I much preferred the tattoo on his leg. It had stories to tell—good stories, happy even. The one on his back was more of a sentence—a lifestyle I didn’t fully understand.
My eyes went to the information dancing on the computer screens.
“See that, Buttercup?”
I opened my eyes, turning to face the television. I lay on his lap, drowsy and content after our day in the sun at the beach. “See what?”
He leaned down, running his gentle fingertips through my hair. “The stock market. That’s called a pip spread. It’s how people make money from trading. And this particular platform is the most lucrative one there is.”
I scrunched my nose. I couldn’t make sense of the flickering colors and lines jerking down, then up, then down again. “What is it?”
“It’s the FX.”
“In English, please, brainiac.” I pinched him, smiling as he chuckled quietly. No one else got to hear him laugh. That was mine and mine alone.
“It’s the foreign currency market and I’m going to use it to make us a fortune.”
The flashback ended.
The knowledge was bright—each small glimpse into my past building a picture out of slices of history. I had no idea what the big picture would reveal but I had to trust my brain would work it out—eventually.
He trades.
I stayed silent by the door, taking in Kill’s intense concentration as he sat on the high-backed office chair and stared into the four screens as if they held the meaning of life.
Graphs, charts, and pie diagrams covered one computer, while another held candlestick evaluations and world clocks. The other two were black with blinking red and green numbers, changing rapidly on different columns.
His head moved slightly, gathering information from each screen, his fingers tracing over the keyboard, making snap decisions based on the conclusions he came to.
How wealthy is he?
What is he hiding?
I jumped as the harsh sound of a cell phone buzzed beside his mouse.
He snatched it up without looking away from the screens. “Kill.”
I couldn’t hear the caller, but Kill’s back stiffened. He straightened, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “Did stage one go off okay?”
Silence while the caller replied.
“That’s good. Tell Wallstreet I’m grateful for his insight. It seemed he was right about that particular issue. I’m just fucking glad it worked.” Kill’s tone was dark with grim pleasure.
What had been done? What projects was he puppeteering all while babysitting me?
Kill suddenly tensed. “Tell him it’s none of his goddamn business.”
I smothered my smile. Seemed that was a favorite saying of his.
“No, I don’t care. We sold the five. He got whatever he wanted by doing something the Club was against. Why the fuck does he care about the sixth?”
I froze. Icicles formed in my blood. Me. They’re talking about me.
“How the fuck did he find out?” He bowed forward, resting his elbow on the table, and dragging his fingers overs his face. “No. I’ll deal with him. Thanks for the heads-up. I’ve got the girl here.”
The caller spoke; Kill breathed harder.
“Fuck. That’s bullshit. I said I’d find a buyer. I don’t—”
The caller cut him off. Kill punched the top of his desk. “Goddammit, what the fuck is his problem? When does he want her?”
Silence as the caller answered.
“No, I’m not gonna hand her over; I’ll take her myself.” Opening the top drawer of his desk, he pulled out a gun. “Wait for me—I’m coming over.” He hung up.
Oh God. Was that gun for me? To threaten me?
I faded into the corridor, not wanting to be caught, but not willing to let him out of my sight. He lied to me.
What did that mean? That the bargain we’d made was broken? I thought he was the president. Why was he bowing to other’s demands?
My body trembled with the need to run—to get as far away from false promises and complicated bikers as possible, but I paused.
Kill bowed his head, massaging his neck with both hands. He looked weary and carrying the weight of endless grief.
Don’t feel sorry for him. Don’t you dare feel sorry for him.
I inched closer to the stairs, ready to scurry back to my room and plot an escape, but Kill bent to a bottom draw and opened it with a key. Slinking his hand in, he pulled out a small piece of paper. I couldn’t see what it was. A photograph? A shopping list?
My skin prickled as he growled, “I will have my vengeance. I will find my peace. I will ruin those motherfuckers and hope to God I will be free.”
The words were arrows, raining around me, piercing deep into my soul.
