Chapter 20
20
C ALLAN
My phone vibrates in my pocket, alerting me to new messages––I assume.
I’m sure the world will come to an end.
Of course shit happened.
If Carmen suspects I’ve stolen what’s rightfully mine, she’s clearly not in the know and has no idea who Charlie is.
She doesn’t know I’m Callan Bard, which is amazing in its own way.
She can’t put two and two together.
The tragic part is that she and Alvarez, her new lover, have lost my fucking necklace, which is aggravating, to say the least.
She was wearing it in those pictures.
How did it get to her?
I suspect Alvarez got it from someone else, and I don’t think it was her husband. That would be weird.
The only thing connecting all these people in this obnoxious, crazy way is the mastermind behind it.
My enemy.
Does she even know what that necklace represents and how valuable it is? And has she thought for a second that she herself wasn’t its rightful owner?
What was it to her?
A gift?
A bait?
How did Alvarez get his hands on it?
The good thing is that whoever fucks with me is also messing with them.
This whole mess might be purposely designed in that fashion so I can lose my marbles.
Again, I’m not in this game to win a prize.
I know how this game is played.
I know we’re chasing absolute power and struggle to preserve it once we get it.
That’s how we live.
And that’s what this might be.
But as I said before.
This feels personal.
As if someone has put too much thought into it.
And that person has no qualms about random people paying a price.
Carmen, Alvarez, and his crew will be affected in this case. Not to mention her husband.
They are all on the chopping block.
I have so many reasons to order a hit.
But what would that do to me?
Would it get my necklace back?
No.
Would it make me fall into my enemy's trap?
Probably.
Is there a point in killing a bunch of people for nothing?
No.
Whatever the person behind this wants from me, I won’t ruin my reputation by creating headlines with some random bloody killings.
I’ve worked hard to have a legitimate business that bears my family’s name, is respected, and is not constantly under investigation.
Everything else that happens underground has been run without interference, and any loose ends have been nicely tied up.
I won’t be doing things differently now.
So I let the phone beep. And beep… And beep.
The other thing I feel in my pants––besides my phone––is my raging hard-on.
This woman… Fuck me. It’s been a while since I got so worked up because of a woman. Talking to her about sex?
That nearly undid me.
Frankly, I’ve never gotten so intimately close to a woman. There was no time. I didn’t ask questions. They didn’t ask questions.
We had sex.
We didn’t talk about sex.
Not one woman wanted to take their time and get to know me. They knew enough to let me slide between their legs.
And it worked all right.
We round a corner, and the lit sign of the club glows not far from us when she abruptly stops.
“Wait…” she says, looking at me with sparkling eyes. “I’m not dressed for a night at the club.”
Instinctively, my eyes go down, roving over her clothes.
“What’s wrong with what you wear?”
She gestures at me.
“Look at you. I only tossed some clothes on to sneak out of my apartment. I'd look weird in a club.”
“You look perfectly fine,” I say, my eyes lingering on the swell of her chest, my hands itching to cup her breasts.
I should stop thinking about her in that way as my erection stirs and the tension becomes too much.
“Look, we can do this,” I say, reaching for my tie knot. “I’ll take this off,” I continue, doing just that–untying my tie and shoving it into my coat pocket.
“What about now?” I ask, undoing a few buttons at my neckline and trying to look less put together. “The place is not that fancy,” I say as her eyes stall on me, her lips quiet.
It’s fancy, but that’s beyond the point.
She looks all right.
Yeah, normally, a woman linked to my arm would wear a sexy dress and heels.
She’d be all smiles and languorous stares.
She’d try to touch me in the car, under the table, or suck me in the bathroom. And we would both act like her expensive dress is in no danger of getting ruined.
“Are you sure I’m all right?” she asks, lifting her gaze to me and catching me eyeing her chest again.
“You look sexy as hell,” I say, studying how the slim fit wool top is molding on her chest, and her perfect hips and legs are hugged by her tight pants.
I move closer and run my hands up her neck before threading my fingers through her hair.
Her shoulders slightly quiver, as do her lips, while I brush her hair away and watch her eyes glint.
My fingers slide to the base of her neck and unbutton her neckline.
The soft swell of her breasts meet my inquiring eyes, and despite standing on the sidewalk and the goosebumps sparked on her by the frigid air, I lift my hand, brush the bottom of her left breast, lower my head, and press my lips against her skin.
