Текст книги "ARROGANT PLAYBOY"

Автор книги: Winter Renshaw

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 43 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

BECKHAM

I hold the old man’s hand for hours.

I’ve never held another man’s hand in my life, but I refuse to let go. I watch him sleep. Sit with him. Tell him goodbye in case it’s my last chance. When the nurse checks on him and leaves, I tell him about Sadie. The whole story. I leave nothing out.

I close my eyes after that, bracing myself for advice that never comes. I’m not sure I’ve ever needed his advice more than I do now.

Visiting hours end at eight, and I head back to Golden Oak, immediately greeted with the sound of pitiful baby cries echoing off the vast mansion walls. Sprinting up the winding stairs, I follow the noise to Odessa’s room.

“What’s going on? Is she okay?” My heart hammers.

Odessa turns around, Sadie screaming in her arms. A half-finished bottle rests in her hand, and Odessa wears an apologetic wince.

“I thought I could get her to stop fussing,” she says. “And Elizabeth needed a break.”

I rush to Sadie, taking her from Odessa’s arms. Lifting her to my shoulder, I adjust the blanket and rub my hand in circles across her tiny back. Despite my best efforts, the crying won’t subside.

“Does she need a doctor?” My stomach twists at the thought.

Odessa bites her lip and shakes her head, reaching for Sadie’s back. How she can stay so calm in all of this is beyond me. “She’s not warm. Her temp is normal. I checked an hour ago.”

I walk around Odessa’s room, holding Sadie close and shushing her. Funny how the most unnatural thing that could ever happen to me suddenly feels organic.

“My niece, Aubrey,” she says. “She had colic, and my sister would take late night drives to help calm her down. The fresh air helped I think. And the car noise.”

I grab Sadie’s diaper bag and slip it over my shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Downstairs Odessa buckles the baby into her car seat, and I grab a set of keys from the cabinet by the garage. Ten minutes later, we pull onto the desolate road that surrounds my brother’s estate. Glancing up, I see every star in the sky. Most people would consider that a beautiful thing to see.

Not me.

It reminds me too much of home.

My first home.

The Zion Ranch.

New York at night is alive. Vibrant. Lit. Buzzing with life.

The dark and quiet of the Zion Ranch at night was the devil’s playground. He danced between the shadows and lurked among his innocent victims. His bidding was done under the shade of black night and a starry sky. During the day he’d hide in plain sight, parading around with his security and a handful of his young brides and jutting his hand out so whosoever wanted to kiss it had easy access. The devil I knew had a name: Mathias Moon. Everyone else called him The Prophet.

The crunch of gravel beneath the car as I turn onto another dark road brings a soft rumble. Sadie’s cries soften, morphing into whimpers.

“The vibration’s calming her down already,” Odessa says, twisting back to check on her. “She’s wearing out.”

My knuckles clench around the wheel, turning white even in the dark.

I hate that Uncle Leo is dying and there’s nothing I can do about it.

I hate what Eva did. I hate her for bringing an innocent baby into a fucked up situation. I hate the flood of warmth that wraps into tightness in my chest every time I think of Sadie, and I hate the dread that nauseates me at the thought of someone taking her away.

I hate that Odessa’s still being kind to me after what I said earlier.

Most of all, I hate the part of me that wants to run from it all. Push it all away. Shove it in a box, close the lid, and sink it to the bottom of the ocean with a cinderblock.

The headlights illuminate a green sign telling us Claxon is sixty-eight miles ahead. I never realized Golden Oak was that close to the Zion Ranch.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said I had fifty-five brothers and sisters.” My statement fills the quiet space between us. Her emerald gaze carefully washes over me. “I grew up on a FLDS compound north of Claxon. It’s not too far from here actually.”

Odessa says nothing, but I suppose there’s nothing to say.

“Dane’s my half-brother,” I continue. “Different mothers. Same father. We were born somewhere in the middle. Last I knew there were fifty-six of us. I’m sure there are more now.”

“Were you close?”

I huff. “As close as you can be when there’s an entire village of people sharing your last name. So…no.”

“What about Dane? Were you close with him?”

I shake my head. “Not until we were exiled.”

“Exiled? Like kicked out of the community?”

“Yes. The elders like to control the population, ensuring there’s an overabundance of women at their disposal.”

She shifts her body toward me, folding her arms. “Horrific. And your father allowed this?”

