Breaking Stone: Bad Boy Romance Novel (6 page)

“Terrifying, but fun. Let me take some photos for the fans.” She whipped out her phone. “Sit on the ground over there and lean against the tree trunk. Unzip your jacket. Chew on a piece of grass and look contemplative, or hot and smoldering.”

“Annie Leibovitz had better watch her back.”

“You’ve sort of got this James Dean vibe going on today. The fans will love it.”

I sat against the tree, posed the way she wanted, then hammed it up for a few shots. Had a simple ride on a motorcycle really given Katrina this much confidence? Fuck, I couldn’t wait to tick more experiences off her list. Who knows what I could turn her into? I ran through a few possibilities that involved more bare skin than she was probably willing to show right now. The Poppins Project was turning into just the sort of distraction I loved.

This time, when we set off, she was way more comfortable on the bike, hooking in behind me, her soft body molding against mine, hands gripping my waist. I shuffled back into her and she took the hint, cozying right up. In some ways, it was a shame we both wore leather jackets. In another way, the hampered gratification was working just fine.

Being Tuesday, the cafe wasn’t busy, and we grabbed an outside table, ordering buckwheat buttermilk pancakes filled with berries and bananas, peaches and fresh strawberries. I added a jug of organic maple syrup because I could tell Katrina wanted it, even though she’d passed it over, and a side of bacon. I knew the size of the helpings here. Sure, I’d over-ordered, but I wanted Katrina to taste everything.

I was beginning to see how jaded I’d become, hanging out in the hottest bars and clubs, surrounded by equally jaded women. Katrina was fresh. Not my type, because I sensed her zippered-up nervousness would turn stale pretty quickly. I liked loose women. For now, though, she was turning out to be fun to have around.

“
I
scared
off my last babysitter when I was thirteen.” Stone shoveled a forkful of pancake dripping in syrup into his mouth and chewed, watching me.

Everything with him was bait. If I ignored him, he pushed, and when I jumped in and reacted, he usually embarrassed me. Forty-one days to deadline. I hoped we’d both make it.

“I’m not your babysitter.”

He swallowed like a seagull. I could actually see the lump in his throat.

“Poppins, you’re only here for one thing.”

“The book,” I said hastily.

“Exactly.”

I put my fork down and leaned my forearms on the table. “Go ahead, then. Tell me what you did to the last babysitter so that I can prepare myself.”

He sat back, stretching his arms above his head. “My parents are a fucking mess. They didn’t neglect me, not financially. But emotionally, neither of them were equipped to bring up a child. Shit, neither of them were equipped to be adults. They fought constantly, elegantly, with big, sharp samurai words, oblivious to the fact I was even there. And then, after fighting, they’d head off to their room, their private part of the house, to make up. Or they’d take a short-break vacation. I had a lot of sitters.”

Stone drained his juice glass and peered into it. “Diluted with tequila, that would have been excellent,” he muttered, putting the glass to one side.

“That sounds awful...the tequila idea and your childhood.”

“It was fine. It was all I knew. I soon learned I could behave like a completely obnoxious little shit, and nobody cared. I had to be truly awful to even be noticed. I do love to be noticed, Poppins.”

“It’s easy to see why.”

“So, back to my last sitter. Ms. Coddington, professional spinster. I thought she was ancient, but she was probably only in her sixties. She used to wear these terrible skirts with matching jackets...they were suits, I guess. The material was thick with the harsh texture of upholstery fabric. They smelled terrible, as if mice nested in them. Beneath them, she’d wear these blouses that were varying shades of a pink color that had died. All dusty and dull. Dense caramel colored stockings that would take a weapon of mass destruction to break through. Anyway, The Cod turns up at the house, and I walk out of the bathroom naked, declaring it’s national nude day and refusing to clothe myself. I was thirteen. I thought it was hilarious. She pointed at my dick. ‘Cover that stupid thing up’, she said.
When I refused, Cod informed me she’d been more impressed by the bodies at her side-gig, nursing geriatrics. Then she left the house. I had to fix my own lunch, which was about the only bad consequence I could see from what I’d done.”

“What a horrible story. You poor thing, begging for attention like that.”

“There’s a lesson there.”

“It won’t work,” I told him.

“So you’ve no objection to me wandering around naked?”

“If it gets the book finished, no objection at all.” Brave words and pink cheeks. Of course, my mind was stuck with a reel of Stone, naked, on high rotation.

“You’re imagining me naked.” His look was one of immense satisfaction.

