criminal law. I felt zero need to retain what I’d learned in several of my classes.
Only now I need it. And so do the people I care about. I want justice not only for myself, but for Nash and Olivia. And a tiny bit for Cash, I guess. He did play a big part in rescuing me.
I still have mixed feelings about him for the most part. What I like least about him is that he reminds me of someone I no longer want to be, of someone I’d rather not ever think about again. But when I see him, that’s what I’m reminded of—the old me. And I don’t like it.
Every thought in my head is banished to a back corner as I approach the condo door. I haven’t walked through the front door by myself since the night someone was waiting on the other side of it. And even though my brain tells me I’m being ridiculous, that I wasn’t even the one they wanted that time and that there’s no reason for them to grab me again after they let me go, my muscles freeze. I’m stuck in a terrified stare, on the sidewalk, facing my front door, with no one around to help me.
The muted bleep from my phone sounds from deep inside my purse. I force my muscles into action, reaching with one shaking hand into my bag to retrieve my phone. I slide a trembling finger over the button at the bottom of the rectangle to light up the screen.
It’s a text. Three letters. Two words. One sentiment. Something so simple. Yet it changes everything.
U ok?
It’s Nash.
There’s nothing in the message to identify who it is. But I know. Deep down in my soul, I know who it is. And he might as well be behind me, standing with me, an ever-protective shadow. The effect is that profound.
Maybe it’s knowing that I’m not really alone, no matter how often I feel that way. Maybe it’s knowing that there’s someone out there who cares about what happens to me. Maybe it’s just the fact that it’s from Nash. Maybe it’s that he was thinking of me, that he took the time to text me. Maybe it’s that he wanted to check on me, that he even thought to check on me. Maybe it’s that he seems always to be there for me when I need him, even though he doesn’t necessarily set out to be.
Whatever the real reason, whether one of those, none of those or a combination of them all, it breaks the firm grip of fear, not completely but enough to let rational thought in.
I type out my short reply.
Yes.
I slide my phone back into my purse. I know I won’t get a response from him, but that doesn’t matter. Even though I know it’s a mistake, that it’s probably leading me nowhere good, I walk toward the door with a smile on my face and hope in my heart.
* * *
I feel much more at ease once I’m safely inside with the door locked behind me. I won’t lie. I checked every closet and under both beds, but that’s just being responsible. Right? Right.
I peel off my suit jacket and hang it in the closet. I grab a hair band as I pass through the bathroom, pulling my hair into a messy bun as I set about changing the rest of my clothes.
I’m attempting to stuff wayward strands of blond hair into a fairly neat pile atop my head when the doorbell rings. My hands pause in midair. Reflexively, my pulse speeds up. My mind rushes through names and faces of people who might be visiting me at such an odd time.
I know it can’t be Nash; he’s not that polite. He’d try the doorknob first, and then when he figured out it was locked, he’d knock. Loudly, I’m sure. Unless he knows which key on Cash’s BMW key ring belongs to my door. I didn’t tell him. I mean, he’s staying with me, but I didn’t give him that much freedom. That would’ve required too much trust.
I make a mental note to get that key back from Cash.
I return to puzzling over my visitor. It shouldn’t be my father. Or anyone else from the office. Daddy’s working and anyone else would call first.
Who else could it be?
I reason with myself that it’s broad daylight, and that the likelihood that it’s someone with nefarious plans is slim to none. Still, I look out the peephole before I slide the deadbolt open.
I’m puzzled by what I see. Shoulder-length blond hair, pretty face, skintight miniskirt and snug T-shirt, all on a Christina Applegate look-alike. It’s Olivia’s friend, Ginger. And she looks irritated. The question is: Why is she here?
Probably looking for Olivia.
I flip the lock and twist the knob, opening the door.
“Hi,” I say stiltedly. I’m uneasy. I realize my instincts are spot on once Ginger speaks. The conversation does not start off well.
