8. Kira
8
KIRA
I don’t think I have ever been so angry in my entire life. Not even the time my older brother Dean melted my favorite Barbie’s head while trying to hot glue her to the top of one of his stupid football trophies.
I had to keep my shit together for most of the day. I was too busy being the lifeblood of Spin Sync to lose my cool beyond the–in my opinion–too kind words I had for Jonathan and that fucking Warren this morning.
I shiver, repressing the memory of the bridal suite and all the other memories of nights I’d spent thinking about Warren between my legs.
I was tempted to pull a Half Baked this morning and tell Jonathan and the cameras to fuck off, quitting in an epic fashion on a livestream. Thankfully, my good sense won out over my temper in the end.
Besides, I meant what I said to the stupid, sexy British idiot. Spin Sync is mine; I don’t care if it’s his name on the paperwork. I’m not going to let a bunch of men who think they run the world take away the pride and joy I feel when I walk through those doors.
I pull out my phone, ready to call my dads and fill them in on the bullshit when I hear my name being called from behind me. I roll my eyes and pick up my pace, intent on ignoring the man with the adorable accent and the wicked tongue.
“Kira, slow down. We need to talk.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to you,” I yell back, not bothering to look over my shoulder. Not entirely true. I’ve got plenty to say to the man. Angry things. Horny things. Lots of things that aren’t appropriate to scream out on the street.
“Well, I do, so if you’d just stop for a second–” he catches up to me, palming my shoulder. I whip around on him so fast I nearly give myself a head rush.
“What is it? You want to tell me how stupid I am? I already know.”
“Stupid? What are you talking about, Kira?”
I run a hand over my slicked back hair, laughing even though nothing about this is funny.
“You must have thought it was hilarious, didn’t you? I bet you and Jonathan had a good laugh at my expense after the wedding. Silly, slutty little Kira, spreading her legs for a man right before he turns around and takes everything from her, again . I’m such a fucking idiot. All that time I saw you watching me, I thought you liked me. Me, not just the idea of me. Even if it was just a physical thing, I was okay with that. I didn’t need more than an orgasm, but that wasn’t enough for you. You had to take my dignity, too.”
My lip trembles, but I refuse to shed a tear. I never cry in front of other people, and I’m certainly not going to start in front of this asshole.
Dammit, I’m so stupid. I can’t believe I actually thought Warren and I had a spark. I think about how many times I thought about asking James for his number. How many times I wondered if maybe Warren was thinking about me, too? How many times I’ve laid in bed at night with my hand between my legs, trying to recreate the magic we’d made together in that bridal suite.
God, I got on my knees for this man, and then he fucking screwed me over.
“Kira, darling, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t understand what I took from you. If you’re upset because you think I knew I’d end up being your boss when we…well you know what we did. I can assure I didn’t. I wouldn’t have…”
He trails off, and I can see his resolve wavering.
“It was always meant to be mine, Warren. Spin Sync was always mine. Jonathan took it from me. He took my idea and all the credit and the glory and the money and then he sold it to you. And as if taking what’s mine wasn’t bad enough, you also had to get a piece of me , too. You’re just as fucked up as he is.”
Warren stares at me, his expression fading from confusion to anger and back again. Even though I don’t want to hear any excuse he might have, I throw my hands up in the air, exasperated that he doesn’t seem to have anything to say to me now.
“I am so sick of all you very important men with your very important thoughts swooping in and fucking up my life. I’m done. You want this company? It’s already yours. But I’ll be damned if I let you steamroll over me again, Warren.”
“Steamroll you? How in the hell have I steamrolled you? How the fuck was I supposed to know that Jonathan made you promises that he didn’t fulfill? I don’t know the man. All I did was make what I think is going to be a wise investment and now I’ve got you spinning around me like a goddamn windstorm, ready to blow my head off. You’re blaming me for something that someone else did to you, and that’s not fair. And besides, you’re the one who insisted on it being a one-time thing. Maybe if I’d had your phone number–”
“Don’t you even dare go there, asshole. It’s the twenty-first century. We have mutual friends. If you wanted to get in contact with me, we both know how easy that would have been. You’re just a fucking man who does what he wants and doesn’t care who he hurts in the process.”
I turn on my heel, cutting myself off from his rambling excuses. I barely make it five steps before…
“Kira!”
I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to turn and look at him. I don’t want him to see the unshed tears swimming in my eyes.
But I can’t help myself. Sort of like when I have a cavity and have to poke it with my tongue from time to time to see if it still hurts. I have to know what he was going to say.
Slowly, I turn back around.
“What?”
“I really didn’t know. When we were together, that is. I wanted you that night because I’d been enamored by you. I wanted you that night because I couldn’t spend another second not having you. You don’t have to believe me, but it’s the truth.”
Heat pools in my belly, and for a moment I’m transported back to that bridal suite. I taste the scotch on his lips. I feel his tongue lapping at me, his fingers bruising my thighs as I ground myself on his face. I smell the fresh scent of soap on his skin as I took him to the back of my throat.
But I don’t want to remember those things anymore.
“Fuck you, Warren,” I spit, and he crosses his arms on his chest.
“Ren,” he corrects me. “You call me Ren, not Warren.”
I feel my eye twitch, and I hope he doesn’t see the slip in my armor. I don’t want to call him Ren. Ren is the man who held me gingerly while we danced. Ren is the man who caressed my skin while coaxing orgasms out of me with his tongue. Ren is the man who pocketed my favorite pair of panties and kissed me gently before we parted ways. Ren is not the man who helped Jonathan stab me in the back for a second time.
“Like I said. Fuck you, Warren.”
