25. Posie
CHAPTER 25
Posie
A knock comes on my door at dinner time. Bentley runs to open it, and I call him back. I immediately grab for the bat, jerking Bentley behind me with such fierceness that I’m certain I startle him. I don’t mean to, but I’m rattled after the events of earlier today. The main thought going through my mind being, what if someone followed us?
“Who are you?” Bentley asks, and my heart freezes.
“I’m Dutton.”
Shit. They were never meant to meet. I’ve always been cautious about who Bentley meets. He definitely doesn’t need to meet the guy I’m fucking, or just fucked once. My mind runs through a million different ways to get out of this situation.
“That’s a weird name,” Bentley says. I somewhat hide the bat behind my back, more so for Bentley’s sake.
“And what’s your name?” Dutton asks him, and though I imagine it’s difficult for him to break away from his cool demeanor, I can tell he’s trying to be slightly gentler, as if he’s unsure how to handle himself around a child.
“Bentley,” Bentley tells him, holding out his hand.
“Dutton,” I say. Bending down to Bentley, I whisper to him, “Go back to the table and finish your dinner while Mommy talks to her friend, okay?” He drops his hand but nods before he offers Dutton a wave and runs off.
When I’m sure he’s gone, I stand, only to find Dutton watching me. Stepping outside the door, I leave it ajar behind me and position myself in front of it, still with the bat in hand, blocking the view into my home.
“That’s new.” He nods in the direction of where Bentley went.
He’s changed into a gray suit, and the gash on his cheek still looks red and angry. Though he’s clean and freshly shaven, he looks tired, and I can’t help but think I’m the cause. A pang of guilt ripples through me. I was so caught off guard in the graveyard, and my emotions were at an all-time high. I’d never been one to run, much to my detriment, but this time, I did, and I blame it on the emotional roller coaster of visiting my parents’ graves for the first time in years.
“Why are you here?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
“I wanted to check up on you and make sure you’re okay,” he says earnestly, and his sincerity rattles me. This is all kinds of fucked-up. When I glance at his big hands, I notice the busted knuckles and a speck of blood on his gold ring.
I sigh. “You have blood on your ring.”
He raises his hand to check it himself and swears. He tries to remove the ring, but it’s stuck.
“Here.” I step forward to grab his hand, removing the tea towel over my shoulder. I rest the bat beside the door, then wipe the ring with the towel. I feel guilty because the only reason the blood is there is because of me.
“Did you kill him?” I ask quietly. I can’t even look at him; the guilt is too much. I hate that he followed me. But had he not, who knows what might’ve happened?
“You asked me not to, so I didn’t.”
I freeze for a moment before I continue cleaning the ring, and then I look up at him, still holding his hand. I never thought Dutton Taylor would do anything because I asked him to.
“I would’ve preferred carving a message into his chest and then leaving his body on the doorstep of the Boston Delinquents to make a point to never come after you again.”
My mouth opens and then closes again. There’s so much to unpack in that one statement. What a fucked-up knight in shining armor indeed.
“Who even talks like that?” I ask, dropping his hand and stepping back to put distance between us because I never trust myself in his proximity.
“Don’t act like you don’t know who I am, Posie. You knew exactly who you were letting between your legs.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Yes, I knew he was connected to the mafia. But to come to my home, where my son sleeps, with blood on him…
That I will not accept.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.
I don’t know how to express my feelings because I still haven’t entirely processed it. Dutton is a monster in his own right. I’d never seen him snap like that, never seen that violent side of him. But in that moment, amongst the ugliness, I knew immediately that I was safe. And yet, I know I should step away from him; magnetism be damned, because I should be scared by a powerful man like him.
But how do I express any of that? I want to be mad at him for following me, but I’m grateful he did. I want to thank him for last night and how he brought me to life for the first time in what felt like years, but I also want to reprimand him for assuming he can arrive at my doorstep whenever he wants.
