Dominic
Excess is not in my nature. As long as I have a roof over my head, food on my table, and clothes on my back, I don’t need much else. If you’d told me two months ago simple communication with a woman would become a basic need, I’d have laughed in your face.
But here I am, a week after Angel disappeared from Braddock’s movie premiere, starving for a simple word from her, a smile, anything other than the walking coma she’s turned into. Something happened between her and Rosten. Neither of them is saying shit, but I’m not an idiot.
Angel went to that party, but I’m not sure who the hell came back.
The change is so dramatic, I’ve become her shadow. I haven’t spent a night at my house since the red carpet because I’m terrified to leave her alone in this godforsaken house. Mainly, because I don’t know where her mind is, but partly because I’m worried that I do.
Like I said, that was a week ago. It’s now Saturday.
The sun is already starting to disappear over the horizon, and she’s still in bed.
The same place she’s been since she stumbled home last night from the studio, bleak eyed and silent.
Worry and guilt eat away at me as I stand in the doorway staring at her curled up on the mattress, staring blankly at the wall.
Tell her.
The voice grows louder every day, but I push it down. I tell myself she’s already fragile and telling her the truth would only open a portal I can’t close. It’d be like dominoes; tipping one would set off a chain reaction. Everything would spiral out of control until there would be nothing left.
I can’t let that happen. I’m protecting her.
Liar.
Coward.
You’re protecting yourself.
My fingers tighten against the door frame. “Get dressed.” She doesn’t acknowledge me, not that I’m surprised. But I’m not backing down anymore. Not today. Storming across the bedroom, I jerk the covers off her and slap her ass. “I said get dressed. Now.”
That gets her attention. She halfway rolls over, her eyelids heavy. “Why? It’s my day off.”
“Exactly. We’re going out.”
“Out where?”
“What do you mean, ‘out where’? Out there.” I jab a finger toward the shaded window. “In public. Around people. Out of this fucking house.”
Her eyes widen a fraction, which is probably the most reaction I’ve gotten out of her in days. “But people will see us. Together,” she adds as if it’s a forbidden word.
I guess it is, and that’s my fault. I’ve done nothing but force her to keep our affair hidden away like a dirty little secret.
“Let me worry about that,” I say, rounding the bed and opening the window shade. What’s left of the diminishing sun pours into the room. “You have forty-five minutes.” Glancing over my shoulder, I add, “And none of this glamor shit. Dress like a normal person for once.”
“Dominic, I need more than—”
“Forty-five minutes,” I repeat, crossing my arms over my chest. “After that, I’ll drag you out of here in whatever the hell you have on.”
Her face darkens, and I see a spark of life, a glimmer of Angel peeking through the cracks. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Leaning down, I smile. “Why don’t you try me and find out.”
Exactly forty-five minutes later, we’re in a Benz, courtesy of the estate, driving toward West Hollywood. I do my best to fight the smirk begging to break free, but I do a shit a job. What can I say? When things go my way, I’m an arrogant son of a bitch.
Angel stares out the passenger’s side window, refusing to look at me, but I’m not offended. On the contrary, it gives me the chance to take every inch of her in without meeting a scowl. She’s mad, but it’s worth it.
This is my Angel. My Chula Vista cocktail waitress.
The one who caught my eye before Hollywood changed her.
I told her to dress normal. I guess for an heiress this is as normal as normal gets. Dressed in a pair of ripped jeans, black-knee high boots, and a black corset I think is supposed to be a shirt, she’d still stop traffic. At least she somewhat covered herself with a long black jacket.
Which will stay the fuck on.
Finally, she breaks the silence. “Do you plan on telling me where we’re going, or am I supposed to guess?”
“Guessing could be fun.”
“That was a rhetorical question.”
I toss her a quick wink. “Then I think we need to revisit the definition of rhetorical.”
“Fuck you.”
I smile to myself because this feels normal. The banter and sarcasm. This is us. This is our normal. “One more thing,” I say, digging into the back seat and handing her a bag. “Put this on.”
She peeks into the bag, and her jaw drops. “Are you crazy? Hell no.”
I shrug. “Fine, but I’ve got the keys to the car, and you don’t have your phone. It’s a long walk back to Bel Air, rook.”
Angel’s face turns the shade of her lipstick. “Have I ever told you I hate you?”
A smirk creeps across my face as I turn into the parking garage I reserved earlier. “Only every other day.”
After valeting the car, I take her hand as we walk the short distance to our destination. Hidden by darkness, and disguise, no one gives us a second glance.
