Chapter 20
20
Knox
"Whose bright idea was it to come to a nightclub?" I glare at the mass of heaving bodies on the floor of the 7A Club. The music is loud, and the laser lights threaten to give me a headache. The only reason I’m here is because my brothers decided we needed to do something different than meet up at the members’ club next door. We decided to give the recently opened nightclub a try and, so far, I'm regretting my decision.
"Better than you glowering at your team and keeping them late on a Sunday night. Which, might I remind you, is traditionally a rest day," Brody replies.
He used to be the most silent of my brothers, until Ryot decided to take the death of his wife to heart and stop talking unless absolutely essential.
Now, Ryot never joins us on a night out. And Brody? He seems to have stepped in to fill the gap. Connor, our youngest brother, left on one of his research trips right after lunch with Arthur. So, it’s Brody, Tyler, and me today .
"Since when did you become so considerate about your employees?" Tyler scoffs.
He nurses his mug of beer in his big, paw-like hands and surveys the scene in front of him with boredom in his eyes. Clearly, he isn’t finding the scene stimulating either.
"It’s called raising productivity levels." Brody flicks the matchstick he loves to chew on from one side of his mouth to the other. "Which, if you decided to join the business and help grow it, you’d know."
Tyler makes a noise of disgust deep in his throat. "The last thing I want to do is spend my days as a keyboard warrior."
"Is that why you turned down the position in the Davenport group?" I flick him a sideways glance. Tyler has always preferred the outdoors. Of the lot of us, he’s the one who most loved being in the Marines. I expected him to rise up the ranks to take on a senior role. But when a one-night stand turned up with his daughter and left her with him, he quit the Marines.
Arthur wanted him to join the Davenport group, but he held off. Instead, he opted to join Quentin’s security firm as a partner and take responsibility for the day-to-day operations. Although, come to think of it, working with Q is a better fit for Tyler than being stuck in one of the offices of the Davenport Group.
"I’m not made for the role of a CEO. I’d rather work with operatives in the field." His jaw tightens.
"You’d rather be in the field yourself?" I venture.
He rubs the back of his neck. "My likes and dislikes don’t come into play. It’s more important I'm here for Serene."
"Have you thought anymore about hiring a nanny?"
A nerve pops at his temple. "Not for lack of trying, but no one has been good enough, so far."
And given his standards, it’ll be a while before anyone will be. "Who’s looking after her today?"
"I dropped her off with Summer."
He’s referring to Summer Sterling. She’s our friend Sinclair’s wife and is one of the few people Tyler has grown to trust with his girl.
He looks at his watch. "I can’t stay out much longer. I need to pick up Serene from the Sterling's. "
Brody groans. "Seriously? It’s not even eight p.m."
"Serene needs to be in bed by nine p.m." Tyler shrugs.
"To think, we used to stay out partying until dawn, then take more than one woman home to bed,” Brody grumbles.
"Nothing’s stopping you from doing that. Some of us have moved on from the hedonism of our twenties," Tyler scoffs.
"Right. Ryot is nursing a broken heart. He’s a single dad." Brody jerks his chin in Tyler’s direction. "And you"—he looks at me with disgust—"you’re almost engaged."
Tyler stiffens. His fingers tighten around his glass. Brody, that arse, clearly, did not notice the tension between Priscilla and him when I introduced her to everyone at the luncheon at Arthur’s place. The decent thing to do would be to break things off with Priscilla, so she and Tyler can work things out.
Except, how can I, when this gives me the perfect excuse to draw the lines between me and my assistant? Not that being almost engaged has stopped me from thinking of her.
If anything, thoughts of my assistant and her lush lips and lusher hips have been crowding in on my mind even more. I can’t get the hurt I saw in her eyes after the announcement out of my mind. Or the fact that she excused herself shortly after and left. And I haven’t heard from her since or received any email from her. It’s only been half a day, but still. Normally, she works on weekends and ensures the information reaching me is ongoing.
But my announcement must have conveyed the message to her; there’s been radio silence from her since. She didn't even respond to my demand to book dinner for me with Priscilla.
"The lot of you are motherfucking old." Brody tosses back the rest of his drink, then slams his glass on the counter. "I, on the other hand, am going to ensure I don’t go home alone today." He glances between the two of us. "Don’t kill each other while I’m gone, children."
So, maybe, he’s not completely blind to the tension between me and Tyler. We watch as he stalks onto the floor and is instantly swallowed up by the crowd of heaving bodies. I scowl at the throng, which seems to be composed of people shaking various parts of their bodies in what are supposed to be dance moves but more resemble a jellyfish being electrified .
