Chapter 17 Fitz
FITZ
“Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
I look up from where I’m huddled under the covers of Salinger’s bed with Faulkner, watching videos on his phone of the goat collection I’m trying to foist on someone unsuspecting.
“Yeah, I mean, I showed up, and that one had, like, five babies. I’m off the clock, Salinger. I’m taking a mental health evening.” I pull up the covers.
“I should have fucking known you were here.”
“Help, Crawford!” I holler as Salinger grabs me by the feet under the covers, hauling me and the covers off the bed.
“Oof.”
“Faulkner, get out, or I’m throwing you in the pool. You—” Salinger rounds on me.
Crawford stands in the doorway, watching my torture and execution unfold.
I run through the possible scenarios in my head for what has pissed off Salinger.
“Uh-oh,” Faulkner drawls. “I think they found out about that girl you have locked up in your penthouse.”
“You what?” Crawford bellows, charging into the room.
“Little fucker.” Salinger tackles me around the waist, throwing me to the ground before I can punch Faulkner.
We scuffle. I get two fingers in Salinger’s nose, knee him in the ribs, then I’m thrown back when Crawford gives me a brutal uppercut to the jaw.
“I fucking told you—”
“Oh, look, all the little birdies,” I slur at the ceiling.
Crawford drags me upright. “I warned you. Who the fuck do you have trapped in your apartment?”
“No one. Fuck you.” I shake him off, smooth down my shirt. “This is silk, you know. You can’t just believe everything you hear from Faulkner. I know you’ve been busy ordering overpriced dirty martinis in Manhattan, but seriously, Faulkner’s a psychopath and a liar.”
Faulkner sticks his head back in the bedroom. “You’re a psychopath.”
Salinger grabs me before I can murder him. I pick up the alarm clock on the nightstand and hurl it at Faulkner’s head.
“Can I borrow your car, Salinger?” Faulkner asks, ducking the clock.
“Absolutely not.”
“’Kay, thanks. Already have your keys.”
“You ruined my evening.” Salinger spits at me. “Carlo Jenner has organized a gang bang at your hotel.”
“Sounds like fun.” I flop back down on Salinger’s bed.
“You need to go stop it.”
“Whaa?”
“He’s your dumb-fuck hockey player.”
“No, he’s not. Carlo Jenner plays for Atlanta.”
“Uh, no. You traded for him three weeks ago.”
“Huh. How about that.”
“You cannot have a scandal on your hands with one of your hockey players running some sort of sex party in your hotel.”
“Fine.” I pull out my phone, try a few numbers. The GM isn’t answering my calls.
“Gee, I wonder why that is.”
“Fine. I guess I’ll go deal with it myself.”
I give my brothers the finger over my shoulder.
“Mr. Svensson, sir.” The hotel manager trots up to me when I storm into the hotel. “We weren’t sure what to do since he’s your hockey player and it could have negative blowback on the Crescent Hotel.”
“Yeah, I hear you, Marcus. I’ll take care of it.”
God, these fucking athletes are worse than the goats. I swipe the card up to the suite level.
I hear the music as soon as I step on the floor. Fuck. How long has this been going on? I’m furious. My hotels are the ones where high-powered foreign diplomats and Washington insiders come to—
I’m not letting some low-rate athlete ruin my bottom line because he’s too cheap to have a party in his own apartment.
“Yes, I have a master key. It’s my hotel. I protect your anonymity up to the point where it starts to affect my bottom line. Or someone I care about.”
The women in the room immediately start screaming when I open the door.
“Um, ’scuse me.” The bored bouncer stops. “You aren’t allowed to be in here. This is a private event.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know what you—”
“Where is Carlo Jenner?” I target on the closed door.
“Don’t go in there. He’s with a girl.” The bouncer rushes after me. “You’re trespassing.”
“This is my shit. This is my hotel.” I try the door. Locked. “And I will do whatever the fuck”—I throw my weight against it—“I want on my own property.” Crack. The wood splinters.
“Carlo, we have a problem! Carlo!” the bouncer yells as I shove him off of me and throw my weight at the door again.
“Get out of my way.”
Then I hear her. Hear her scream.
What the fuck!
Yeah, I spend money on these doors for this hotel, but not that much money. The doorframe splinters as I throw my shoulder against it, slamming on the opposite wall. My eyes rake in the dark room.
And there she is.
On the bed.
Makeup, hair, clothes a mess. Slutty.
That’s the only accurate way to describe her outfit. She looks like a goddamn slut. Like she’s just begging to be ruined.
And all I want to do is drag her back to the next free hotel room, lock the door, and fuck her until she’s begging for relief.
My little plaything.
My favorite toy.
She’s apprehensive as I bear down on her.
“What the fuck are you doing here with him? He’s beneath you.”
“Well, actually, he wanted me on top,” she jokes desperately.