“Our father gave us his last name and nothing else. He wasn’t even our father. Not biologically.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Prophet called them ‘seed bearers.’ Twelve worthy-blooded men hand selected by Mathias Moon to propagate the community.”

“Wait, what do you mean?”

“If a woman wanted to have a child,” I say. “She had to get permission from Mathias first. He’d send a seed-bearer to her home during her fertile peak. Husbands had to hold their hands and watch.”

“I’m going to be sick.” Odessa’s hand flies to her face, her words muffled through trembling fingers.

“It’s normal to them. They’re taught to believe it is. They know nothing else.” I exhale, my hands sliding down the wheel. I haven’t spoken about Zion Ranch in almost a decade. Talking about it brings a lightness I never anticipated.

“How old were you when they…?”

“Fifteen.” The pit of my stomach twists hard, the way it always does when memories of that day flood my mind. “Dane was sixteen. A group of us boys were carted a few miles outside the property line like a box full of puppies and set loose. A sack lunch. Twenty bucks. Not so much as a good luck.”

“Must’ve been terrifying for you.”

“It was the best fucking thing that ever happened to me.” Back then I’d rather have been homeless than spend another night with those sick bastards.

From the corner of my eye, I see her wipe a tear on the back of her hand.

“Don’t feel sorry for me, Odessa,” I huff. “Please. Fuck. Don’t.”

“It’s shitty what happened to you. Nobody deserves that. Certainly not an innocent child.”

“I’d say I came out ahead in the deal, wouldn’t you? Jesus, Odessa.” On what planet does a homeless kid with an eighth grade FLDS education grow up to be a billionaire playboy with the entire city of Manhattan for a playground?

“Do you miss your mother?” Her hand flies to her chest, her eyes laced with sadness despite my specific instructions not to feel sorry for me. I’m positive the mother she’s picturing in her head is nothing like the one I knew.

“Nope.” I don’t miss a beat. “Hardly knew her. Barely remember what she looked like.”

The memory of her face fades in and out of my memory. Every year that goes by makes it harder to remember if her eyes were blue or gray. She was going gray at the temples. I recall that much. And she always smelled like baked bread.

My father, at least the one who headed the fifty-plus children and eight wives who shared his name, was another story. Desperate for approval and acceptance from The Prophet, he auctioned off his daughters like cattle and handed over his spare sons with a crooked smile on his wrinkled face and not so much as a second thought.

I was born into evil, my adolescent future mapped out without my knowledge and before I had a chance. Beckham Ford Townsend came into this world unwanted, unloved. Beckham King was born the day I set foot in Manhattan.

I made two promises to myself back then: never rely on anyone and never fall in love.

I broke them both the day I met Sophie Glass.

Walking away from that relationship broken, bruised, and barely breathing only deepened and renewed my commitment to myself. Uncle Leo once drunkenly declared only fools make promises and under whispered breath he added, “But only men keep them.”

I renewed my promise the day I walked in on Sophie getting plowed by some D-list actor snorting a line of coke off her tits. Our fairytale love story was reduced to nothing but tabloid fodder and erroneous speculation after that.

“We should head back.” I bring the car to a crawl and turn around in a nearby field.

Odessa nods, silently soaking in all the things I never should’ve told her.

Chapter Thirty

ODESSA

I watch from the doorway as Beckham lowers a sleeping Sadie into her bassinet. The ache in the back of my throat prevents everything I want to say from coming out all at once.

He’s broken.

Broken open.

But he’s the strongest man I’ve ever known.

Every part of me wants to tell him. He deserves to hear it. I doubt anyone’s ever told him how magnificent he is. Underneath the playboy façade and the emotionally frivolous lifestyle, there’s more to him than I ever could’ve imagined.

“You’re staring.” He’s facing me now, his dark brows pinched. Everything about him is hard and painful. I wish I could absorb it all.

“You’re a natural with her,” I say, approaching him as if I’m coming up on a venomous snake that could strike at any moment. A ragged breath drags across my lips, and without thinking, I reach to brush his dark hair from his temple. “You’re not who I thought you were at all.”

My whispered words linger between us, resting on the bed of tension we’ve created. Beckham is still, his gaze fixed on me as his chest rises and falls.

“I should go to bed.” My hand falls from his face as my gaze falls to his mouth, a dangerous spot to land. Turning softly, I pad out of the room and head next door. With the quick twist of the plated doorknob, I’m safe in the confines of my sprawling suite.

