7. Luka
LUKA
The new Khalid remix blows out my eardrums as I bench-press a bar loaded with a monster stack of weights. Diego’s standing nearby to spot me, but as I pump and sweat and try to fully exhaust all thoughts of Brooklyn from my mind, I see his brows knit together.
“You okay?” he says. I can’t hear him, but I can lip-read.
Huffing out a final tortured breath, I set the bar back in the uprights and sit up. My pecs and triceps are burning pleasantly, and I tug my AirPods out.
“I’m fucking great,” I lie, glancing around the gym to avoid eye contact.
“Really.” He gives me a dubious glance. “Look, I know we don’t hang much outside the gym, man…but if you need to unload, I’m down to grab a beer any time,” he offers.
I stand as Diego takes his turn getting into position on the bench. “What makes you think I need to talk?” I ask, my guard slipping down a fraction of an inch.
He shrugs and grips the barbell. “You’ve been giving off woman trouble vibes for weeks, and I see you in here every day now, abusing the weight machines like they did something to piss you off,” he says.
“And considering the ring that showed up on your finger right around the time this all started, I’d wager a guess it’s something to do with that. ”
“Hmmph.” As Diego gets going on his reps, I revert to brooding.
Ever since Brooklyn and I wrapped up the honeymoon from hell and came home to Chicago, we’ve been avoiding each other.
The majority of my waking hours are spent at work, and I’m at the gym so often now that it’s practically become a part-time job for me.
I’m sure Diego’s had his suspicions for a while, but maybe he was expecting it to blow over by now.
My colleagues at Danica Rose Management are also probably wondering why I’m spending so much time at the office.
I’m known to have a workaholic streak, and I’ve always scoffed at the term “work-life balance,” but they’ve never seen this much of me at the agency before—especially outside of the usual hours.
I’ve tried to be casual about it and keep to myself, but I’m sure a few rumors are flying about why I’m not at home with my new bride.
Most men would be running out of here at the end of the day to get into Brooklyn’s arms, yet I always find an excuse to stay locked up in my corner office suite a little while longer.
I guess it’s a good thing business has picked up and there’s more than enough to keep me busy.
It makes it easier for me to delay returning to the penthouse at the end of each day.
Stefan has thanked me for my diligence a few times—hardly concerned that I seem to be neglecting my arranged marriage—but no one else has said anything to me directly, of course.
If only they knew what’s really going on.
And I don’t just work late, either. I work on the weekends.
I even bring contracts and portfolios and contact sheets from photo shoots home with me, so I have an actual purpose for holing up in my home office.
I thought I had it tough trying to avoid my wife in Paris, but now that we’re back in my lofty penthouse—with more than enough room for ten people—it still seems like I can’t stay far enough out of her way.
We even eat in shifts in the kitchen, so we don’t have to be in the same room together.
She never uses the common areas like I do, preferring instead to entertain herself in her bedroom.
It used to bother me that she didn’t feel comfortable enough to make my home hers, but now…
now I’m glad she didn’t, so I can enjoy my space without being reminded she’s in it.
In fact, I prefer when she’s inside her room, door shut, out of my reach. What I can’t quite figure out is how to keep her out of my head.
As Diego finishes up, sweat beading on his forehead, I tilt my head toward the treadmills. “Gonna get in some cardio,” I tell him. “See you around.”
“Sure thing, man,” he says. “Shoot me a text if you need to.”
“Will do.”
I don’t normally go for a run unless it’s outdoors, but now I crank up the machine and try to lose myself in the hard slap of my Nikes against the belt under my feet.
She’s not gone from the penthouse often, just a few quick trips every week so she can go to gigs, work out, and run errands. But we still have our public image to uphold, and I made it clear she wasn’t to engage in any social events without me.
It’s nothing but frustrating. On the one hand, it’s a huge relief when she’s gone, but on the other—I can’t stand it when she is.
It’s a cliché case of can’t live with her, can’t live without her.
No matter where I am or what I’m doing, I think about her constantly, my mind straying to what she’s doing, or replaying all the most torturous details from all the times we’ve had sex.
I want her.
No, I want her gone.
But I can’t imagine my life without her.
And I can’t stand to actually be around her.
Jesus. I’ve totally lost it.
I take a quick shower, change into clean sweats, and peel out of the gym parking lot in my Bugatti.
Even as I head home much later than necessary, I feel a mix of anticipation and angst knowing she’ll be home when I get there.
It’s taken all my willpower not to touch her these last few weeks, or seduce her into being my muse while I touch myself.
My blood heats just thinking about it. She’s my favorite stimulation—naked, pliable, hungry for my cock, and willing to do whatever I ask.
She’s every man’s walking wet dream. She’s mine, yet thanks to the fucked-up situation between us, I can’t bring myself to touch her.
We should be falling into bed, on the table, over the couch, screwing like crazy.
But we live like we’re roommates and communicate like strangers.
I’m not sure how much more of this I can take, but there’s no way I can forgive her. This is just the way it has to be.
By the time I pull into my private parking garage, I’m wound tight with frustration over every aspect of my life. There’s no one to blame but myself and my own stupid choices. I punch the elevator button too hard, and clench my jaw as I take the ride up to the top floor.
