Chapter 7 Bad Ideas Only
Roman
“I’m pretty sure Harlow is wasted,” Cash says with a laugh, looking up from his phone as we exit the car. The underground garage connects to their Irish pub, the Fox’s Den. They live in the penthouse of the apartment complex above.
I smile internally. When she’s drunk, she can’t help gushing about Cash as a father. Stories that I love to hear, but ones that the boss of the most dangerous crime syndicate might not want to be public knowledge.
Like last time, when she told us about the time he wore their baby daughter’s tutu and pranced around with a pocket square like he was a ribbon dancer. Of course, the tutu was so small, he had to wear it around his neck like a frilly Elizabethan collar.
The stories—and watching his reactions—are not only entertaining, but they fill me with pride.
Nothing has shaped the man more than the life and death of his father, a violent, cruel, yet deeply respected man.
The things that made him a strong boss were also what made him a shitty father.
Cash’s whole life has been about filling the man’s shoes.
Since the moment he found out Harlow was pregnant, he became haunted by the very thing he strove for.
Something he never gave much thought became his number one fear: can he be the boss his father was without also being the parent he was?
He never admitted it outright, but when someone entrusts the life and safety of their family to you, you become pretty close; you know their unspoken fears.
I’m probably one of three people that know the real Cash Fox.
I knew he wouldn’t be anything like his father, and witnessing him realize that is an honor.
I think those tutus and pocket squares heal the deeply wounded boy he once was and soften the hardened man he is.
We enter the pub through the back, and when Harlow sees us, she waves us over to the bar animatedly.
There’s something familiar about the blonde woman she’s sitting with whose back is to us.
My natural reaction is to start cataloging everything about her and assess if she’s a threat—occupational hazard being head of security and Cash’s second.
I’ve learned to never underestimate anyone.
At Harlow’s enthusiastic greeting, the woman turns around, and I stop in my tracks.1Two things happen at once. I realize instantly where I know her from, and I identify the threat—scratch that, two threats:
Forgetting my own goddamn name.
And falling head over fucking heels.
“Roman, what is it?” Cash’s terse voice unfreezes me.
“Nothing,” I say brusquely and continue, trying to ignore the unsteadiness a single glance from this woman created.
“Cash, Cash.” Harlow grabs her husband’s arm and pulls him into her conversation. “Wait, Ren, tell Cash that story with the zebras and the polar bears.” She laughs.
Cash looks at Ren. “Good to see you again, Ren. I’m glad you decided to take us up on our offer for a drink.”
“And then some.” Harlow giggles.
“I can see that.” Cash chuckles. “How is the diabolical plotting going?”
I finally turn toward Ren, something I was avoiding, to find her already staring up at me.
My throat goes dry and tight. Just like that night on her knees, her blue eyes are slightly unfocused but beautiful and bright.
When she blinks, her long, dark lashes brush her cheeks.
Her full lips are slightly parted as if she forgot what she was going to say.
My pulse quickens. What was she going to say?
“Oh wait, did you guys meet already?” Harlow asks.
I wet my bottom lip. “Briefly.”
She presses her lips together in an embarrassed smile, like she only just now realized she got caught staring. My lip quirks.
“Hi,” she says sheepishly, like she’s in a daze, followed by a small, tipsy giggle. Blush colors her cheeks. Is she remembering the same things I am?
“Good to see you again, Ren,” I say with all the nonchalance I don’t feel and hold out my hand.
As she shakes it, she gives me a look that is both curious and teasing, like she knows I’m fronting. Her bashfulness turns coy. “You know, when you came in, I thought you looked familiar.”
“I have one of those faces,” I say.
“No, I definitely remember your hands—” Ren replies confidently, still shaking my hand, and Harlow nearly spits out her wine. Suddenly realizing the slip, she quickly clarifies, “I mean face.”
“I was gonna say . . .” Harlow laughs and takes another sip.
Cash looks at me, eyes slightly narrowed, then a subtle smirk plays on his lips. He knows. He might not have known before, but now? He definitely knows.
I excuse myself to talk with Alfie, Harlow’s security, at the other end of the bar.
There’s nothing I need to say to him, but I couldn’t stay there.
Not without acting on some very dangerous thoughts.
