6. Sienna
6
SIENNA
H e gasps audibly, but, when he notices me noticing, regains his composure immediately. Of course he’s not bothered by actually warranted criticism. I had to attack his pride to get under his skin, even if only for a second. Probably not my finest or most feminist moment, but in love and war (or in this case, altercations with arrogant assholes)…
“People have said a lot of things about me,” he growls, and I can’t help but wonder what is more fragile: the flute of champagne in his hand, or his bruised ego. “But no one has ever complained about my performance in the bedroom… or any other room for that matter.”
“Oh,” I exhale, feigning shock, “you should have told me you were still a virgin until yesterday. I wouldn’t have been so hard on you then.”
There’s silence, then his eyes shoot south for a millisecond. Mine follow.
“Wait, are you… actually hard right now?” I ask, roll my eyes and take a big sip of whiskey.
What the hell is wrong with him? And, more importantly, what the hell is wrong with me? I shouldn’t be attracted to all of this.
“Alright, that’s it,” he says, takes the whiskey from my hand and puts both glasses down on the bar. “We are solving this once and for all.”
“Solving what?” I ask and try to figure out if our fight actually turned him on or if I was seeing things.
More flashbacks of yesterday shoot through my mind, even though I wish they wouldn’t. In them, his broad chest is pressed against my back, his lips on my neck. I really wish the faintest memory of it wouldn’t turn me on as much as it does.
“Stop looking at my dick,” he growls again and throws a pillow in my face, which drops right to the ground. “I’m not having sex with you. Not even if you beg.” It almost sounds like he actually means it too. “Now pick that up and let’s go.”
Ryker grabs another pillow off the giant bed and waits for me to arm myself.
“And you think this is?—”
“No,” he grunts, and holds his empty hand up. “The first rule of Pillow Fight Club is: You do not talk during Pillow Fight Club.”
He steps closer, waiting for me to attack first, but I don’t move.
The way he is standing there with the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing the pulsing veins on his arms, the top of his shirt unbuttoned and his furrowed brows on display does definitely make me want to whack him. But then again, I am not 13 anymore and we’re not at a slumber party.
I repeat, “And you think this is going to?—”
His pillow hits me right in the head, making my hair fly all over.
“Hey, I spent two hours?—”
Another hit, now to the other side of my head.
“Alright,” I kick off my heels and start slinging the soft weapon in my hand. “If that’s how you wanna deal with your pent-up sexual frustration and bruised ego, then so be it.”
I swing against his side, barely eliciting a snarl. I swing again, but now I aim for the head. He ducks, I spin, his pillow hits my butt. Rude.
We circle each other like lions that battle for dominance of the pack. Or rather, like one lion and one oversized gazelle that I am going to devour once I am done with it… him. Whatever. My pillow makes impact with his face twice, causing me to happy-squeal, which earns me a hit to my stomach that takes the wind out of me. Another hit to my chest makes me stumble backwards. While retreating, I throw my cushion right in his face and grab a new one from the loveseat across the room. Maybe he is right. Maybe we don’t need to actually talk. Maybe this kind of pillow talk works best for us.
Ryker takes a sip from his champagne and proceeds in my direction, only to be met with a quick barrage of pillow fire.
This surely can’t be what Olivia had in mind when she locked the two of us in here, but what did she expect? He is rude, arrogant, and, overall, just a terrible human being. How could we not fight? I guess at least this is a fairly humane way of settling our differences.
“So, you guys need a little longer still?” Thinking of the devil, Olivia pokes her head into the room. “Next time I return I wanna hear results, something to the tune of ‘Sorry, Olivia, we can’t be best friends anymore. Ryker is my new best friend now’.” Her flawless face disappears as fast as it had appeared.
“Well, the first part of that statement might come true,” I shout and throw my cushion against the now closed and quickly locked door. Ryker uses the opening and attacks with a big swing against my butt which, luckily, is naturally padded for precisely such an attack.
“Suck it,” he yells and swings once more.
“Nope, not gonna repeat that mistake,” I counter, use his biceps to swing around him, and grab the last pillow off the loveseat.
A quick combination to his kidney and temple cause him to lose balance for just a second. I seize my opportunity immediately and, with a swift swipe to his feet and a push to his chest, make him fall over and onto the bed. Without wasting a second, I jump on top, raise my weapon for the final blow and… freeze.
To my detriment, I stare right at the most perfect smile I have ever seen. When people speak of a disarming smile, this is what they must be talking about, because I do indeed drop my pillow-weapon right then and there. It’s genuine and warm and drop-dead-gorgeous.
Fuck.
Me.
We’re both panting hard, and yes, I am certain now: fighting does turn him on.