I wash up, slipping into pajamas and crawling under the silky blankets. My body begs for sleep, but my mind won’t give up the fight.

A sliver of light illuminates my door. I sit up, eyes adjusting to make out the form of a man in the doorway. He closes the door before taking determined strides to the bed where he crawls under the covers with me.

He’s shirtless, blanketing me with his masculine scent and body heat.

I ask no questions.

He offers no explanations.

The familiar warmth of Beckham’s lips pressing into my flesh ignites a burn between my thighs my fatigued body fully embraces. My body comes alive in the seconds that exist between his kisses.

Running his hand along the inside of my thigh, his fingertips trace over the outside of my mound. I’m stirred instantly, aching to feel the way his fingers search inside me, priming me.

Burning kisses send a swirl to my belly as he climbs on top of me, moving down toward my hips. Pulling my pajama bottoms and panties with one smooth tug, Beckham’s tongue wastes no time finding my clit in the dark.

He devours me. Lick after lick, stroke after stroke, suck after suck. Two fingers slip inside, curling up with each insertion as his tongue circles my nub.

It’s not enough.

I want more.

I need more.

Beckham rises on his knees, the outline of his fully erect cock grazing my thigh. He tugs his pants down, and I sit up, gripping his hardness and wrapping my lips around it. His hotness fills my mouth, my tongue raking the underside and swirling around the tip with each oral stroke.

Maybe it’s my imagination, but Beckham’s never been so big and this hard before. And I’ve never needed anyone this desperately.

He sweeps my hair into his hand, pulling my head back and off his cock after only a few minutes. Even in the darkness of the room, I see the glint in his eye. I lean back into the pillows as he retrieves a condom from his waistband and tears the packet between his lips, spitting out a piece of gold foil that flitters to the bed.

The second he’s covered, he grabs my hips, fingers digging deep into my flesh, and pulls me toward him. The sensation of his sheathed cock resting above but not in me sends a stirring sensation through my body. My nails dig into his arms, silently begging.

His right hand grips his cock at the base, directing it toward my slick entrance and pushing it deep inside me. My thighs widen, relaxing, accepting every inch of him. With every plunge our bodies and minds make a silent agreement never to attach meaning to this, never to speak of this.

It doesn’t have to mean anything, not tonight, not ever.

Beckham fucks me harder, each plunge faster and deeper than the one before. Our skin sticks together, our scents mingling.

“Harder,” I whisper.

He needs it.

I need it.

“More…” My fingers get lost in his hair, tugging, pulling, ripping.

My nails drag down his back until they arrive at the curve above his perfect ass. Gripping his hips as he dives into me, I push him deeper.

This…

This is what I’ve been missing my whole life.

A closeness more than words and empty promises and store-bought, clichéd proposals could ever deliver.

“Don’t stop…” I plead as his lips silence mine.

Never stop.

The rhythmic bucking of his hips take us somewhere only we belong, and when it’s all over, he rolls off me. I close my eyes for a moment, just to catch my breath.

 When I wake the next morning I’m cold. And alone.

Chapter Thirty-One

BECKHAM

In a moment of weakness, I did what I had to do. It was selfish to charge into Odessa’s room and take her without so much as a single word, but words complicate things.

It was better to take her in silence than to offer her thinly veiled reassurances attached to something we both knew was purely carnal.

I needed a release, a moment of emancipation. She was the only one who could give it to me.

And like a fucking coward, I crept back to my room the second she drifted off.

I shower off as soon as Elizabeth comes for Sadie. A half hour from now I’ll be face to face with Odessa, and if she’s in a mood, she’s going to demand an answer.

Unfortunately for her, I’m in a mood too, and I have no intentions of giving her any answers.

Thirty minutes pass, and I stand before the dresser mirror tying a tie the color of anger. When I emerge from my suite, Odessa stands in the hall, leaning on the wall with her arms folded.

Here we go.

I roll my eyes, shutting my door. “We’re not discussing it. Not here.”

Watery green eyes blink twice, her full lip trembles. “Beckham…”

“It didn’t mean anything, Odessa. You know that.” The words are delivered with as much conviction as I can muster.

“No,” she says. “Your uncle. He passed away this morning. Mathilde just told me. I thought I should be the one to tell you.”

