7. 7
Harlow
After leaving the drugs with Clark’s lawyers — far more drugs than I thought one person could hide — we return to the mansion in the early evening.
He hasn’t said a word. No jokes. No flirting. He’s completely shut down. I’m sure he’s being a brooding addict that’s planning his next fix.
It’s against my better judgement, but I reach over the console and rub his arm. I shouldn’t touch him, but he seems to calm down when I do.
“It’ll get easier,” I soothe, but I have no idea whether that’s true.
He grunts. “You’ve never done drugs. Don’t act like you get it or care.”
I straighten, offended. “I do care. I just...” I slump in my seat, considering my next words carefully, but he speaks first.
“I hate when women look at me like I’m something to pity.”
“Oh, trust me. I don’t! Listen, Killian, I won’t pretend you agreed to this arrangement because you want to stay sober. You’re just... I don’t know, trying to hook up with me.”
“So?”
“So!” I balk.
“Be flattered I want to fuck you.”
Killian looks better than he did the night we met. I mean, he’s hotter every time I see him. Especially with those sober dark eyes and the way his curly hair falls over them. And yes, he is wealthy. But no, a drug user wanting to sleep with me is not flattering.
“Oh, yes, lucky me,” I mutter.
“What? It’s not like I used today. I wanted to. So who cares what my motivation is?”
I stare at him, astonished, since the answer is obvious.
“Because I’m not going to sleep with you! You are my patient.”
“So?”
“Stop saying that,” I hiss. “Stay sober. Heal. Then you’ll have plenty of women.”
His gaze intensifies, and his jaw ticks. “But not you?”
I swallow hard. “It’s against my ethics.”
His eyes narrow. After a tense beat, he opens the car door and says sharply, “The trash has ethics.”
“Real mature!” I shout, so he hears me.
His car door slams shut.
Quickly, I chase after him toward the house.
“If you call me trash again, I swear to God I’ll quit.”
“What a surprise,” he says sarcastically and steps inside.
“Ugh!” I huff.
In the entryway, a man rushes to Killian, hesitating just for a second to take in the sight of his face, but then wraps his arms around him in a big bear hug. “We missed you, buddy.”
Killian returns the embrace. “Me, too.”
Now he’s happy.
“Harlow, this is Jagger, my brother.”
I shake his hand.
Wow. His brother is gorgeous. Bright white teeth, brown hair, and a confident presence.
With that short haircut and soft hands, Jagger is what I expect in a place this nice.
Killian is taller and cleans up nicely, but he doesn’t belong among this opulence.
It’s not just his damaged face and tattoos. It’s something else.
Jagger’s wearing green scrubs, too. He must’ve left work and come straight here.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, and shake his hand. “Do you work at your dad’s hospital?”
“Mm-hm. Physician in pediatrics.”
“Cool. I’m a CNA there.”
“I see that on your badge. How do you know my brother?” he asks, neither warm nor cold.
Killian answers for me.
“She’s supposed to help me stay sober. Dad hired her.”
“Oh, so she isn’t your girl. Perfect, because I invited Frida.”
Killian scowls, but only I see it. He isn’t excited about this Frida-girl.
I don’t want him triggered anymore today. I squint at him, my brow knitting with concern. “We can leave.”
He ignores me.
Just then, Jagger elbows me playfully. “I didn’t want to say how much I like cute CNAs if you’re seeing my brother.”
Oh.
This family is full of flirts.
Still, my cheeks rush with heat, finding his charm far more welcome than Killian’s. After all, Jagger is sober, handsome, and successful.
I glance at Killian, who isn’t finding our exchange funny. He leers contemptuously. It’s strange, but I can feel his glare, and it practically burns my skin. Without drugs numbing him, every reaction seems too close to the surface.
But Jagger doesn’t notice. He carries on.
“We’re so thankful you’re home. Mom made you chocolate cake. Your favorite. Come on.”
Jagger leads the way.
Killian still glares at me, but I don’t cower. I shuffle closer and clutch his bicep.
Why do I keep touching him?
I let go.
The loss of contact feels strangely wrong.
No. Come on, Harlow.
Swiftly, I murmur low enough for only him to hear. “The girl Jagger mentioned, who is she?”
“Why do you care? Aren’t you quitting? Even though I just dropped off all those fucking drugs? That’s what you said outside there.”
“What? No. Wait—!”
But he walks on.
Okay, I upset him. I get it. He did a big thing, and I threatened to quit — again. Maybe my determination to be professional is coming across as cruel.
I’ll be nicer.
I follow him to the grand kitchen. It is bigger than my trailer’s living room and kitchen combined.
White cabinets climb toward the ceiling, uninterrupted by handles or fingerprints.
Pale marble covers the counters, and gold lights hang above an island long enough to serve dinner to a football team.
It looks staged for a magazine, not used by a family.
I spot his parents and another man. Killian introduces him as his other brother, River.
The girl, Frida, seems more like Jagger’s type.
She is gorgeous, maybe Latina, and has wavy brown hair that lies perfectly.
A red spandex dress wraps around her hourglass figure.
It’s impossible not to look at her. I’m not jealous or anything.
Not at all.
Not even when he takes her hand and spins her around like old friends reunited.
And since I’m an employee, not a friend or family member, I stay near the edge of the room. From a barstool, I watch quietly as they fawn over Killian. I don’t know what I expected. Maybe lectures, or ‘you scared us,’ or comments about his face.
It truly is a welcome-home party.
I study Frida whenever she touches Killian’s arm or hangs on his side. I watch, waiting for her to slip him drugs. I notice Christine is watching too, her expression pleased.