“I will have my vengeance. I will find my peace. I will ruin those motherfuckers and hope to God I will be free.”
Every hair follicle stood on end. The words weren’t a promise or a prayer. They were an obsession. A consuming, passionate obsession that had kidnapped his entire existence.
I couldn’t watch anymore as Kill reverently placed the item back in the drawer and clutched his gun. “It’s almost time,” he murmured. “Almost time to do to them what they did to me.” His tone echoed with revenge and hate.
I turned tail and ran.
Kill found me half-dressed.
Wearing his usual black T-shirt and jeans, he whispered with energy.
I’d bolted and was determined to be fortified and brave when he came for me with a gun drawn and broken promises trailing behind him.
Stalking into the room he’d given me the first night, his eyes locked on my bra and the denim skirt I’d just pulled over my hips. “What are you doing in here? I left you in my room.”
I faced away, hating the chill in his eyes and the lies corrupting the air between us. I couldn’t look at him without demanding to know how he could fuck me, all while knowing he meant to get rid of me soon.
So much for time. So much for waiting until I could tell him the story of my scars and ink.
“This is the room you locked me in. I’m sorry for taking up your bed all night.” Plucking a white T-shirt from the store bag, I muttered, “You obviously couldn’t stand the thought of sleeping beside me, seeing as you never came back.”
He strode toward me, planting his large hands on my shoulders, and jerking me to face him. The gun I’d seen in his office had disappeared. “What the hell are you doing?”
I narrowed my eyes. “What am I doing? I could ask the same about you!”
His lips opened, then snapped together. Anger rolled off him. “We fucked. There was nothing more to it. As impersonal as—”
“Strangers. Don’t worry. I get it.” Rolling my shoulders, I broke his hold and moved toward the bathroom. The door had a lock on it and I fully intended to use it. The way my body jittered and tongue wanted to spew obscenities, it was best for both of us to have some distance.
My hand reached for the doorknob but an arm lassoed around my waist, pulling me against hot, strong muscles. “Did I say you could walk away?”
Did I say you could sell me?
I breathed hard through my nose, swallowing my retorts. “Let me go.”
“No.”
I squirmed, wishing I was stronger. I briefly entertained the idea of spinning around and kneeing him in the groin, but that would only make him furious. I had no way of winning. Letting the fight siphon from my limbs, I said listlessly, “I overheard you.”
He froze. “You were spying on me?”
“No. I came to say good morning…” And to tell you how much I enjoyed last night even though you have issues.
“Don’t act surprised. You knew what your fate entailed. Just because my cock has been inside you doesn’t mean you’re free.” His breathing turned harsh as his fingers brushed away red strands sticking to my neck. “I allowed myself one taste. I’ve been transparent right from the start. Don’t—”
I laughed, twisting quickly in his arms to stare fiercely into his green eyes. “You’ve been transparent? Shit, I’d hate to see you when you’re being obtuse. You fucked me. I get that, and I understand you’re hurting for something I can’t help with, but you said you wouldn’t—”
“I’m hurting? What the fuck makes you say that?” His face glowered as his lips thinned.
I rolled my eyes. His ignorance or sheer-minded determination not to acknowledge how heavily he was dictated by his past had surpassed my threshold of limits. “Admit it. You’re in love with a ghost, and you can’t stomach the thought of ever caring for another woman. You proved it when you stopped me from touching you, from even watching you take me. You’ve got issues, Arthur.”
“Don’t use my name!” His hands lashed out, gripping my hair and walking me backward until I slammed against the wall. Our lips were so close. All I had to do was stand on my tiptoes and kiss him. Lick him. Tease him. See what his rage tasted like beneath all the guilt he carried.
His chest rose and fell against mine, squashing my bra-covered breasts against his T-shirt. Without a word, his knee nudged mine, spreading my legs and settling between them. Subconsciously, he rocked against me.
My anger twisted into something sparking with red swirling passion.