He uses my short state of confusion and flips me onto my back. His hand burrows into the mattress next to my head, his panting mouth hovers over mine. His breath feels warm against my skin. Then our eyes meet and?—
“Sorry,” he mutters and quickly moves off me. “I didn’t mean to…”
“Lose against someone half your size?”
“I did not lose!” he claims, even though we both know he totally did.
That smile is still there and for a split second it’s making me forget why I have been wielding pillows and provocations for the last hour or so.
Yes, he is attractive —tall, charming smile, shoulders so broad he is hard to miss with a cushion— but he is also one of the most appalling people to ever exist… probably. Just because he has a certain charm (that is entirely based on physical traits which he isn’t even responsible for) does not make up for all the horrible things he has done to become the people-using billionaire that he is, or the things that he will do in the future to solidify his status.
Ryker lets himself drop onto the bed next to me. Both of us are still panting.
“That helped,” he finally says. “You are a… n opponent.”
“Hm, wanted to say ‘worthy opponent’ but then thought it might give me too much satisfaction?”
“Yeah,” he says with a huff.
“Oh, hey, you know what? We could probably just call reception, no? They should have a key to let us out.”
Silence surrounds us for a few seconds until Ryker shoots back up. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Well, I could point out the obvious… that you’re a bit slow up here,” I tip my head, “but that seems like a cheap shot now.”
He ignores my quip and reaches for the phone on the nightstand. Two minutes later, a slightly confused hotel employee releases us from our prison. When he sees the mess we have created inside, his mouth drops open.
“Right,” Ryker says. “Don’t worry about that. We will clean up later.” He closes the door and slips the employee one of Nana’s bills. “And by we, I mean Olivia and Phoenix,” he whispers in my direction.
When the two of us walk down the stairs, we run into the scheming happy couple, as they are making out in an abandoned corridor like smitten teenagers. They don’t even notice when we stop right next to them.
“Should we tell them we escaped?” Ryker asks out loud in that dark timbre that sends another shiver through me.
Both turn around and grin sheepishly. “We were just coming to get you. Dinner’s about to be served,” Olivia explains. “Did you figure everything out like I instructed? Because I will send both of you to bed without supper.”
Ryker and I lie like colluding criminals and make her believe we get along just fine, and therefore, fortunately, are allowed to attend dinner.
The rest of the evening goes off without a (further) hitch. The food is delicious and plentiful. The speeches are heartwarming, funny and almost not tacky at all, and, most importantly, the bride and groom appear to be the happiest people on earth. Of course, that has been the case for quite some time now. I had known they were meant to be together before they had even met. At least, I had suspected as much, and I’d like to think I had my grubby little hands in making their little romance happen.
Personally, I’m not so sure about this whole marriage thing. I know it will work out for these two, but if my past relationships are any indicator, remaining single seems like a good option. Besides, why get married when you can just adopt a bunch of cats and call it a day?
Later that evening, the band is playing wedding-appropriate tunes like Every Breath You Take by The Police, Phoenix is feeding Olivia second dessert, wine is flowing liberally, people are dancing slightly offbeat, and I am enjoying myself until I spot Ryker Grayson staring at me from across the beautifully decorated garden. When he sees that I notice, he doesn’t even have the manners to avert his gaze. Instead, he just stares harder if that is something one can do.
I probably should go over there to give him a piece of my mind, but I don’t. I am above it. I will not succumb to my lowly urges again. I will not get dragged back into whatever we have been doing so far. So, instead, I turn and head straight for the bar. Unbelievable that he would ask me to work for him . Me! After I have made myself more than clear that I have no interest in even talking to him. His mere existence is an affront to anyone with a conscience and the faintest resemblance of a moral compass. Maybe I should go over there right now and give him a piece of my ? —
“That was an interesting speech you gave back there,” he interrupts my internal rant and makes Sting’s soothing voice in the background sound even more fitting.
Seems like not everyone is above their lowly urges. “Thanks, Mr. There Are Three Rings In A Marriage: The Engagement Ring, The Wedding Ring & The Suffering.”
“People laughed.”
“Because they didn’t know what else to do.”
“Suffering is an essential part of most relationships. I know because I’ve met you.”
From behind the bar, I hear a loud slurp from a straw running on dry ground. Nana sits on a chair, barely able to look over the counter, without letting her eyes off us. “Pray continue, darlings. This is very entertaining, very promising,” she says and slides the empty glass across the bar where the barkeeper seamlessly catches it just before it can drop off the surface.
He fixes her another cocktail.
“You know,” Nana’s already heavy Scottish accent is heavier than usual, and the slight slurring caused by the alcohol makes it even harder to understand her, “I have a feeling if the two of you ever got married, there would be a fourth ring involved.”
“Murdering?” I ask.