He closes his eyes, wincing like I just punched him straight in the gut.
Good. That’s how I’ve felt all day.
“You can be angry with me all you want, love. If it makes you feel better, go ahead. Kick, scream, punch. Do your worst. I’m not afraid of you.”
“Oh yeah?” I say with a humorless chuckle in my throat. “Well, maybe you should be.”
I turn on my heels and walk away from him once again.
This time, he lets me go.
I tuck my chin to my chest and look at the ground as I walk away, not wanting anyone on the street to see the tears I’m struggling to hold back. Once I’m a few blocks away and am sure that Warren is no longer following me, I find a bench and sit. Crossing my legs underneath me, I lean my chin into one hand and hold my phone in the other. It rings twice before lighting up, my dads’ faces popping up on the screen.
“Hey, baby girl. You’re just in time for happy hour!” Pops says, holding up a bright pink Cosmopolitan to the camera. Next to him, IronDad already has an identical cocktail tipped up to his lips. It’s only three-thirty back home in Tennessee, but I’m not going to fault them for getting their drink on a little early. They’re both semi-retired, after all.
Pops still teaches the occasional yoga class for the people of Fox Hole, and IronDad will poke his head out to commentate on games a few times every football season. Their charities run themselves at this point, so mostly, Pops and IronDad are living the good life.
“Tía Camila is on her way over. Where are you at, honey? Get home, make yourself a cocktail and join us,” IronDad says, topping his martini glass off with pink liquid from a nearby shaker.
Normally, I’d be all about that. My dads and Camila call it ‘Cocktails and Conversation’, and it’s exactly what it sounds like. They sip cosmopolitans and spill the tea all night long. Dean and I join over FaceTime when we can.
“I’m in the park. Today was the most supremely awful day, and I couldn’t make it all the way home without whining to you guys about it first.”
“Oh Kira, tell Pops and I all about it. Who do we have to kill?”
I give my dads the rundown of the day, minus the part where I’ve sort of already slept with my new boss. They already know all about the Jonathan drama and my aspirations to buy Spin Sync from him, but I didn’t tell anyone that I’d thought I’d be getting my opportunity today.
I’m glad I didn’t. I can barely take the pitying eyes my dads are giving me through the phone as it is. I didn’t need the added embarrassment of having other people get excited for me and then being shot down.
“Honey, I know you’re upset, but maybe if you’d told this Warren man the complete story…he might have understood. You two might work something out,” Pops says when I finish catching them up.
I snort. Not likely. I don’t believe for a second that Warren didn’t know the score when we hooked up at the wedding. Men like that don’t understand. They don’t work things out. They take what they want and they don’t give a shit who they hurt. But I don’t want my dads to know that Warren and I know each other biblically, so I focus on the money.
“There is no way we’ll be working anything out. Jonathan squeezed way more money out of this guy for the sale than I could ever pay. Maybe I was stupid to think he’d ever accept my measly offer when he was already fighting off billionaires for years.”
“Fucking Jonathan,” IronDad sneers. “I hate that sniveling fuck.”
“We know you do, baby.” Pops gives IronDad a peck on the cheek, and my chest aches. I miss my dads. I miss the way they love Dean and me and each other so fiercely. Part of me wonders if I should just cut my losses and move back home with them. But I’d miss my friends too much.
And I’d certainly miss my opportunity to make Warren’s life hell.
“Kira, you know we’d give you the money. Or loan it, if that would make you feel better. If you think this Warren would be willing to–”
“IronDad, I love you, but no. I’m not taking your money. And even if I did…no. Just no. Warren doesn’t get to take your money, either. It’s bad enough that Jonathan took Spin Sync from me before I had a chance to grow up. I’m not going to continue to reward bad behavior.”
I stand, feeling the chill of the setting sun settle into my bones. Now that I’ve gotten my day off my chest, I feel light enough to walk home.
“I’ll drink to that, honey.” Pops clinks his glass to the phone camera, then tips it back, swallowing the last of his cocktail in one gulp.
“Are you going to be okay, baby girl?”
I can hear the concern in IronDad’s voice and can read it all over Pops’ face. I know they worry about me, and I love them for that.
But I don’t feel depressed or numb or out of control of my brain like I did yesterday.
I feel fucking pissed off.
“I’m fine, Daddy. I promise.” I say. I only pull the ‘Daddy’ card on Pops and IronDad when I really need it, like when I want to soothe their worries or when I had to convince them I needed a gold Panthère De Cartier.
It worked then–on my last birthday they gifted me a forty-thousand-dollar watch for turning twenty-eight–and it works now. I see them both visibly relax, and they fill me in on small town gossip once they’re sure I’m not headed down a dark spiral tonight.
We say our goodbyes and I make my way home. Pancakes greets me with a swish of his little fishy tail, and I treat him to a dinner of brine shrimp while placing a sushi order for myself. It took me a long time to eat sushi again once Pancakes came home with me, and even now I can only stomach vegetarian rolls in his presence.
I go over my class plans for the week as I eat, tweaking circuits and playlists while I fill up on avocado rolls and edamame. Even though my day has been shit, I’m in a much better mood now than I was when I woke up this morning. Talking to my dads and spending time with my little yellow son has eased a lot of the ache in my brain.
The second glass of Sauvignon Blanc I just finished doesn’t hurt, either.
I tuck myself under a blanket, curling up in the corner of my couch. I’m not going to back down from the fight. The men of the world may have won another battle, but they haven’t won the war.
For now, I’m going to do my job, ignore the stupid, sexy British asshole to the best of my abilities, and quit all the bitching and moaning.