Chapter Twenty
Isla
My apartment seems so quiet. Only the click of the door closing behind me greets my ears as I seal myself off from the rest of the world. I walk inside, alone with the warring emotions running circles in my mind.
I shrug off my coat and hang it up, feeling the pain of missing my mom already, even though it’s been hours since I saw her last. At least I’m a lot less worried now – she’d really turned a corner while we were there and is almost back to her usual self. She’d been moving around the kitchen with some color in her cheeks and a twinkle in her eye before I left.
Sinking onto the comfortable old couch, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. My fingers idly trace patterns on the armrest, my mind drifting back to Walker's kiss. That moment replays in my head, the heat, the intensity, the way my heart threatened to beat right out of my chest.
“Tell me everything.” Amber's voice startles me out of my thoughts. She’d called me on the way home, worried that I hadn’t been checking in much. I’d caught her up with my mother being sick, and then with Walker showing up.
“He kissed me,” I whisper, the confession sending a fresh wave of that familiar warmth flooding my cheeks.
“Did you like it?” She sounds impossibly excited and almost breathless as she asks.
“Amber, I—” I start, hesitating as I rise from the couch to pace the length of my living room. The wooden floorboards creak beneath my feet, the soft sound comforting.
I want to tell her everything, how his lips felt against mine, how I'd been caught in desire I didn't know I was capable of feeling, how gentle yet demanding he’d been, how my heart went wild... But fear swallows my voice. All the way home I’d been worried, stressing, scared because I’d already had my heart profoundly broken and Walker… he’s the type to love them and leave them, and that’s just not how I want things to be.
“I liked it a lot,” I whisper, the words leaving me feeling naked and vulnerable
“That sounds serious! Are you going to see him again? Could this be love?” She’s still so bubbly and excited I don’t know how to tell her that things could never work out between me and a player like Walker.
Still, her questions hit me like a gust of wind, stilling my steps. Love? The word feels too big, too heavy to put to the feelings I have for him. Walker is a force of nature that could help me soar or destroy my whole world with equal ease. His kiss hasn't just left a tingling sensation; it's embedded itself into my very being, haunting every thought.
“Amber, I don't know if—” I say, but she cuts me off, her voice urgent.
“Sorry, babe, gotta run! We'll talk about every delicious detail later, promise!”
And just like that, the line goes dead, leaving me with questions swirling like leaves in a whirlwind. Do I love him? The mere possibility sends my heart into a frenzied dance, one full of longing and fear. But love? I press a hand to my chest, feeling the thrum of my pulse beneath my fingertips. Can something so consuming be anything less? It almost has to be, right?
With a deep breath, I sink back onto the couch, closing my eyes as I try to picture a future without crippling doubt. One where kisses lead to forevers, and bad boys become something more than just a chapter in my story. I can almost see it – almost.
I’m still lost in a daydream when the vibration of my phone breaks the silence, a short message from Walker lighting up the screen. “I'm sending someone for you. Be ready.”
My heart hammers almost painfully hard, my curiosity mingling with a rush of excitement. It's my day off—I have no commitments, no plans, nothing. Why would Walker send for me? And is this stranger taking me somewhere?
What’s going on?
But he’s not about to reveal his secrets. Wait and see , is all he replies when I press him for details. That's just like him, always keeping me on edge. As the minutes tick by, a blend of anticipation and anxiety swirl within me. Walker has this effect on me, drawing me into his world with an irresistible pull.
A soft knock at the door signals the arrival of whoever Walker sent. The man waiting there is a silent individual with bored eyes, clad in black, exuding an air of professionalism. With a polite nod, he gestures me toward a sleek sedan parked outside. There's a controlled elegance in the way he moves, but his expression remains guarded, revealing nothing.
“Where are we headed?” I ask as I slide into the backseat. He closes the door behind me, leaving me in silence as he walks around the vehicle to get in the driver’s seat. Only then does he respond.
“Mr. Blackthorne requested I do not disclose the destination, Miss Anderson,” he replies, his tone firm yet devoid of warmth.
The city blurs past as we drive, each street corner and landmark dissolving into a monochromatic smudge. When we finally come to a halt, the sight that greets me steals the breath right out of my lungs—a towering skyscraper of metal and glass piercing the sky.
“Here?” My voice comes out as little more than a whisper. What could possibly be waiting for me inside this place?
“Go to the top floor, Miss Anderson.” With that, the driver ushers me toward the building's grand entrance.
I’m waved past the guards at the door, and one leads me silently to the elevator. Once inside, he leans in and pushes a button, then ducks out as the doors begin to slide closed.
The elevator whisks me upward with a quiet hum, the digital numbers ascending rapidly until they blink to a stop. This is it—the top floor, the place Walker wants me to go. But what am I doing here? What is this place?
My pulse quickens and my hands go clammy as I step out into the white marble hallway. The door before me is almost as imposing as Walker, the red glow of a security light casting a sinister hue on the white walls and floor.
As I inch closer, unsure what to do now, the light flickers to green. The door eases open with a soft click. No one is there to greet me, only Walker’s voice softly flowing through speakers I don’t see.
“Enjoy my home,” he says, a hint of something indefinable in his words, “I'll be there as soon as possible.”
“Your… home?” I murmur to myself, crossing the threshold into the unknown. Every fiber of my being is alight with curiosity, nerves, and an undeniable trace of desire. Walker Blackthorne, the ex-gang member, has opened his world to me, and I can't help but wonder if my heart will survive the encounter.
Stepping into the vast expanse of Walker's penthouse, I'm momentarily blinded by the sunlight that floods the space. The sun seems to bow to the grandeur of this place, its rays kissing sleek surfaces and shimmering on polished marble floors. My eyes trace the lines where ceiling meets sky, framed by the monumental windows, and I can't help but feel like an intruder in a world too rich for my simple tastes.
“Miss Anderson.”
The voice snaps me back to reality, and I whirl around to find a man regarding me with a friendly expression. His attire is crisp, professional, the kind you'd see on someone who takes pride in their craft.
“I'm Charles, the house chef.” He extends his hand, and I notice the faint creases around his eyes, marks of countless smiles given freely. “Would you like a drink, snack, or dessert?”
My throat feels dry, my words lodged somewhere between awe and intimidation. I manage a shake of my head, coupled with what I hope is an appreciative smile. It seems enough to convey my gratitude, as he gives me a polite nod and a knowing wink.
“You'll be just fine, Miss Anderson.”
“Please, call me Isla,” I say, my voice steadier than expected. Charles acknowledges with a nod and disappears, presumably back to the kitchen.
Alone again, I drift through the space, touching the cool marble of a tabletop, marveling at the high ceilings adorned with intricate light fixtures that resemble modern art more than sources of illumination. How casually he had lounged on our worn sofa at mom's, yet this—this cathedral of wealth and taste—is his norm. A tightness forms in my chest as I swallow down the rising sense of inadequacy.
My phone breaks the silence with a chime, vibrating against my thigh. It's Walker. His text reads like his fingertips stroking my bare skin, both apology and demand: I apologize, this meeting is running longer than expected. I might not be back for two to three hours. Please make yourself at home. Relax, take a bath, ask Charles for something to eat, or take a nap. My home is your home.
The words send a shiver down my spine, stirring a potent dose of excitement and nervousness within me. His home is my home? The notion has my heart skipping a beat, dancing to a rhythm of possibility and fear. Obviously, I’m reading too much into his polite statement. But still, here, surrounded by his presence yet devoid of his voice and touch, I wonder if I'm edging closer to ecstasy or destruction.
The lure of Walker Blackthorne is powerful, undeniable, and as dangerous as the man himself.