Chapter 32 #2
“Fine. My ride’s here,” I say, pushing myself to my feet. The movement sends a fresh wave of pain through my ribs, but I stifle a groan, hoping Bea doesn’t notice. But of course she does—those big eyes don’t miss a thing.
“Let me help you,” she says, moving toward me with that same careful distance she’s been maintaining all morning.
“I’ve got it,” I snap, more harshly than I intend to. I don’t want her to see me as an injured project. I want to lift her up and press her back against the wall to fuck her senseless. But her flinch makes me regret my tone instantly. “Sorry,” I mutter. “I’m not great at being injured.”
“Or at accepting help apparently,” she adds, a hint of the old spark returning to her voice.
I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips. “That too.” The mention of my injuries reminds me of our agreement last night, and I blurt it out without thinking. “So, ten grand, right?”
Bea’s back snaps straight. “For what?”
“I promised you ten thousand dollars for taking care of me,” I explain helpfully.
“Taking care of you?” Her nostrils flare as her giant eyes suddenly turn into tiny slits.
“You know, my concussion.” I point at my head, realizing how wrong it must sound after we just had an adventurous night. “I promised you money for helping me out,” I start mumbling, “and not snitching me out to Ezra. Not for the sex. It’s too much for sex.”
“Too much for sex? With me? Ten grand is too much?” Her eyes start shooting lightning my way. “How much do you think I’m worth? Ten bucks?”
“No! You are worth much more!” I cry out, feeling cornered. The funny part being that I’ve put myself here.
“So you think of me as a hooker?” She places her hands on her hips, and my shoulders drop, defeated, because I’m just digging myself into a deeper hole.
“No, Beatrice. That’s not what I meant.” I sigh. “I just wanted to say that I’ll keep my promise and send you the money for keeping me alive. That’s all. How it escalated beyond that—I have no idea.”
She watches me with tightly pursed lips for a moment before she drops her arms by her side, looking more relaxed.
“Don’t send me anything. It was wrong to agree to take the money in the first place.”
“I will—”
“No.” She stops me with a raised hand. “Don’t. We are done with this conversation. Please.”
I watch her face for a few seconds, considering what I should do about this, but seeing how troubled her face is, I give her a short nod and let it go.
She walks me to the door, keeping a careful distance between us like she wasn’t riding my dick a few hours ago.
The hallway outside her apartment looks even grimier in daylight—peeling paint, flickering lights, a faint smell of mildew hanging in the air.
The thought of her walking through this every day makes my jaw clench.
“You shouldn’t be living here,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her spine stiffens immediately. “Not all of us can afford penthouses, Mr. King.”
And just like that, we’re back to formality. Mr. King. The title grows between us like a wall.
“That’s not what I meant,” I say, turning around to stop her from following me. “This place isn’t safe.”
“I manage just fine. Three years of Krav Maga, remember?” She pops her arm to show me her tiny bicep.
“Bea,” I try reasoning, “any man can take you down no matter how many years you have under your belt. The sheer size will win.”
She throws me a withering look as she tries to walk past me.
“Where are you going?” I ask, gently grabbing her hand.
“Walking you to the elevator.”
Feeling the anger rising in my chest, I try suppressing it from my voice, but it doesn’t work. “I can walk just fine on my own.”
“Fine!” She turns on her heels and walks back into her apartment.
“Fine!” I say to her back, wondering how we went from mind-bending orgasms to fighting like a cat and dog as the door slams behind her.
On the ride down the stinky elevator, I take a few deep breaths trying to calm myself, which turns out to be a bad idea due to its horrible smell.
George gets out of the SUV when he sees me approaching, keeping his expression carefully neutral despite the fact that I look like I probably want to murder someone.
“Rough night in paradise?” he asks mildly, opening the back door for me.
“You could say that.” I slide into the seat with a grunt as my ribs protest every movement.
George settles into the driver’s seat and starts the engine without another word. He’s good like that—knows when to ask questions and when to let silence do the talking. As we pull away from the curb, I force myself not to look back at the building.
I settle back against the leather seat, closing my eyes as the familiar hum of the engine fills the space between us.
The contrast between George’s pristine SUV and Bea’s rattling death trap is jarring, but somehow I miss the intimacy of her tiny car.
Miss the way she had to lean close to adjust the mirror, the way her perfume mixed with the musty smell of the old upholstery.
I’m losing my fucking mind.
“I waited here outside for a couple of hours.” George’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
“I know,” I say, not opening my eyes.
George is the only one who knows about my fighting addiction. He’s the one who introduced me to the club in the first place a few years ago when he found me punching a wall in my penthouse. I knew he’d follow me in his car yesterday, and I knew I could just go home.
But I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay with Bea. I wanted her to take care of me for just one night.
I open my eyes to find him watching me in the rearview mirror, concern etched in the lines around his eyes.
George has worked for our family for years—first for my father, now splitting his time between Ezra and me.
He’s seen us both at our worst, picked up the pieces more times than I care to count.
He’s probably the only one I’d trust my mom with.
“What?” I ask, confused at his intense stare. He’s seen me with bruises before, so I don’t know why he’s watching me so intensely.
“Wanna tell me how you missed that?” He circles his finger around his face. “Never seen you fuck up like that.”
I sigh, throwing my head at the back of the seat. “It’s complicated.”
“I bet it is.”
George’s eyes find mine in the mirror again, and I see understanding dawn in his expression. Of course he knows. He probably knows me better than anyone else does.
“You went back for a reason,” he says. Not a question. “I thought you were done until you called me a few days ago.”
“Yeah.” I lean my head against the cool glass of the window, watching the city blur past. “Needed to blow off steam.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why so much steam lately?”
I stare out the window, refusing to voice the answer he already knows. I tried escaping a tiny woman with big, blue eyes and blond hair. But seeing the person I wanted to escape at the warehouse like that, I got so distracted that I let a guy twice my size split open my face.
George doesn’t push for details, which I appreciate. I need the time to compose myself before I pick up the phone and call Hank to find out how much damage there is and how far back it will push our project.
We drive in comfortable silence through the morning traffic, the familiar rhythm of the city waking up around us.
Street vendors setting up their carts, commuters hurrying toward subway entrances, the organized chaos that makes New York feel alive.
All of it gives me assurance that we can deal with whatever I find at the construction site.
I pick up my phone and text Masters.
I need a favor. Someone broke the windows at my site. Can you take a look at it?
The answer is instant.
Will do. Love your friend by the way. I would have bet against you yesterday if I knew you’d be so preoccupied with something else.
Asshole.
:)
Truth be told, I might even consider that asshole my friend.
And he has a way of making problems go away so we won’t have to deal with this in the future.
But I have another matter to discuss with him—something tells me Bea won’t like me going back there, so I need to say my goodbyes. And that’s better done face to face.