“Callan,” she murmurs, chiding me while an embarrassed chuckle lifts off her lips. “You can’t do this to me,” she softly protests while I sink my teeth into her flesh, leaving a mark on her on purpose.
“You’re turning me on,” she says, her breast in my hand, my mouth sucking on her flesh.
I straighten and reach inside my coat before running a hand down my fly and adjusting my rock hard cock.
“See how much you turn me on,” I say, gently taking her hand and pressing it against my bulge.
Her eyes tilt to mine, lit like candles.
“You said no touching,” she reminds me.
Warm and pulsing against her hand, I give her a smile.
“ You are not allowed to do it. I can do it to myself as many times as I want.”
“Torture yourself?” she tosses at me.
“At least we agree on that,” I reply. “Let’s go inside.”
I wrap my arm around her and lead her to the door where the bouncer who knows me well tilts his chin in a greeting and opens a thick metal door without asking a damn question.
MACKENZIE
I’m shaking with emotion as we enter the club.
It’s a small space with a lot of energy and too many loud people. A large bar occupies an entire wall, while tables for two and bar stools fill the rest of the space.
The crowd splits when we walk into the room.
He knows almost everybody here. And everybody knows him. Men shake hands with him.
A woman pulls up close and whispers something in his ear before pulling away, laughing.
He seems at ease with everybody and does little––okay, nothing––to introduce me to these people.
“You come here often,” I say when we claim a couple of seats at the bar.
“Whenever I feel lonely,” he says, and I look around the room.
“You have nothing to worry about,” he tosses at me before asking me what I want to drink.
“Water for me.”
“You’re not serious,” he says, and I shift my focus to him.
“I’m not used to drinking when I’m going out.”
“I’ll take you home.”
Our eyes stay locked for a few seconds before he signals to the bartender.
“A raspberry Martini for her. And whiskey neat for me.”
A man slides next to him, and they talk while we wait for our drinks.
They arrive quickly, and mine is delicious.
He orders me a second one, and I’m getting more outgoing, talking to the bartender, laughing at Callan’s jokes, and not minding the people he’s talking to.
His hand rests on my thigh at some point, and shockwaves of need sweep through me.
What was he thinking taking my hand and putting it on his package?
The thought that I touched him and now I’m sitting next to him, checking him out with lustful eyes, makes me hornier than I was.
His fine clothes speak of money, while his confidence suggests he is used to getting what he wants.That makes me appreciate him even more for respecting my wishes.
With that being said, spending the night with him will end up being a major headache anyway. The hangover will be atrocious, and I might forever be hooked on him.
His attention goes to the men next to him when I pull my phone out and, with nothing better to do, text Kayla.
Me: You won’t believe this. I’m in Manhattan, having drinks with my new friend.
I ponder whether to send the message before tapping the screen and setting my phone face down on the counter. I barely peel my hand away when it dings with a message.
I flip it over and read Kayla’s message.
Kayla: With that man?
I pick it up and type.
Me: Yes.
She answers right away.
Kayla: Pictures, please. I need to see him.
I glance at Callan, who’s talking to his friends.
Me: He’s busy right now.
A few seconds pass.
Kayla: Snap a picture anyway. Even if it’s only a little part of him.
Laughing emojis trail her words.
Easier said than done.
Am I that crazy to snap a picture of him? He got mad when I tried to do that before.
I doubt he feels differently about it now.
My phone dings again.
Kayla:??? Are you doing it?
Me: Give me a second.
I turn my back to Callan and pretend I’m snapping a selfie, making sure the back of his shoulders and his hair are captured in my photograph.
I’m close to snapping the picture when my phone flies from my hand, and his eyes meet mine.
“I was taking a selfie,” I say in response to his stern look.
“No, you weren’t.”
“My friend wants to see you. I just told her about you. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
His eyebrows knit into a frown while he’s checking my phone.
“Your friend?”
“Yes. Kayla. She’s in New Jersey at her parents’ house. I told her the story .”
“What story?”
I try to yank my phone out of his hand.
He moves his hand out of my reach.
“The story that I told Carmen. The one with the bum I met at the deli. Please give me my phone,” I say, holding my hand out.
“You’re lying to your friend?” he asks.
“To protect you.”