“It’s not all about you, Stone.” My words made me sound like someone who cared, and I regretted them. He appeared lost for a moment, and I felt guilty because by the sounds of things, it was never about him when it should have been—when he was a child. I couldn’t fix him. I didn’t know him, and I didn’t know how. All I could do was stop myself from falling into the same patterns of behavior I used with my mother. I had to protect myself.

He rose from the table, and I noticed two women seated along the terrace from us stop talking and watch his progression through the diner to the restrooms. One of them said something, flicking her hand, as though she’d just burned herself. The other nodded in agreement, and they both burst into laughter. For a moment, they looked me over, and I could see the judgment in their faces. I was dismissed with a simple glance. No competition.

Stone returned, having paid the check inside.

“I have to work,” he said, taking my jacket from the back of my chair and helping me into it. At least he’d learned some manners in the years between thirteen and now.

Back on the street, he fixed my helmet, climbed onto the bike, and kicked it to life. I waited for his nod before hoisting my leg over, and I settled behind him. I knew the drill now, and tapped him on the shoulder to let him know I was ready. For the benefit of the two women at the restaurant, I took hold of Stone’s waist, and we were away.

We took a more direct route home. No stopping this time to stretch our legs. I could feel Stone’s distance, and I hoped he was preoccupied with the concentration it must take to control the beast of a bike, rather than just being in a difficult mood.

Not long into the ride, I sensed a change in him. I scarcely knew him, but still, I could feel it. A kind of peace that came with the rhythm of the road, the lowering into the corners, and the acceleration out. It was exhilarating, but it felt safe. I allowed myself to relax and enjoy the flex and dip of Stone’s body because this was the perfect excuse to press myself against him and follow what he did. When I found myself laying my cheek across his shoulder, I pulled back.

Stone noticed, taking his hand to his waist and covering mine, giving it a squeeze.

I tensed. This was not going to happen. I wasn’t going to blow my future with this ridiculous self-seduction that was going on in my head. I couldn’t even blame Stone for that. He hadn’t done a thing wrong. No wonder those fans of his on social media adored him. The man was addictive for all the wrong reasons.

Thankfully, the spell completely shattered once we were back at the house. Stone followed me in the door, muttering about writing as he disappeared to the tower. I went to my office. If I tucked my nose to my shoulder, I could still smell the leather of his jacket that I’d worn. But not him. He would never have fit into it, and I wondered how many other women had been inside that jacket, pressed to Stone on the back of his bike.

I downloaded the photos I’d taken to my laptop and started sorting through ones that I could post to his social media. Scrolling through them, I was reminded why Stone had been so in demand as a model. Not a single bad photo. The guy was seductive, sexy, funny, cute, and pensive. He did every look effortlessly. I couldn’t wait to show Carrie when I returned home on the weekend, although she’d already have seen some of them by then. I noticed she’d liked Stone’s Facebook page.

I posted a This-or-That pair of images. ‘This’ was one of Stone sitting against the tree, legs bent, forearms resting on his knees, a direct, challenging stare at the camera. ‘That’ was an image of Stone astride his bike, jacket open, sunglasses, dirty blond hair mussed up from his helmet, but looking like a stylist had created the perfect just-out-of-bed look. The smile on his face was even dirtier.

Twenty minutes later, the post had been shared more than eighty times and the comments were coming filthy and fast. Some of these fans were shameless. I stopped counting how many offers there were to
be the bike
, or how many suggested
you can ride me
. In an early count, ‘that’ photo was winning by a slim margin.

I was about to delete the crude comments before I took a moment to assess the audience and the usual responses on the page. It looked par for the course, so I decided to watch it for a while and make sure nothing untoward happened.

Was I expected to ‘Like’ and respond to those messages?

There were a bunch of emails in my inbox from the FaithLit group, who had a new release coming up. I flicked over to their page and scheduled a few inspirational quotes I had on standby. Sunrises, fields of flowers, messages of hope and redemption. Sweet love. I went back to Stone’s page and watched the comments run. Each fan seemed intent on outdoing the previous one.

SamanthaOh-Oh-Oh
:
THAT. You can ram your throbbing engine between my legs any day.

Really? SamanthaOh-Oh-Oh appeared to have a husband, two children, and a highly-sexed imagination.

My phone rang. Caller ID: Mother.

I could ignore it. Say I was working, but it was possible she’d discovered I wasn’t in NYC this week, and the longer I avoided her when she was looking for me, the more drama I was forced to deal with.

I picked up the phone and accepted the call, my stomach twisting into a knot of conditioned response.

“Mom, hi.”

“Katrina. I haven’t heard from you in a week. Not that that’s a surprise.”

“I haven’t heard from you either, Mom.”

She made a noise of exasperation. “Are you still with the agency? FaithLit says you haven’t responded to their messages.”