I slump back against the door, fighting every threat of emotion. Life may have bent me, but I refuse to break.

“I’d like to offer to handle the funeral arrangements if you don’t mind,” she says. “You and Dane can tell me if there’s anything special you’d like, and I’ll work with the funeral home. You should be with family, not worrying about floral arrangements and casket colors.”

Her niceness infuriates me, and I’m well aware that I’m the world’s biggest fucking asshole right now.

“What? Are you some fairy fucking godmother all of a sudden?” My neck strains, and I see nothing but red. “Stop, Odessa. Stop trying to be…”

So fucking perfect for me.

“What?” Her eyes stop watering as her face pinches.

“It’s like you’re making me your sole responsibility. Like I need a fucking keeper. Like I can’t handle anything on my own,” I say. “Do you realize how goddamn insulting that is?”

“Beckham.” Her voice is as calm as it is low. “You’re under a lot of stress. You don’t mean any of this.”

I charge toward her, sneering down my nose. The realest part of me knows she doesn’t deserve this. She’s an easy target. She dared to show me kindness, and I’m not exactly myself right now.

Besides, every person who’s ever shown me kindness outside of my brother and Uncle Leo had an agenda.

“I mean it all.” A brilliant heat sears across my rising chest. Breathing in her delicate scent normally brings me down to earth but not today.

She’s on my clothes.

In my lungs.

On my skin.

She says nothing. Her eyes drop to the floor. A second later, she nods and walks away.

I don’t wear weakness well. And I don’t tend to fall apart.

I self-implode.

***

Elizabeth rocks Sadie in a chair downstairs. I check on her one more time before heading out the door. Most of the time I stand back, watching her. I’ve never known affection in my life. My instincts aren’t to kiss the top of her head or let her grip my finger before dashing out the door. But watching her gives me a fullness like I’ve never felt.

If this is love, it’s nothing like I expected. It’s gentle and warm and unassuming.

Dr. Brentwood texted me yesterday during my meeting with Dane and Odessa. He said Eva was doing better. Making progress. Not knowing how long I’ll have Sadie burns through me and saturates my disposition with a blanket of rage.

“Where’s Odessa?” I ask Mathilde as I head to the car.

Her lips purse as her fingers knit nervously. “She left, monsieur.”

“What do you mean, she left? I saw her upstairs ten minutes ago.”

“She asked Bronson to take her to the airport.”

I spin toward the porte-cochere. The Town Car that normally waits there is gone.

“She cleared it with Monsieur Townsend,” Mathilde adds.

Mathilde silently excuses herself, and I stand in the foyer staring at a vase of flawless white roses on a pretentious marble table.

“What’d you do to upset her?” Dane lingers in the doorway to his study. He’s not dressed in a suit today, which serves to remind me that we’re not going to work. We’re planning a funeral.

My jaw sets. I don’t need to explain anything to him. It’s not worth my breath, and I don’t need to piss off the last person on the face of the earth who gives two shits about me.

“Told you not to sleep with her.” Dane widens his stance, staring me down.

I don’t need his disapproving glare to make me feel like a piece of shit. I’m already there.

“Let’s plan this thing,” I say. “Uncle Leo wouldn’t want us standing around. He’d stick a mop in our hands and tell us to get the fuck on with our lives.”

Dane’s chin tucks and his hands go to his hips. “Yeah. You’re right. Thought we could do a private memorial. We’re the only family he has left, and it’s what he always said he wanted.”

“Fine with me.”

***

I return from the funeral home with Dane after lunchtime. Only then does it hit me that Odessa’s gone. She fled.

I succeeded in pushing her away.

Swaddling Sadie in my arms, I sink down in a chair and check my phone. Several delivery confirmations pop up in my email. All the nursery items Odessa ordered earlier in the week have been delivered to my building.

Holding Sadie washes me with unexpected peace.

Thumbing through my contacts until I get to Odessa, I press her number and lift the phone to my ear.

I owe her an apology.

She doesn’t answer.

I listen to her greeting until the end, soaking in the sound of her voice, and then I hang up.

Like every woman who’s ever come before her, she’s better off without me.

Chapter Thirty-Two

ODESSA

“You sound depressed.” Carly chomps her gum on the other end of the phone. Desperate for the comfort of a familiar face, I called her the second I landed in New York. “You okay?”

“Been a long day. Got to the airport way too early. Just tired.”