But then, Christine lines up glasses and opens a wine bottle.
I gasp softly.
What in the world is she doing?
She pours the red wine into each glass. She slides one across the island to Killian.
I gape, horrified.
My feet are already moving. I am completely out of place. This is a private moment. A freaking family celebration.
But I can’t just stand there.
I find myself at Killian’s side. The wineglass is pressed to his lips. I cringe as my hand shoots out, clutching his wrist before he can tip it back.
Instantly, the energy in the room shifts and silence lands like a slap to the face. Every pair of eyes fixes on me — the hired help.
Killian’s gaze darts down. He hasn’t lowered the glass.
I don’t let go.
“Um, he shouldn’t drink alcohol,” I announce to everyone, even though my eyes are locked on him.
I pull down harder, and he finally lowers the wineglass from his lips.
Christine’s voice fills the awkward silence.
“Killian can have a drink or two. He isn’t an alcoholic.”
What the—?
As if addiction politely stays in its own lane. She doesn’t get it, but I’m still busy trying to pry the glass from Killian’s fingers. He watches me with a subtle smirk, enjoying my struggle.
“Give it to me,” I say, then whisper, “You’re just doing this because you’re mad I threatened to quit.”
He replies slyly, “That’s not why.”
“Killian’s home after months of being who-knows-where,” Christine says. “Just one drink to mark his homecoming won’t hurt.”
“Yeah,” says River. “He’ll have to drink in the real world. At dinners and stuff.”
Jagger shakes his head. “Uh, I agree with Harlow. It is a little early.”
Yes! Someone sane.
But for reasons I don’t understand, Jagger takes a big swig and nods. “This is pretty good, though. What’s the vintage?”
Christine answers, her smile returning.
“But Killian shouldn’t have any,” I explain.
Based on his mom’s eye-roll, I’m overstepping again.
Killian leans in and whispers, “Chill, lowly CNA. It’s one drink.”
His defiance makes my blood boil, and I stamp my foot. Today was a win, but not because he’s home.
“Killian,” I scold low, not bothering to hide the irritation in my voice. “Give it to me. Now.”
“Dang,” says River, then laughs loudly, as if this situation could possibly be funny. “She’s laying down the law.”
I can’t believe no one is backing me up. Not even his parents. I look at his dad, hoping for a little help.
Unfazed, Clark mutters into his wineglass, “That’s why I hired you. You don’t hold back. Killian needs that.”
What the heck does that mean? I’m supposed to be the dad?
All I can do is scoff, but instantly regret it since he’s my boss.
I have zero support.
Confused and frustrated, I release Killian’s wrist and glare up at him. He smirks, wicked as ever. Yes, he definitely likes upsetting me.
Oh.
I’m upset. But why? He isn’t my boyfriend. Him failing is not my failure. It’s just work and patients often relapse. That’s what I expected.
Actually, this is what I wanted.
It’s sad, but I’ll be free.
I gather myself, relax my face, and speak calmly.
“Sorry. I’m out of line. Go ahead.”
Instantly, his smugness fades and something flashes in his eyes. Something raw and real.
He sets down his glass, his fingers lingering on the stem as if letting go is painful. “Yeah. Maybe I’ll pass this time.”
My pulse quickens, stunned.
I can’t help but beam up at him, practically jumping for joy. I shouldn’t be this happy, but holy shit, I got through. Twice now. He might actually listen to me, unlike Evan.
The thought is dangerous enough that I bury it immediately.
Frida snakes over and picks up the glass. She drags her index finger down the middle of his chest.
“Are you sure? It is important to celebrate, Killy.”
“Killy?” I blurt, like I have any right, but she’s obviously manipulating him!
God, why am I getting upset?
I look at Killy, I mean, Killian, waiting for him to dismiss her pathetic attempt to—
“We need to talk. Privately,” she says, her tone suddenly serious. “Before the wedding.”
Her purse shifts open just enough for me to see the black handle of a taser tucked inside.
My stomach drops.
Killian sees it too. He doesn’t flinch.
“There’s nothing left to say. Go marry him. You obviously don’t trust me if you need a weapon around me.”
She snaps her bag shut. “Killy, I’m worried about you, and I still love—”
I don’t know what compels me so fiercely, but I have to get him away from these enablers and temptation.
“We should go watch a movie and take it easy tonight.”
His attention snaps to me, and his brow lifts.
“A movie. With you?”
I nod.
He smiles, crooked and as wide as I’ve seen yet.
“Okay.”
Okay. One word.
He walks away from the girl.
With me.
“Killy, come back,” Frida begs.
“Nah,” he dismisses.
Together, we enter the elevator. He presses the button, but Christine calls for him.
“The cake!”
He ignores her, and the doors close. The elevator hums as it ascends. We’re alone.
“What movies do you like?” he asks casually.
“Actually, I prefer documentaries.”
“Cool. Me too.” Then, as normal as discussing the weather, he adds, “I’m not fucking you tonight, am I?”
I laugh, genuine and loud. “No! But does that mean you’ll go back to your party?”
A boyish smile graces his lips. “Nah, I’m just making sure you won’t take advantage of me. I’m in recovery.”
“Okay, Killy,” I tease and push on his shoulder.
He chuckles for a moment, but then his smile fades.
“Don’t fuck my brother,” he says, his tone suddenly serious. “I’ll overdose if you do.”
My jaw drops. The doors open, and he leaves the elevator without another word.
That’s why he fought me over the wine.
Jagger.
And overdose?
“That manipulative bastard,” I whisper.