“Do not”—I breathe against her neck—“fuck with me right now.” Sucking in the foul air of the room, I turn to the hockey player. “Don’t touch my stuff.”
The control is a thin thread tonight.
Carlo goes pale. “Mr. Svensson—I—I didn’t know she was yours.”
“I don’t belong to him,” she snaps, clearly furious.
It’s the wrong thing to say.
My jaw locks. I can’t look at her. Try to focus.
The anger vibrates off of me.
“I mean, she’s got a great ass! Good—nice job, Mr. Svensson—” The hockey player gives a nervous laugh.
“Tell me, Carlo, do you like your job?” My tone is quiet. Deadly.
“Oh, um—” He hunches over. Somehow, he has the wherewithal to cup his hands over his dick. “Yeah, I mean, being a hockey player is great.”
“You want to continue being a hockey player?”
He nods. Just another bobblehead on my shelf.
“Then don’t ever touch my shit again.” My voice is velvet wrapped steel. “Or I will have you out of the NHL and shipped off to fucking Eastern Europe faster than you can blink.”
Winne covers her face with her hands.
“Ye-yes, sir, yes—”
“Know this: I’m a billionaire. I own this city. I am this city. You lose the use of your knees, I can have another star forward in here next week. Everyone forgets your name within three months.” I watch him wither in front of me. “Get the fuck out of my hotel.”
He stumbles around the room like a panicked ferret, clutching a pillow to his junk as he flees.
The instant he’s gone, she opens her mouth. “Fitz, what the—”
“Shut up, Creampuff.”
She chokes on a sound—somewhere between outrage and panic.
I drag a hand through my hair, vibrating with adrenaline, then step into her space again, so close she has to tilt her head back to keep eye contact.
“I’m sorry, Creampuff,” I grind out. “But if you keep arguing with me…” I press my face all over her skin, her throat, her cheek, her shoulder, wanting to scrub the scent of him off of her. “I really do think I might lose my mind.”
She makes a strangled noise but shuts up.
I slide my hand up her back to her neck and tighten my fingers around it, feel the thready pulse.
“Because the sight of him with his hands on you—touching you like you’re just another puck bunny, like you’re something disposable he gets to use—I want to kill him.
You’re my woman. My stuff. My fucking obsession.
He doesn’t get to put his hands where I’ve wanted to.
He doesn’t get to unwrap you like a present, put his fingers where I’ve imagined.
Where I’ve held myself back. All because you said you didn’t date. ”
She goes rigid as my hand tightens on the back of her neck. I guide her out of the ruined hotel room, back out into the bright living area.
Like I own her.
Like she’s mine.
“Oh my god, you’re so hot!” the drunk girls slur when I come out of the bedroom.
“Wait, you’re, like, a billionaire?”
“Daddy,” they coo and giggle drunkenly.
“Marcus,” I snap to the manager hovering in the doorway, “get all these women into cabs and away from my hotel. Now.”
They scatter.
“Not you, Creampuff.” I grab her wrist when she tries to disappear with the rest of the drunk girls. “You’re coming with me.”
She stumbles behind me as I drag her down the hall to my office overlooking the arena.
I slam the door.
Lock it.
She crosses her arms, not scared—just pissed.
“What the fuck are you thinking? Are you just trying to fuck with me?” I snarl at her.
“Why do you keep showing up wherever I am?” she retorts. With the way her arms are crossed, I get a full view of her boobs trying to escape out of the cutout on the side of her dress.
Fucking slutty.
“Creampuff. You showed up in my hotel. You’re the one stalking me. Or…” I advance on her, back her up against the desk. She stumbles over a chair leg. “Were you after someone else?” My voice drops. “Why were you about to sleep with him, hmm?”
“I wasn’t—”
“So you just parade around in this”—I hook my finger under the cutout of her dress, right beside her breast—“for the hell of it?”
Her breath shakes.
“You want a cock in your pussy that bad?”
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
“Why? You’ll spread your legs for whatever shithead I happen to employ?” I push her back against the desk.
Fuck. I want to kiss her. Ruin her. Undo her. Strip every last bit of control from her body.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
“Is my sister in there?”
I ignore it, too entranced by the heat of her body.
“Hello?”
I unlock the door and assess the women on the other side: Kathy, Carolina, and Granny Frances.
Kathy gives me an angry look. I recognize it. Probably have given it to people who mess with my siblings.
“I told you to leave her alone,” Granny Frances complains. “Everyone in this family wants to cockblock people.”
My gaze slides back to Winnie. She’s breathing hard. Hair messed. Lip bitten. Dress askew.
I can’t tell if she’s angry, horny, or hates me.
“Don’t worry.” I open the door wider. “I don’t do first times in my office. This is a custom desk, and Winnie looks like she gets messy.”