“To protect yourself. No pictures, Mackenzie,” he says seriously this time.
I take my phone back and shoot Kayla another message.
Me: I tried. Didn’t work. Sorry.
I press 'send' and turn my phone off before asking for another drink under his scrutinizing eyes.
“Good girl,” he murmurs before shifting his focus away.
The third drink is the best and swallows up all my worries. Soon after, my mood shifts, and I forget about the incident.
He has already forgotten about it.
More minutes pass before he brings his drink to his lips, tilts the glass, and swallows the amber liquid reflecting the lit candle on the counter.
“Everything all right?” he drawls, not looking at me but sensing my stare on him.
“Yes.”
He puts his glass down.
His fingers are still wrapped around it when he speaks again.
“You wanna leave?” he asks, his eyes diving into mine.
He wants a specific answer––the one I’ve been pussyfooting around the entire evening.
I’ve been consumed with it for sure, and he seems to have thought about it too.
“Yes. We can go.”
His eyes stay on me a little longer, sparking fervor across my skin, making my nerve endings fire up messages to my brain.
I’m way too relaxed and positively horny, which is normal considering how much I had to drink.
“Do you want anything else?” he asks, reaching inside his pocket.
“No. I’m good.”
He leaves some cash on the counter and signals for our coats. Dutifully, the hostess brings them to us.
Moments later, the cold air brushes my cheeks, whisking away some of the languor I grappled with inside.
His hand holds mine firmly as our feet meet the new layer of snow coating the sidewalk.
My eyes go to the lights strewn across the trees.
“It really is beautiful,” I murmur to myself.
“What?” he tosses at me, a bit distracted.
“This evening. I never thought it would be so amazing.”
“You really like it?” he asks incredulously.
I laugh, the alcohol in my blood still suppressing my inhibitions.
“What’s not to like? Look at the beautiful streets. The snow makes everything perfect. And then going out with you?”
I chuckle again, and he flashes a smile.
“Isn’t it nice?” I go on.
“Yes, it is,” he admits as we near the park.
“The only thing to make this perfect would be a kiss at the ice rink in the park.”
What has gotten into me?
Why would I say that?
The ice rink is a classic.
But asking for a kiss?
Now?
Something’s wrong with me.
I find the idea so hilarious that I lift my hand and gesture dismissively.
“Never mind. I was just joking.”
“We can do that,” he says in the voice of a man about to offer me the world on a silver platter.
“No, we can’t,” I argue, although entertained. “The ice rink is closed.”
He checks the time on his watch.
“Let’s see if it is,” he says, picking up the pace and forcing me to rush.
We arrive five minutes before the closing time.
He tears his hand away from mine.
“Wait here,” he says, going straight to the people managing the place.
“He’s crazy…” I say to myself, watching him negotiate with the staff. “No one wants to stay late for us. They probably can’t wait to get home.”
My heart soars when the man he’s talking to nods in agreement and shakes hands with him.
He did it.
He fucking did it.
There’s no one here besides us, and the man he’s talked to goes inside. Soon after, the lights dim while Callan heads my way.
My heart is like a sparrow in my chest. The closer he gets, the harder it throbs.
I would think we would need a bit more time.
A few words exchanged between us, riding an undercurrent of lust. Another lingering gaze and the fingers of emotions over my face.
But no.
He pulls up in front of me, threads his fingers through my hair, and turns my world upside down.
The surroundings painted in white and silver, the buildings with muted lights, the big eye of ice peering at the sky, the marshmallow clouds, and the sparkling moon peeking from betweenthem makes everything look surreal.
My hand curls around his wrist, my arm looping around his waist as he pulls me into him and locks my lips.
Pivoting with me, he nudges me into the ice rink wall.
His hands rest on either side of me, his body pressing into mine while l want him with everything I have.
His lips break away before trailing down my neck.
Steamy breaths roll off our lips when he lifts his chin and searches my eyes.
“I want you…” I say in response to his questioning stare.
“I know,” he says curtly, with just a tiny, tiny speck of uncertainty in his voice.
It’s not enough to make me stall, but it’s enough to make me notice it.
“Is there something wrong?” I ask, my fingers splayed over his face.
He takes my hand, kisses my fingertips, and tenderly squeezes my hand.
“Nothing’s wrong. We’re going to my place,” he announces. “It’s better that way.”