The scent of Brooklyn’s perfume assaults me, jacking my pulse the moment I walk through the door.
It does nothing for the irritation I’m experiencing.
The scent is fresh, as if she’s just in the next room.
So much for avoiding her. I leave the entryway, round the corner, and come to a full stop when I spy Brooklyn by the kitchen island.
She’s fiddling with an earring and doesn’t notice me right away.
Her long, lithe body is clad in a skin-tight black dress with a plunging neckline and snakeskin going down the sides.
The hem barely covers the crotch of her sheer black nylons.
Four-inch black heels with red soles make her long, shapely legs even more incredible.
Her hair is stick straight and glimmering as if she flat-ironed hot oil right into it.
Her makeup is neutral, with a bold, burgundy lip.
The frustration I’ve been struggling with turns to all-out anger. She’s dressed for the club, and as far as I know, we’re not invited anywhere tonight. But she knows full well that she’s not allowed to attend any social events without me.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” I say.
She looks up with a frown while hooking a black feather earring in her right earlobe. “I still have a job to do, Luka.”
Job? Her hair and makeup are perfect. Any photoshoot would have an artist make her up on site. Besides, she doesn’t have any shoots on the books for today’s date. Though admittedly, I haven’t checked her schedule for a few days. Perhaps something came up that I’d missed.
“I manage your schedule, remember? You don’t have any shoots scheduled tonight.”
Even if she did, what kind of job would require her to look like this? She’s dressed to turn every male head for miles.
She collects a golden clutch from the kitchen counter and checks the contents, slowly rifling through while making me wait for an answer.
I drop my duffle onto the floor and fold my arms. She catches my eyes, holding them while slowly adding another layer of lip gloss.
Her plump lips glisten, and I feel a stir.
God, how I’d love to see them wrapped around my cock.
“Well?” I prod.
Pressing her lips together, she tucks the gloss into her bag. “I have the breast cancer runway show tonight. Remember? DRM offered the event to models for a little exposure.”
I draw in an annoyed breath as it comes back to me.
I’d forgotten about the show, for good reason.
It’s for a great cause, yes, but the event itself is nothing worthy of Brooklyn’s time or talent.
Fuck. I’d completely forgotten that my brother had made a big announcement about the event, encouraging models to sign up.
With everything going on between Brooklyn and me, it had completely slipped my mind.
Running a hand through my hair, I go around the counter to the refrigerator and grab a bottled water.
The basis of the entire show comes back to me and my gut clenches.
It’s a charity event, but with an adult twist. No way is she going through with this.
The tickets cost fifteen hundred a piece just to get into the show.
The models won’t be modeling clothing, unless classic works of art replicated on their naked bodies with paint counts.
She’ll be completely nude, covered in paint, applied by some artsy asshole who will take way too much enjoyment out of his job tonight.
No. Fucking. Way.
“You’re going to cancel,” I tell her.
“What?” Brooklyn’s eyes widen in shock. “Absolutely not. This is a cause I care about. And besides, they’re expecting me.”
“Oh, I’m sure they are,” I say. “A woman like you will rake in the attendees, which is exactly why you’re cancelling.”
“No, I’m not.” She rolls her eyes with a defiant shake of her head.
This is a low-stakes event. The only crowd it will draw are perverted, wealthy men who didn’t bat an eye at paying an exorbitant ticket price to watch a bunch of gorgeous, naked models covered in body paint strut their stuff on a runway.
These guys will be well lubricated with mid-level champagne and deli-style snacks, making them all too eager to reach out and touch.
I imagine their fingers streaking paint all over her body as she’s groped by countless hands.
Not happening. “You’re staying home,” I grind out, blocking her way out.
“Sorry, dearest,” she says in a bored tone. “I’m already committed.”
“The fuck you are.”
The counter is still between us, or I might act on my desire to make her stay by any means possible. She won’t get far with my hand between her legs.
“Seriously, Luka, it’s a breast cancer charity,” she huffs. “What’s your problem?”
My problem is that I can’t stand the idea of a hundred other men looking at her perfect, naked body, paint or no paint. She’s my wife, and fuck if anyone else is going to enjoy what’s mine.
Her phone dings. She checks it and then slips it into her clutch. “My car’s waiting for me. I have to go.”
Without waiting for my reply, she darts around me and disappears into the entryway, her heels tapping on the floor. The door opens and shuts, and I’m left in silence. I don’t realize that I’m squeezing the water bottle until the plastic starts to give way beneath my palm.
I shouldn’t care that she goes. She’s working, like she’s supposed to be. Our contract states that DRM will keep her modeling, get her plenty of gigs and exposure. But this event…it just doesn’t fit with the wholesome image I had in mind.
I can’t let her do this without me.
As usual, I’m going to need to supervise her gig and make sure she’s not taken advantage of. That she’s staged in such a way as to accentuate her style and beauty, and not just her sex appeal. I realize my thoughts are laced with bullshit as I’m thinking them, but I don’t care.
Grabbing my cell, I call my assistant and tell him to look up the number for the contact person at the charity. “Tell them Danica Rose is sending two models instead of one.”
“Two?” he asks. “Who’s the other one?”
“Me.”