I don’t tell her about Beckham and the outburst and the sex or any of it. It’s irrelevant. Over and done. An error in judgment not worth rehashing.

“Do you want to come over tonight then?” I inject a lighter tone in my voice to hopefully throw her off. “Feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“Hm.” Carly hesitates. “Actually, I was supposed to meet up with some people from work.”

“Oh,” I sigh. “That’s fine.”

Heading toward baggage claim and hailing a cab shortly after, I jet home with intentions of holing up for the weekend. Halfway home, I see a missed call from Beckham. No text. No voicemail.

I don’t call him back, mostly on principle. I didn’t fly all the way back home just to accept his apology so he can feel better about being a giant asshole.

***

Saturday I meet Jeremiah for coffee at his request. I briefly mention the Salt Lake City trip, and he asks questions and pretends the answers don’t bother him.

Slipping his hand across the table to cover mine, our eyes lock.

“I miss us, Sam,” he says. “I want you back. I need you back. Going a week at a time without talking to you? I can’t. I can’t do it anymore. I need an answer.”

He flashes a bleached smile that makes me happy and sad all at once.

“Excuse me. I’m so sorry.” A middle-aged woman taps him on the shoulder, her phone in hand. She has Midwestern tourist written all over her face, and she reminds me of my mom. “You’re Jeremiah Crawford, the chef, right?”

“Yes, ma’am, I am.” He twists to face her, flipping his charm on like a switch.

“I saw you on a billboard in Times Square this morning. Your show is my favorite,” she gushes, placing a trembling hand across her heart. “Would you mind taking a picture with me and my husband?”

A pot-bellied man with aviators stands behind her, not nearly as happy as his wife.

“I’ll take the picture.” I rise and grab her phone as the three of them pose. The camera on her phone flashes and the picture that pops up shows two of the three of them wearing grins wider than their faces. Jeremiah loves the attention.

“Thank you so much!” The woman blows him a kiss as her husband steers her away by the elbow.

“Welcome to the rest of your life,” I say as we sit down.

“Aw, Samantha, it’s fun,” he says. “Pretty cool knowing I can make someone’s day like that. Wish you’d smile that big when you see me.”

My head cocks to the side, and my eyes fall on my ring-less fingers. For the life of me, I can’t remember when I stopped smiling around him.

“I’m smiling on the inside,” I tease.

“I’m being serious here.” Jeremiah’s expression fades into worry. “I messed up. I’m not perfect. I’m asking for a chance to make it right. And if you still don’t want to marry me, I’ll leave you alone. I promise. Just give me a chance, Samantha. I’d have never asked for a break if I knew it’d make you fall out of love with me.”

“The fireworks are gone.” I pick at my nails, my head tucked. “I miss that crazy, stupid, reckless love we used to have. We couldn’t get enough of each other. Nothing could’ve come between us back then.”

“Babe, that kind of love is only temporary. After it fades, after the newness wears off, this is what’s left.” He widens his arms. “This is what’s forever. Ask your parents. Ask mine.”

If this is our forever, I don’t want it.

I smirk, rolling my eyes. “Your parents can’t keep their hands off each other. They act like they’re still newlyweds. And my parents are more friends than anything else, bound together by their five kids. We’ll never be your parents, and I don’t want to be like mine. Not in that way.”

“So you’re saying it’s the end of the road.” Jeremiah’s nostrils flare as he leans back in his seat, his bruised ego showing. “You’re saying you don’t love me. You don’t want to be with me. We’re not getting married.”

The words aren’t as hard to swallow when I hear them come from someone else’s lips. In my head they’re terrifying. Final. Nonsensical.

I take in a sharp breath, my gaze drifting into his. “I’m sorry. You’re not what I want anymore.”

“Shit, Samantha. What the hell do you want?” Jeremiah’s pointed question comes out more defensive than anything else, as if he can’t possibly fathom the thought of not being good enough for someone.

For the first time in my life, I have no idea what I want. I thought it’d be terrifying. Turns out it’s not at all. It’s sweet liberation.

Peering at Jeremiah, I feel at peace for the first time in over a month. He’s going to be fine without me. His career will take off. He’ll meet some celebrity-chef groupie or B-list actress and live happily ever after. I’ll see him on cable from time to time hocking brightly-colored cookware on QVC or catch re-runs of EAT ME, JEREMIAH!

And I’ll be perfectly at peace with my decision.