“I think we can both agree that you’ve treated Olivia like shit most of her life, but,” she says emphatically, “I’ll give you one last chance to make it up to her before I’m forced to kick your ass and steal your man.”
I’m essentially dumbstruck by her speech, so it’s no surprise that I find a response to only one small portion of it. “I don’t have a man.”
“Sure you do,” she says with a grin. “I’ve seen you watching that other brother. I don’t know how in the hell one uterus can spit out three boys that look like that, but I thank God every day for just such a phenomenon.”
I learn a couple of things during this very short introduction to Ginger. Number one, she has no idea about what’s going on with Cash and Nash. Obviously, she assumes Nash is actually a third brother.
The second thing I learn is that I like Ginger. I can totally see why Olivia enjoys her company so much.
“Well, you can’t very well steal what I don’t have.”
“Please,” she says with a roll of her eyes and a dismissive swipe of her hand. “Even if he was yours, if I wanted some o’ that, I could get it. Men are helpless to resist me when I turn on the charm.” The grin she gives me is devilish and teasing. Evidently she’s joking.
I think.
“The point is, you’re a beautiful girl and you can have him if you set your mind to it. But”—her look turns warning—“if you hurt Olivia, I’ll destroy you. Plain and simple. Fair enough?”
I feel the urge to laugh, but I don’t. I have a feeling Ginger could be quite feisty if she thought I wasn’t taking her seriously. “Fair enough,” I agree mildly. “So, what brings you here? Other than threats of bodily harm.”
Her eyes light up. “A surprise party. You interested?”
Despite the life of privilege I’ve enjoyed, I’ve never participated in a surprise party. I’ve never really wanted to. Until now. It sounds like lighthearted fun. And I need some lighthearted fun. Heck, I just need some lighthearted anything. Although I’m making some major changes that should have the opposite effect, it seems my life has gotten even more intense and complicated than it was before. Still yet, I’d take it over the blind, thinly disguised misery I was previously trapped within. Any day of the week.
Any.
Day.
“I’m sure I should ask more questions before I agree to anything, but I’m gonna throw caution to the wind and say yes right away. What did you have in mind?”
“Can I come in? Or are you gonna make me stand outside all day?”
“Oh. Sorry,” I say, stepping aside so she can come inside. Ginger walks into the living room as I shut the door. She stops right in front of the coffee table and turns toward me. Her eyes are narrowed like she’s assessing me. I stop and look left and right. “What?”
“You know, I think you really have changed. You don’t strike me as a wicked bitch-on-two-sticks at all.”
I grin, not sure how to take that. “Um, thank you?”
Ginger smiles and drops down onto one end of the sofa. “You’re welcome. But your legs are pretty skinny.”
Ahhh, so that’s what the “two sticks” meant.
I look down at my legs, poking out from beneath my skirt, and then I look at Ginger’s as she crosses them toward me. “They’re not much thinner than yours.”
“I didn’t say it was a bad thing. They’re better to wrap around prey, don’t you think?”
I grin again. Yes, this woman is a character. “I’ve never really thought about it like that, but I guess you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. That’s something you should get used to. There’s no sense in arguing. Just ask Olivia. She’ll tell you. I’m full of raging hormones and wisdom. And, on the weekends, vodka,” she adds with a wink.
“Don’t you work on the weekends?”
I thought Olivia had told me she was a bartender where she used to work.
Ginger looks at me with a blank expression. “What’s your point?” As I stammer for something to say, she starts laughing. “I’m kidding. What kind of an employee would I be if I turned up pickled every weekend?”
“A bad one?”
“Damn straight. And I’m a great employee. And you can pass that along to Cash, since I’m seriously thinking about moving to the city and I’ll be needing a job. And, you know, any job where there’s a chance I’ll run into one or a dozen hot young men is the job for me.”
“I’ll be sure to mention it.”
“Great. Now, down to business. Olivia’s birthday is tomorrow and I’d like to throw her a little surprise party.”