I think Ren is going to fall off her barstool when she stands up, but she manages to get to her feet without making it to the floor headfirst. My eyes immediately follow the fall of her long hair cascading down her back to the generous swell of her hips accentuated by a fitted skirt.
Not for the first time, I’m jealous of a man that doesn’t exist. The one I imagine waiting for her at home.
The one that would get to listen to her laugh while she drunkenly recaps the night would get to peel that tight skirt off and kiss every inch of her skin.
I can’t imagine the kind of idiot that gave all that up.
Despite being parked in the back, I walk out the front entrance with the three of them. Even though I spent the night pretending she wasn’t there, I can’t deny myself just a few moments with her.
Outside on the sidewalk, we say goodbye. Harlow and Cash go one way, and Ren goes the other on her own.
My car is out back. My car is out back. My car is— She shouldn’t be walking home alone.
She’s wasted, and it’s late. I’ll hang back and just make sure she gets there safely. It’s the right thing to do. That’s it. Simple.
I follow from a distance for a block or two, noticing how the streetlights make her hair coppery.
What the hell am I doing? Not my circus, not my monkeys.
I’m about to turn around when a car with an illuminated ride share sign comes to a sudden stop and two fratty-looking finance bros stumble out.
Not including the Fox’s Den, there are two other bars they could be heading to, and half a dozen apartment buildings and townhouses.
But something doesn’t sit right with me. 2
I’m a man of reason, and I learned a long time ago that trusting my gut is the most rational thing I can do.
I always hope to be proven wrong. Sometimes that does happen, but tonight isn’t one of them.
The pair of men fall into stride behind her, their drunken demeanor shifting into a predatory prowl.
Like a couple of jackals—spineless, opportunistic creatures who prey on the vulnerable.
Not like the lion who goes after the buffalo—a fair fight.
There’s nothing more pathetic than a man who only goes looking for fights he can win.
They make a rowdy remark. I don’t make out the words of it, but I can tell the message by their tone and the unease behind Ren’s forced smile when she looks over her shoulder. I fight the burning urge to tell them to fuck off.
Just hang back, make sure she’s safe. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less.
She picks up her pace, which accentuates what was only a slight drunken sway before. Then her foot catches where a brick is missing in the sidewalk and she tumbles forward, and my heart lodges in my throat. She lands on her hands and knees. The guys laugh as they hurry to help her up.
Just hang back, make sure she’s safe, I remind myself yet again as their hands on her make me see red.
Only, they don’t let go of her once she’s back on her feet. They pull her toward an alley. And there’s no fucking way I’m hanging back.
It takes me less than ten seconds to reach the mouth of the alley, and the pair are trying to coax her farther into the poorly lit and narrow passage, one on each side of her.
“So where are you headed?” One has his arm around her waist while the other has his arm linked with hers.
Before she even answers, one of them snickers. “Don’t worry, we know a shortcut.”
Her protests get more panicked but are still polite. “That’s okay. I know where I’m going.”
I wish more women were taught to kick men in the balls than be nice. God knows most of us deserve it every now and then.
But that’s not our reality. So instead of being home in bed, I’m grabbing some punk by the back collar for a woman I have no business feeling this protective of.
“Hey—” the one I grabbed hollers as I yank him back and throw his ass down on the gravel.
“You two need to go. Right now,” I say definitively. Ren looks back at me. My chest splits open at the relief that washes over her face when she sees me.
“Stay out of it, man.” The one with his arm around her waist squeezes her tighter to his side. Her eyes get wide and scared as she tries to squirm away from the tight press to his body.
“Fuck, I think you broke my arm,” the man on the ground whines, cradling his elbow.
“I haven’t yet,” I answer dryly. “But I will if you don’t get the fuck up out of here.”
“What the hell is your problem?” He rolls around like a baby or a male soccer player.
I ignore him, looking his partner in the eye so he knows that what I’m about to say is not an empty threat. “And if you don’t get your hands off her right this second, yours will be the arm I’m breaking.”
As soon as he lets her go, all my attention is on Ren. I fight the burning desire to pull her to me. I want to clutch her face and make sure her eyes haven’t lost their sparkle. My hands ball into fists at my sides so I don’t while I make sure the men leave in my periphery.
She doesn’t seem too shaken, and for that I’m grateful. In a selfish attempt to protect myself, I left her unguarded. I should have stepped in sooner. Nonetheless, I ask, “Are you okay?”