My gaze lands back on the cut on his cheek, and guilt floods me once again. So, I settle on a simple apology. “I’m sorry about your cheek,” I say, grateful he didn’t follow me all the way home after the incident. I didn’t want to explain to Amy or my son why a man on a motorcycle was on my doorstep, splattered with blood.
I’d closed that chapter of my life.
At least, I thought I had.
“Why were you in Boston? Are you a part of that motorcycle club?” he questions, all his softness now gone.
I grow uncomfortable, knowing too well a man like this could probably gather all sorts of information on me. And I hate that about him. I hate that because of his power, money, and influence; he can so easily place me in a box that he can dig into my past, to a version of myself that I’d rather leave hidden. But I suppose, at the very least, I can give him an honest answer.
“I’m not. I got caught up in the wrong crowd when I lived in Boston after my parents died. I returned today to grieve the anniversary of their deaths. I didn’t expect someone would be there waiting.”
His eyebrows furrow as if not sure whether to believe me. I don’t give a flying fuck if he does. I have no loyalty to him.
Tension ripples around us, but I refuse to look away. A million unasked questions seem to pass between us and then it’s my turn to question him.
“Why did you follow me? How did you know where I was?” I’ve already strangely come to accept that Dutton is an enigma; he’s everywhere and nowhere all at once. But why is he so fixated on me?
“You left my house without saying goodbye.”
I narrow my gaze. “Yeah, newsflash. Most guys prefer that. They don’t haul ass for a four-hour drive and miraculously somehow know where I’m at. That’s stalker-level shit.”
He casually shrugs a shoulder. “I’m attentive. And don’t ever compare me to other men. Ever. I might be so inclined to uncover the names of every man you’ve slept with and then remove them permanently so you have no one to compare me to.”
“You really are a psycho, aren’t you? Dutton, stop talking in circles. I’m not a stupid woman. Answer me outright.”
He’s not a man who often answers to others, and I imagine he’s not used to revealing his hand. But I’m also one to keep my cards close to the vest.
He rubs his jaw—something I haven’t seen him do before—as if seriously considering what he should say.
“I put a tracker on your car. I’d like to say I take security for my employees very seriously, but I’d be lying if I said you’re not the only one I’ve done it to.”
My jaw drops. “What the fuck?”
“I believe you once called me a possessive asshole; there may be some truth to that, and I’m not going to apologize. Also, you might call it foresight. Because it’s lucky I did track you, or who knows if you’d be coming back in one piece after today.”
I want to argue with him because I know he’s not telling me the entire truth. I feel like Dutton is hiding a motive I don’t entirely understand. He might also be so overbearing that he just tracked me because he has the money and time to do so.
I want to throw every fucking piece of furniture in my house at him and maybe use the bat on his sparkly fucking bike parked in front of my house. But also… he’s right. As if realizing the weight of his words, his expression softens ever so slightly, and he seems lost, as if unsure how to comfort someone.
“Posie, who was that kid?” Dutton asks suddenly, immediately ripping me away from my spiraling emotions. I just needed a night to sleep on it and process it so I can get my shit together.
“My son,” I tell him.
“You never mentioned you had a child,” he says quickly, and I don’t know how to take that. It’s not like I have to answer to him. And, frankly, it’s none of his business.
“You never asked. And to be honest, you and I are nothing serious, Dutton. You’re my boss, and we have sexual chemistry. The sex was good, so let’s leave it at that, and we’ll continue working like nothing ever happened.” He looks like I’ve slapped him. “Okay, cool. Now that we’ve discussed that, I should go inside.” I turn to slip through the door, but his front slams into my back, his hand barricading me in and preventing me from opening the door any farther.
“Are you telling me you don’t want me to fuck you again?” His lips brush my ear lobe, and I immediately sink into him. Fuck, I could do with a release after today. He bites the lobe before he sucks it into his mouth, and warmth floods my core as I lean back against him, my body constantly betraying me around this man.
