CHAPTER 27 RANSOME
I have to get away from Amara.
I almost lost my cool back there. I almost whipped her around, bent her over the counter and spanked the ever-loving shit out of her before fucking her into an orgasm-coma simply for talking back to me. Obviously, I didn’t. But fuck me, did I want to.
I’ve never dealt with a woman with a mouth like hers, both literally and figuratively. I’m not used to anyone, man or woman, talking back to me. And trust me when I say this little girl talks the fuck back.
For a split second, I wonder if I am in over my head, but I smack that thought in the face. I can handle her. I just have to be careful about the way I do it. I don’t want to break, Amara but she does need to bend. Figuratively and literally.
When I get to the house, I head straight to the gym. It smells like fresh rubber, leather and metal. I snap on the lights and walk over to the dumbbells, reaching for the 50s. But the second I go to wrap my right hand around it, I let out a bark. I’m so riled up, I forgot about my fucking hand.
I should have broken Tristan’s jaw.
I still could.
Obviously, weights are out. I can, however, go for a run. I change into gym pants and sneakers, no shirt, and hop on the treadmill. I don’t need a warm up—I’m heated enough as it is—and I turn it up to a fast jog.
That dress.
I knew it would look good. I knew it would be perfect.
I made a point of finding out her measurements (34-26-35) and tailored the dress to hug those numbers.
And fuck me, they did justice. Like a second, shimmery red skin.
Between that and the allusive mask, she was a cross between an angel and the devil as she floated into the room.
Every head was turned. It made me both territorial and turned on.
I crank the speed up a notch on the treadmill.
I grit my teeth through the burn of the run and the thought of other men talking to her. Tristan was talking to her. Alone. The idea of that makes my blood burn under my skin. I definitely should have rearranged his face with my fist. A little involuntary plastic surgery.
It makes me wonder what other guys she’s talked to alone, last night and throughout her life in general. What they’ve said to her. How she turned them down.
If she turned them down.
I punch the stop button on the treadmill and hop off before it even slows. Then I go back to the kitchen counter where I tossed her phone.
Obviously, there’s a lock. But it takes all of two guesses to figure out the password—it’s my birthday—and I’m in.
I check her search history first. A lot of it is in fact about me. She’s a better stalker than I even gave her credit for, I’ll give her that.
Still, she didn’t find what I know she was looking for. My second life is nearly impossible to track.
Next, I go through her texts. Most of them are from her friend Electra. It’s no surprise, but it’s also irritating. This woman is a certified slut and a careless, immature, negative influence at best. Her DMs are overflowing with where are you?’s and I found you a new man!’s.
If I wasn’t pissed the fuck off before, I am now. One of the most recent texts is in reference to a double date. They’re supposed to meet at a place called Mulligans.
A quick Google search tells me everything I need to know. It’s a dive bar at best, no doubt with cheap beer, vodka cranberry specials for the ladies, and crawling with drunken creeps looking for fresh meat.
No way in hell does Amara belong at a place like that.
No way in hell is she going. Ever.
The next day, I go back to the penthouse. It smells like Gucci and coffee when I get there, and I have to tuck my instant hard-on into my belt the second I walk in the door.
I find Amara in the bath. It’s almost like déjà-vu.
Amara lets out a small gasp when I walk in the door, nearly dropping the book she’s reading in the bathtub. “Fuck! You scared me! Would it kill you to knock?”
“This is my house. I’m not knocking. And what are you doing with that?”
The second I realize what book she’s holding, I rip it out of her hands.
It’s a copy of Carnival by Rawi Hage. My copy.
No—his.
“Never fucking touch this again,” I snarl. “Do you hear me?”
If Amara is surprised by my reaction, she doesn’t show it. “It was like the only fiction book on your shelf!” She pouts. “I needed something to do.”
“Like I said, this is my house. This is my book. And you know what else is mine?” I fix her with a hard stare. “You.”
I receive the expected glare, but I don’t give a shit.
“So is this part of the benefits clause or the fake relationship clause? Because it’s getting a little murky.
Next thing I know, you’ll tell me there’s a Santa clause and I’m supposed to wrap you presents under a fake tree.
” When her joke doesn’t get a reaction, she doubles down. “Mind you, I do look good in red, but—”
I grab a towel and hold it out to her. That shuts her up.
Amara reaches for it, but I dangle it about six inches from her desperate fingertips.
She narrows her eyes. “Give it to me.”
“Get out of the tub and take it.”
“Turn around at least,” she says.
I stare at her. She stares back.
Exasperated, I close my eyes. Amara hesitates, then I hear the sound of the water swooshing, her wet feet touching the floor. As she swipes the towel, I can smell the suds on her warm, flowery skin.
The things I could do…
I open my eyes as she wraps up. “None of this is a joke,” I remind her. “So I suggest you cut the mouthy shit. I thought I made it clear how high the stakes are.”
“Oh, trust me, I stopped thinking this was funny a long time ago.”
I go on, ignoring the fact that she is still talking back. “The people I deal with are either on your side or against you. And if they’re against you, bad things happen. So you are going to listen to me. Do everything I say. Starting with this.” I hold Amara’s phone out to her.
“Oh, great,” she snarks. “Is it Christmas for me too? Can I have my phone back now?”
Again, I ignore her mouthing off. “No double dates. No speaking whatsoever about our arrangement to your friend.”
She crosses her arms over her towel. “Electra is my best friend. It’s her life goal to find my soulmate. Or at best, my next good time. What am I supposed to tell her?”
“You tell her you are working overtime for a promotion and that’s that.”
“So I can’t even have friends now?”
“If they get a kick out of pimping you out, then no.” My tone hardens. “You will be seen with no one. There are cameras everywhere.”
“This isn’t fair,” she whines, readjusting her towel.
“Fair isn’t part of the contract. Or the world I live in. The world you now also live in.”
“I didn’t ask for any of this!”
I look down at her. “You asked for it when you started obsessing over me. Next time, be careful who you stalk.”
I turn and walk out of the bathroom with her phone. Amara follows.
“Wait! I want my phone back. And I want to go home.”
I turn around. Amara runs right into me. For a moment, her scent is all I can breathe. Jasmine, rose, patchouli.
“This is your home now. After last night, people think you’re just a side piece that I’m using to be defiant.”
“I kind of am,” she mumbles, looking away as she says it.
I grab her chin and yank her attention back up to me.
“We need to look serious. You live here with me. It makes it look convincing and I can keep my eye on you.”
For one uncanny moment, she is silent. Then, “I’m going to ask a really stupid question.”
”The answer is no. You don’t have a say in the matter.”
Her scowl deepens. “And my phone?”
“You can have your phone…” I start, and her face lights up with the spark of hope. But I snuff that flame real fast. “… when I decide I can trust you.”
By the time I’m out the door, I can still feel her glare burning holes in my back.