“Slaughtering?” Ryker adds.
She catches her sliding cocktail with one hand, takes another sip and hiccups once. “Devouring! The way you two are at each other’s throats, it’s gotta be devouring. All that sexual tension has to go somewhe—” Another hiccup cuts her off.
“Alright, Nana,” Ryker says, “how about I bring you to bed, hm?”
“Well, my wee laddie, I’d hate to disappoint you, but, like I said, you’re still not my type. I think you’d have a better chance with someone else.” She winks at me in the most obvious way possible before finishing her cocktail with one long slurp and allowing Ryker to help her off the chair. He props Nana up with both arms and leads her into the hotel and to her room.
I order a beer and produce my phone from my purse. There is an email from Earnest in my inbox. Worried about my cat, I open it and read the subject line:
Bad News - Robyn got an eviction notice
Shit.
Robyn is a dear friend who has been living in my building complex for decades now. Recently, she had trouble keeping up with some other bills, so I had been helping her out already.
She is not the first one in our building complex to be targeted with eviction though. The email, unfortunately, isn’t very enlightening about what happened. Earnest only mentions that they are already working on a solution.
The server puts a beer down in front of me and I remember that this was supposed to be a happy weekend. Happy. No negative thoughts allowed. No thoughts of unemployment, rude jerks, or homeless grandmas. All that doesn’t belong today. There’s nothing I can do from here anyway. So I close the email app and go back to reading headlines about Ryker Grayson. At least those are entertaining:
Betrayed By The Billionaire — Grayson Holdings’ Stock Plummets
From Everybody’s Darling To Everybody’s Dolt — What Happened To Ryker Grayson?
Good In Business, Bad In Bed? Ryker Grayson’s Ex Speaks Candidly
I also find out that it’s Ryker F. Grayson and wonder what the F. might stand for.
Fool?
Fuckboy?
Firstborn of the devil?
I might not believe in heaven or hell, but he certainly makes me reconsider. In more ways than one.
“I leave for ten minutes and you miss me so much that you’re already reading fan fiction about me?” His smug head hovers over my shoulder and his scent makes me want to bury my head in the crook of his neck.
“Fan fiction? Are you implying that the… Daily Oracle and Ryker Rumors aren’t reliable news sources?” I sure hope they were, because what they are reporting is quite hilarious. “Well,” I continue while Ryker narrows his eyes in annoyance, “as Sun Tzu famously said in The Art of War: ‘Know thy enemy’s tabloid headlines and you will know the truth.’” I turn around to face my very own enemy. “Or something along those lines. But please, let us get back to topic. It’s your turn. I told you why I did what I did. You still owe me your story. Or I will have to believe this article about you and the case of the traveling pants. Unfortunately, it doesn’t say: were the cops able to crack the mystery?”
“Mystery indeed.”
I feel the vibrations of his deep, rumbling tone to the core as he sits down on a stool next to me.
“The only thing they could crack was my patience and a box of donuts.”
“Well, what happened?”
“What do you care?” He turns my way and our legs touch under the bar, giving me goosebumps all over.
“Natural curiosity.” I shrug. “Also, I enjoy when bad things happen to bad people.”
Ryker lifts one eyebrow as his jaw twitches. “Some creep stole my pants, I went to buy a new pair, and before I knew what was happening, the cops tased my ass and arrested me for indecent exposure.” He takes a sip from my beer and shifts on his stool as if his butt is still hurting.
The tasering certainly was over the top, but who could have expected that to happen? I guess I’m not happy about him getting arrested, but I’m also not unhappy about it.
“Aaaand?”
“And now I am considering how to get back at the person who is responsible for me spending a night in prison, missing my best friend’s bachelor party, and almost not making it to his wedding.”
“Don’t forget your injured butt and the bruised ego the entire ordeal obviously caused,” I add, as he takes another sip. “Offering them a job working for you certainly is a good start. It won’t work, but I like the idea of it.” I lean forward and let my thumb glide over his forehead, just beneath his wound. My goosebumps flare up again. “And how did this happen?”
“Well,” Ryker clears his throat and sits up straight. “I heroically saved a little vervet monkey from a tree on my way here.”
Even though I’m only on my second drink of the evening, I must be fairly inebriated, because his stupid scowling face elicits another genuine laugh from me. “It’s unusual that a monkey would need saving from a tree. Besides, if any monkey needs saving around here, it’s probably you.”
Ryker finishes my beer and does what he seems to do best: he takes his chiseled jawline, perfect nose, piercing eyes, and scrunches them up as if he is trying to out-compete the grumpiest cat on the internet. At least he’s a handsome grump.
“$3000 per week,” he says.
It’s a normal declarative sentence, but it sounds like a challenge from those lips of his.