“Is it true?” I ask glancing at her out of the corner of my eye. “Do blondes really have more fun?”
She whips around, the ends of the short blonde wig brushing across her cheek. “Is this really necessary?”
Instead of answering, I pull her away from the crowd and against a building. “You’re granted three wishes. What are they?”
Her eyebrows draw together. “What?”
“Just answer the question, and don’t think about it. Three wishes, rook, what would you want most?”
“Peace.” After the word slips out, she presses her lips together as if she seems as shocked by her answer as I am.
“Like world peace?”
Shaking her head, she stares at the sidewalk. “No, like calmness. No call times. No fans. No paparazzi. No voices. Just peace.”
“And the other two wishes?”
She lets out a soft laugh. “Grant me the first one, and I’ll tell you the other two.”
Oh, ye of little faith.
Grabbing her hand again, I pull her away from the wall and toward a set of double doors. “Well, rub my lamp, and call me Genie, baby. It’s about to come true.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
I draw her back a few steps and tip her chin toward the brightly lit marquee. “Look up.”
Angel’s eyes widen. “You brought me back to a movie theater?”
“You’re not Alexandra Romanov tonight, and I’m not Dominic McCallum. We’re just two people going to see a movie, eating some popcorn, and being ignored like two totally normal, peaceful human beings.”
For a moment, I think I’ve fucked up. She’s completely silent and stock still. Statue still. Life goes on around her while she seems frozen in time.
This was stupid.
I’m about to call the whole thing off and take her back to the car when she slowly turns around, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “You did this for me?”
“Don’t get all weird. It’s not a big deal.”
“Yeah, it is,” she chokes out, blinking back emotion. “It’s a big deal to me. This is…” Angel’s voice breaks, and she shakes her head, dragging in a shaky breath. “This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. Thank you, Dominic.”
I shrug. “Yeah, well, don’t thank me yet. It’s an action flick. Explosions, car chases, real James Bond kind of shit.”
A genuine smile brightens her face. “I don’t care.”
I’m in uncharted waters here. I know how to combat her attitude. I know how to handle her body. I know how to deal with her anger. But this…I have no defense. I don’t know how to cope with affection. The way she’s looking at me, it’s like I hung the moon.
If she only knew I stained it with blood first.
So, I pretend it’s not there. I lead her inside and find our seats in the very back left side of the theater. The place she’s least likely to be recognized. Just to ensure her privacy, I bought out the back four rows. I want her to feel normal, but I’m also not a moron.
As soon as the lights go down, I hear her let out a soft breath and feel the last of whatever tension has held her hostage the last week melt away.
Just as I promised, a quarter of the way into the movie, shit is blowing up left and right. Some terrorists just strapped a bomb to an SUV and the explosion burst through the surround sound like an earthquake. But I have no idea what the hell is going on in the movie.
I’ve been too focused on Angel’s nails.
For the past twenty minutes she’s trailed them up and down my thigh, inching closer and closer to where I’m rock hard and about to embarrass myself. I don’t know what game she’s playing, but it’s not funny anymore.
“Stop,” I growl, grabbing a firm hold around her wrist.
“Why?”
I grit my teeth. “It’s been seven days, rook. You get those fucking nails any closer and that SUV won’t be the only thing to explode.”
“Seven days is a long time.” Her voice is barely audible as she lifts the arm rest separating her seat from mine. “We should do something about that.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Even in the dark, I can see a different look in her eyes. “Want to know my second wish, Genie?”
No.
“Yes.”
“Well…” She drags a nail down the prominent bulge in my jeans. “I’ll have to rub the lamp to make it come true.”
I should stop her. Bringing her here wasn’t about me. It was to drag her out of whatever hole she’d fallen into. But, goddamn, the moment she unbuttons my jeans and pulls down the zipper, I become mute. All I can do is watch as she reaches inside and pulls out my hard cock.
Right here.
In the movie theater.
When she wraps her hand around the base, giving it a few thorough strokes, I can’t stop the low rumble in my throat from traveling out my mouth. I try to focus, but everything goes blurry.
“Rook,” I rasp, gripping the remaining arm rest so hard, my muscles shake. “I can’t…” I growl again as she flicks the tip with her thumb, making whatever was blurry go black. “Christ! Been too long. People…hear…” I’m so wound up I can’t even speak in complete sentences.
“Then I guess you’re just going to have to keep quiet.” Reaching toward the floor with a wicked grin, she returns only to shove a handful of popcorn in my mouth. “There. Now both our mouths will be full.”
Holy. Shit.