She nods with that same pleading look on her face she had that night, like she’s begging me to take care of her, make her feel safe. And fuck if that isn’t exactly what I want to do.
“I’m walking you the rest of the way home,” I decide.
“No, no, it’s okay. I’m fine.” She averts her gaze and shakes her head, like she’s embarrassed or it’s a burden.
“That wasn’t a question, Ren.”
She spends most of the walk telling me funny animal stories from the zoo in what feels like one long run-on sentence. Almost like she’s anxious about something. Do I make her nervous?3
When we get to her townhouse, she digs in her purse for her keys. After a minute of frantic searching, she just dumps the entire thing out on the stoop. “Shit.” She sighs.
She looks up at me guiltily. “I think I lost my keys.”
A lump forms in my throat. I should call our safe guy. If he can get into even the strongest vaults, he can get into her house. She should sleep in her own bed tonight.
It’s clear what I should do.
Instead, I say, “Come on, you can crash at my place.”
“Really?” She sounds shocked but excited.
I fight a smile, trying to keep my face neutral, and nod. I don’t want her thinking anything is going to happen, not again and certainly not with her current level of intoxication. Though, I can’t deny the fact that I would gladly get kneecapped if it meant something would happen.
“My hero,” she practically shouts in singsong, grabbing me around the waist in an awkward side-hug. Only, we’re two steps apart, so I have to catch her from stumbling down the stairs.
I open the door to my apartment and step aside to let her go first, but she doesn’t take the invitation. Instead, she looks up at me almost quizzically. If she’s having second thoughts about spending the night, I wouldn’t blame her.
I’m seconds away from suggesting we go back to the Den to look for her keys when she blurts out, “You’re, like, beautiful.”
I tilt my head. That was not what I was expecting.
“I mean, kinda old, but still really hot.”
“Hmm,” is all I say, fighting back a smile.
She gets a shy sort of amused quirk to her lips, like she can’t believe she just said that out loud . . . but is happy she did. Then she swats my ass and skitters inside, giggling. I’m equally amused. I think the last time someone did that was high school baseball.
Suddenly, she spins around, her face fallen. “Wait, are you married?” Before I have a chance, she answers for me, “Probably. That’s apparently my type.”
“Excuse me?” My brows rise. “Do you think I would have done the things I did to you if I were married?”
“My boyfriend would.” She scoffs, then continues to explain in that roundabout way drunk people do.
“Well, ex-boyfriend. Emphasis on the ex. But you already know that. What you don’t know is that I actually thought he was gonna propose that night.
Can you believe that? His wife seemed really sweet though. ”
She looks at me expectantly.
“Not married,” I clarify, stepping up to her. She tilts her head back to look up at me.
“That’s good,” she says like she’s trying to hold back how happy that makes her.
It stings knowing I won’t be able to continue making her happy like that. Something I quickly forget when she stretches up on her tiptoes, lusty gaze bouncing between my eyes and mouth. Before I know it, I’m grabbing her face and crashing my lips down on hers.
She moans softly and the sound shakes me to my senses. I step away, holding her shoulders. She looks dazed and a little giddy, brushing her fingers over her lips.
“Uh—” I clear my throat and swallow, trying to regain control of my heart rate. “You—I mean, I should go to bed. Let me show you to the guest room.”
“Yeah, good idea.” She forces a smile, and I hate myself for the embarrassed look that’s now on her face.
She follows me, and it’s different hearing another person’s footsteps in my apartment.
I’m not home often, and when I am, it’s rarely with other people—especially not at this time of night.
I had one woman sleep over a few months after Cass left, but quickly decided that was a bad idea.
It’s not fair to drag another woman into a promise I can’t keep.
My job will always come first, and there’s no point pretending any different.
“There’s a bathroom in there.” I point to a door on the opposite wall, then grab a fresh towel from the closet and hand it to her. “If you need one, I think there’s a charger in the nightstand.”
“Thank you,” she says softly, getting a sleepy look, and I realize the blue in her eyes has a hint of green. Her fingertips brush mine as she takes the towel, and I get another strong, undeniable message from my gut.
Bringing her here was a bad, bad idea.
1. Play "Crazy"—Ben Goldsmith through scene break
2. Pause "Crazy"—Ben Goldsmith
3. Resume playing "Crazy"—Ben Goldsmith until end of chapter