Chapter 8 Birdie
Chapter eight
Birdie
Iwas enjoying a crispy Coke when Forrest Davies-Jones appeared, slipping onto the bench across from me without waiting for permission, like the snake he was. Then he slapped a stack of paper down on the table.
“What is this—” I began, when he suddenly took the whole bundle in his hands and began to tear it into little pieces.
“The prenup,” he said. “I’m destroying it.”
I stared blankly at the papers as he ripped them up viciously. His blue eyes were gleaming at me.
“You’re littering.”
“No more prenup. I was wrong to ever ask you to sign one. I want you for the rest of my life, period.”
“Oh, brother,” I rolled my eyes. “It’s too little, too late. I told you I never wanted your money.”
I turned away in unconcern, but suddenly he was on his knees in front of me, his whole powerful body bent over in apology.
“Birdie. Look at me. I’m sorry, fuck. Please, baby girl, goddamn. I made a mistake. Are you going to hold it over me forever?”
I ignored the way his power coiled around my spine and dug between my ribs, the way I had never seen him so much as give an inch to anyone, ever, and now he was on his knees begging for a second chance.
“Maybe. Why should I let it go?”
I could see that had nonplussed him, his big fingers curling in unease on the plastic table.
“Because I love you desperately.”
I shrugged. “Lots of men love me.”
There was a muscle ticking in his strong, tanned throat, and he tried another tactic.
“You know I’m the best you’ve ever had in bed, baby. You can’t find that anywhere else.”
“Men can be taught. You’re replaceable there, too.”
“But we’re happy together. I know we are.
You know I can give you every single thing on this earth you’ve ever desired.
Pleasure whenever you want it. Every possible luxury vacation.
A summer home anywhere you please. Never having to work a day in your life.
Never having to lift a finger around the house. ”
I shrugged.
“And remember how you left me at the altar every day of my life? Never.”
He encircled my ankle with his fingers, and his voice was low.
“And, of course, production of any musical album you choose. Any starring role in any of my productions.”
Oh hell no. Hell no he wasn’t going to pull this out at this exact moment like the domineering, controlling man he was.
I turned and faced Forrest, making sure he got an eyeful of my tits in this strapless top. No bra, full cleavage, jiggling with the slightest movement. He could choke on them.
“Let me get this straight. After five years of never even mentioning producing an album for me, you want to now, after leaving me at the fucking altar?”
“Yes.”
“You’re such a fucking fool,” I hissed, pressing my finger into his chest. “No. I have no interest in that.”
“Birdie, I made a mistake. I’m trying to make it up to you. I’m so sorry.”
“I didn’t make a mistake. I loved Pierre’s tongue on my pussy, and you made that possible.”
His eyes darkened, and I knew that shot had hit home.
“Come into the bedroom with me, and I’ll outdo him in every possible way.”
“Classic,” I snorted. “You think you can get out of everything by eating me out. Well, you can’t. I don’t need you for that and it doesn’t make up for what you did.”
“Then what will?” he gritted out, his teeth gnashing with an audible sound.
Tension curled between us.
“Please,” I taunted. “I know you’re knee-deep in pussy when you so choose. Find another girlfriend.”
“I don’t want another girlfriend. I want you.”
“No, you want Phee.”
He flinched. “I don’t want Phee. I was an asshole. I wanted the ego boost, and I idiotically thought I could come right back to you like nothing had happened.”
I shook my head.
“The fucking ego on you.”
“Let me make it up. I swear you won’t regret it.”
“Why did you refuse to produce an album for me before?”
Hurt would have bled through my words before, and I’d always been too proud to beg for his favors. Or even ask. Because surely he would have suggested it if he’d thought I was good?
So I had always assumed I just wasn’t good enough. Didn’t have the voice Phee did.
“Why would I want you to record an album?” he asked. He was close, too close, with that seductive low voice and the fucking taste of power. “Your voice is so fucking dirty and lascivious and naughty that I don’t want you singing for everyone. I want you singing for me.”
I drew back, sticking one very pointy tip of my high heel into his broad chest.
“Oh, so you’ve never produced an album for me because you’re a controlling asshole, not because you don’t think my voice is good enough.”
“That’s right.”
“How charming.”
I dug my toe in. All those years of thinking I wasn’t good enough, and that had never been it.
“So will you let me produce an album for you?”
“And I’m expected to suck your dick in return, I suppose.”
“No. No,” he gritted out. “No strings attached.”
“I doubt it, but yeah. Yeah, I’ll let you produce an album for me. And if it’s successful, maybe I’ll think about listening to more of your miserable apologies. They amuse me.”
“Oh Birdie,” he said eagerly, thinking he’d won, because he was so cocky. “It’ll be a success. I guarantee it.”
“Interesting that you guarantee that. You haven’t even heard what’s going to be on the album yet.”