“No,” I say, not sure what I’m answering. Because now I’m flustered.
How can this man so easily make me melt this way? I hate that he can do this to me.
“Mommy!” Bentley calls: I can tell he’s coming toward the door. I freeze, then shove backward, but Dutton doesn’t budge.
“So help me God, Dutton, if you don’t move, I will get that bat and shove it so deeply up your ass it might actually reach farther than the pole you already have up there.”
“I might like it,” he says, then kisses the side of my neck and backs away. I pull open the door to find Bentley standing there.
“Are we having dessert?” he asks me. I scoop him up into my arms. “Do you like dessert?” he aims this question at Dutton.
“Dutton was just leaving,” I say, then slam the door in his face without so much as another glance at him. Bentley asks why I did that, and I tell him to finish his food. I sit next to him, staring at my own meal, unsure how to manage this non-relationship with my very dominating and possessive boss.
And that should be the least of my worries, considering what happened at the cemetery. Though I’m certain Bobbi has nothing to go off of to find me. But maybe I should reconsider everything I’ve done recently. Maybe I should delete the social media accounts I created. I didn’t use my real name, and he shouldn’t be able to find me, but I didn’t think he’d have someone watching my parents’ graves just in case I appeared, for fuck’s sake.
I was stupid. I’d been wary all this time, and I gave into a moment of weakness, hoping that I could have this small moment of peace to visit their graves. But Bobbi ruins even that.
We eat in silence, and I’m thankful Bentley doesn’t ask any more questions. Taking our plates to the sink, I start to wash them when there’s another knock at the door. Bentley runs to it, and that immediate fear spikes again as I call out and chase after him. When he pulls the door open, Dutton stands there, holding a bag in his hand. I narrow my gaze on the insufferable man who can’t take a hint.
“Ice cream,” Dutton says to Bentley.
“Oh, I love ice cream.” Bentley reaches for it, but I grab it before he can, shooting an accusing glare at Dutton.
“Dessert,” Dutton reiterates as if I’m the one being unreasonable.
“Bentley is allergic to nuts. Did you check if there are nuts in this?” I ask, making a point because he knows nothing about me or my son.
“Yeah, I could die,” Bentley adds, and Dutton’s blue gaze flicks to him.
“Well, that got dark really quick.”
I sigh as Bentley gives me puppy dog eyes. Opening the bag, I see Dutton grabbed five different tubs of ice cream. One has nuts, made evident by its name, so I scan the ingredients of the others.
“You can have this one.” I pull the tub out of the bag and hand it to Bentley. “What do you say?”
Bentley looks to Dutton. “Thank you. Want to come in and watch Transformers ?”
“No,” I say at the same time that Dutton says, “Yes.” I glare at Dutton, but Bentley is already running off to get a spoon.
“Anything you’re allergic to that I should be aware of?” Dutton asks.
“Overbearing assholes.”
“Last time I checked, you rather enjoy choking on those.”
Heat rises up my neck. The nerve of this man. “Why are you still here?”
“For dessert,” he states, and I know he’s not talking about what’s in my hand.
“I can’t, not tonight. And I don’t bring men around, my son.”
“Where is his father?”
“Dead for all I care,” I say nonchalantly. He raises a brow at my words and then nods. Oh my fucking God, this man might be learning social cues and how to take a hint.
“Tomorrow night?” he asks.
“No, I have no one to watch him.” He looks past me but can’t see Bentley.
“You really are his mother.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, I am. And I would like it if you leave.”
“I’ll leave when you tell me when I can have you again.” I put the bag on the floor and swap it for the bat. “There she is.” He winks.
“You really want this shoved up your ass, don’t you?” I whisper-shout, hoping Bentley won’t hear. But I know he’s most likely already glued to the TV.
“Have a good night, Posie,” Dutton says with a smirk as he turns to leave.