When I was in the Marines, on break between missions, I’d frequent such places, in hopes of the music drowning out the sound of gunfire in my head. When that didn’t help, I sought refuge in BDSM clubs. I’d try to channel my anger into working over whichever submissive caught my fancy. After I was injured, those very women who’d vied for my attention were repelled by my appearance. I had to pay to unleash my depravity on them and help me find release.
I joined the service to piss off Arthur. You wouldn’t know it by the way he speaks with pride about the history of the Davenport men in the armed forces. But privately, I was rewarded when he raged at me, then told me I wouldn’t get my inheritance until I returned, joined the Davenport group, and married. Which isn’t the reason I left the Marines.
At first, I stayed because I realized I could make a difference, and that I wanted to serve my country. For the first time in my life, instead of having a future mapped out for me, I could carve out a path for myself. For the first time, I had discipline and structure. The kind my parents never cared to impose. And a part of me knew I benefitted from it. It’s why I took on bigger, more difficult missions. The adrenaline of living on the edge was addictive. The close brushes with death gave me a new appreciation for life.
And while the disillusionment of not having control over my future and having to reconcile myself with being a cog in the wheel of the institution grew, the high that came from rescuing hostages and helping those caught in the crossfire of politics was pleasing. Enough to keep me going. I would've bounced from one mission to the other if, on that last one, my team and I hadn’t finally stepped into an ambush.
White hot pain lances through my face in recollection. The scar on my left cheek throbs. Fire zips up my left leg, sizzling through the grooves on the left side of my torso left behind by the bomb that exploded close enough to leave its marks on me. It killed many of my team and forced me into months of rehabilitation before I could leave the hospital. It forced me to take early retirement. I resented it, but also was secretly grateful not to have to return to the memories swirling so close to the surface of my subconscious mind.
I turn and gesture to the bartender for another drink.
"Hey, isn’t that your assistant?" Tyler remarks .
I wait for the bartender to hand me my pint of beer before turning and staring in the direction Tyler's looking. Then I see her. The woman at the edge of the crowd is wearing a dress so short, it barely comes to mid-thigh. It’s pale pink in color, sleeveless, and has a high collar. It’s a dress I did not buy for her, which is the only reason the length of her legs is bared for all to see. Her hair flows down her back in heavy curls, and she’s wearing platform heels that boost her height by a couple of inches. She looks fucking gorgeous. Then she spins around— The breath leaves me. The neckline on the back of her dress is so low that I can spot the hint of cleavage between her arsecheeks.
"What. The. Fuck?"
When the man she’s dancing with places a hand on the skin exposed by that non-existent backline, anger thrums through my veins. I move toward her, as if drawn by an invisible force, when Tyler touches my arm.
"What?" I growl.
Without replying, he snatches the glass from my hand. "You’re engaged."
"Almost engaged."
"Isn’t that semantics?" He frowns. "An upcoming marriage to a Whittington daughter is nothing to sneeze at. From all accounts, you’re not just engaged, but almost married."
I scowl. "So?’
"So"—Tyler’s mouth twists—"instead of being with your almost fiancée"—he uses air quotes—"you’re about to march over to your assistant on the dance floor with a possessive look on your face that seems to indicate you have a claim on her?"
"I do have a claim on her," I say through gritted teeth. "She’s my employee, and she’s getting pawed by a man whose intentions she’s misunderstood. It’s my responsibility to ensure she stays safe."
"Responsibility, huh?" He smirks.
"Exactly."
His grin widens. Unsaid, is the implication that I feel more toward her than I should toward my assistant. Even though I resolved to put distance between us, which is the reason I decided to announce my alliance to the Whittington woman, I’m still attracted to her. I committed myself to a future that leads in a direction away from her. I’m aware that doing anything to jeopardize the relationship with the Whittingtons will piss off Arthur. But none of it is enough to lessen this pull I feel for my assistant.
"Fuck." I drag my fingers through my hair. I shouldn’t head in her direction. I should let her dance with that stranger and allow him to put his hand on her hip and draw her close. When she begins to sway against him, I dig my fingers in my hair and tug. And when she laughs up at him, the pain that stabs into my chest feels like someone pushed a gun in between my ribs and fired.
I take another step toward her when Tyler touches my shoulder. "You sure about this?"
I shake off his hand. "No, but I’m going to do it anyway." I shoulder my way past the people standing between me and her.
When I reach them, I grip the shoulder of the man who’s dancing with her. He turns to look at me. I bare my teeth at him, and he pales. His steps slow.
"Get gone, she’s mine." I shove him out of the way—then place my hands on her hips.