“Yes, I’m still with the agency. I’m working right now.”

“I called there, and they said you’d finished.”

We were like the defense lawyer and the hostile witness. She never asked a question she didn’t already have the answer to. And I didn’t give an answer before considering every angle and hoping I called my response right. All my life, I’d carried a spade, digging myself into holes while trying to figure out the appropriate reply that would make her happy. My successes were rare and unacknowledged. I wish I could get it into my head that nothing worked. Nothing made her happy with me.

“The agency has given me an assignment as PA to an author they manage. I’m working offsite.”

“Is that so. And without the work you’ve done for FaithLit, you’d never have gotten that job in the first place. Yet, Katrina, all you do is complain about the opportunity I created for you. I know there are plenty of other girls at church better qualified than you who would love the opportunity to run FaithLit’s online properties. I really don’t understand why you have to be so ungrateful. I didn’t raise you to be this way.”

The depth of her perceived hurt could always be measured by the frequency of the personal pronouns in her rant. I, I, I. Me, me, me. It was all about Mom. To prove her wrong, I’d tried giving up the gig to the others at church supposedly waiting in line for the opportunity, but there were no takers. Probably because the job only came with the reward of knowing you were doing
His
work, rather than anything financial.

“I’m not ungrateful, but I am busy. I really shouldn’t be taking personal calls during work time.”

“It’s a sorry day when a daughter no longer has time for her mother. Anyway, I’m calling you about work. Jean is worried that she hasn’t heard from you about her new book. I had to defend you, Katrina, rather than agree that it was quite typical of you to prioritize your personal life over the things that really matter in this world.”

Of course, my job, the thing I was paid to do, fell under the banner of ‘personal life’ because it didn’t involve Mom. I let her rant while I scrolled through the comments on Stone’s This-or-That picture.

LindaSucks:
THAT...My lips, your tailpipe. PM me.

In the background, my mother continued undeterred. “...Clarissa will be home from college in two weeks. There will be a family lunch on Sunday the seventeenth. Make sure you’re there. Clarissa is doing so well. Even though she’s busy, she always makes time to phone . . .”

StoneMe:
THIS: Trunk hunk mmmmm

“Katrina? Are you there?”

“Yes, Mom. I’m listening.”

WetForU:
THIS. Nice wood.

I giggled.

SirStoneSub:
THIS & THAT—I’ll chose the one that will make Sir happy. Or maybe not. Then I’ll be punished *squeeee*

Holy hell. I’d drawn the mega fans out of the woodwork. I minimized the page, scared that Mom would somehow know what I was doing.

“Pay attention, Katrina. Who is this author you’re working for?”

Uh-oh. Did she know already? Could I lie? “It’s just someone you’ve probably never heard of.”

“You’re avoiding my question. Are you hiding something?”

She would pick and prod until I told her. “He’s a romance author.”

“
He
. Men are writing romance now? This is typical of you, Katrina, to align yourself with something off the wall. I hope he doesn’t write that filth that’s becoming so popular these days after that English woman wrote those dreadful stories with blindfolds and whips that everyone talked about. Tell me his name.”

“It’s not important, Mom. His books are tame. You don’t have to know who he is.”

Another grunt of irritation came down the phone at me. “I will have to inform the FaithLit group. I can’t have you working with someone who could possibly fall in opposition to their values.”

Sure, I complained about FaithLit, but I didn’t actually want to lose that work. Those books were successful within their niche, and if I didn’t land a job with CJM, my backup plan was to start my own business offering marketing and promotion for authors. I needed a client list.

“I’ve signed a non-disclosure agreement—”

“Nonsense. I’m your mother.”

If only she acted like one. “And I’m bound by the NDA. Legally, I can’t disclose details.”

“You should know better than to try and hide things from me.”

She was right. I should have known better, but I felt safe behind the agreement I’d signed. Not even my mother was above the law.

I recognized the summing up that signaled we were approaching the end of the call. It was the part where Mom drove home the points that would leave me feeling wrung out and gasping for breath. In order, I got the reminder about how wonderful my sister was, the implied threat of trouble if I missed lunch in three weeks’ time, and the warning about keeping secrets about the man I was working for.

Jab, jab, uppercut.

I dropped the phone and stared out the window. I was twenty-two, and I still hadn’t pulled myself out of the insidious grip Mom had on my self-worth. Whenever something went well for me, she either took credit for it or destroyed it. My dismay turned to anger. I felt like calling her back and telling her Stone’s name. I wanted to send her his books and tell her to stretch her mind past the narrow view she had of the world.

But it would be wrong to use Stone as my weapon to end this battle.