Dirty Past (11 page)

I can’t look away from her. Her words are no more than a whisper, but they cut right fucking through me. She couldn’t eat what she wanted? What the fuck?

“Pizza?” I ask softly.

“Had to be cut with a knife and fork,” she answers, trailing a nacho around in the chili. “I’m sure my friends knew something was up, because if we ever had it alone, I would eat it normally. But Matthew made sure I ate in a ‘sophisticated’ manner.”

Matthew. His name leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

“That was it. Perfection. Sophistication. There was no other option. If I tried something else . . .” her voice trails off, and she nibbles at the end of the chip.

“How long?”

Ella’s eyes move to mine but they leave just as quickly.

“How. Long?”

She shakes her head.

Rage swirls in my stomach, building and tightening and coiling. It spreads through me with every second of her silence, her denial, her protection of him.

“How fucking long was that motherfucker putting his hands on you, Els?”

“Too long,” she whispers, wiping her hands on a napkin.

“How fucking long?” My voice is harsher than I want, the growl deeper.

“Two years.”

That rage—it explodes. It consumes me. Drowns me. How the fuck could anyone hurt her? This sweet-as-fuck girl? How could anyone, for a single motherfucking second, think it’s okay to hurt her? To bruise her, to maim her, to put a blemish on her?

How the fuck is that right in any place in this world?

I envelope her body in my arms.
Hold her
—that’s what my body screams. Hold her so tightly she realizes the safety you’re offering her is stronger than the fear that’s threading through her veins.

“How?” I ask, my voice hoarse. “How did you do it?”

“I was afraid,” Ella whispers. Her fingers dig into my back tentatively, moving up and down, as if searching for their perfect landing spot. “I had nowhere to go, and to me, no real reason to go. I always thought he’d change. He promised it. Every time. He’d hurt me, then he’d hold me and promise he wouldn’t do it again. I believed him.”

I slide my hand up her back and into her hair. “What made you go, finally?”

“We were about to get married. My mom sent me a message reminding me that I was getting married in exactly four weeks, and it was scary.” She swallows. “I was getting dressed, and there was this bruise on my stomach from the day before, and I knew . . . I just knew. We’d been together for years, and if he was still hitting me weeks before our wedding, chances were, he’d be hitting me for weeks after, too. And I didn’t want to be that girl. Before him, I never feared more than spiders and rats, things that seem so trivial now. So I knew, no matter what, I was going to run. Anywhere. I applied for jobs everywhere, whenever I could get out of the house. Hell, I did my interview with Sofie over the phone at a nail salon in Brooklyn. Then you gave me this job. I took it and I ran without looking back.” Her fingers dig into my skin almost painfully, her voice a whisper. “I’m not a punching bag, Tate. I won’t be that. I’m more than that.”

Her words, they shake. Her voice, it’s weak. Like she needs to convince herself of it even as she says the words.

“Ella . . . Els . . . Shit.” I fold her into my body entirely, so her cheek is against my chest and her nose is against my shoulder. “You are, darlin’. You’re so much fuckin’ more than that. You’re everythin’ that isn’t that.”

“But I’m scared. I say I’m not, but I am. A little.”

I slide my hands to her face and look at her. Her dark hair sweeping across her forehead. Her dark eyes boring into mine, begging, pleading, sassing, confusing. And I brush my thumbs across her cheeks, right beneath her eyes, my thumbs swallowing up any type of wetness there.

“Don’t be afraid.” I cup Ella’s cheeks and bring her forehead close to mine. “As long as I’m near you, don’t be afraid, darlin’.”

“It’s not your job.” Her voice is so quiet it isn’t even a whisper.

“No. This kinda protection ain’t my job. It’s my will.” I touch my lips to hers. “If he ever gets past our boys, promise me you’ll call me, and you’ll keep trying until I answer and get to you.”

Ella pulls her knees to her chest. “I don’t want to think of that.”

“Neither do I. I don’t want to think about a situation where he can touch you.” I hold her tighter. Her breath against my skin, her fingers trailing my stomach, her eyes set on mine. “If he comes within ten feet of you, darlin’, you tell me. Els, you tell me, because I’ll snap his neck. You understand?”

“I’m scared.”

She’s trembling in my hold. Trembling. Quivering. Shaking. Whatever you call it.

“Of him,” I whisper into her ear. “Don’t fear me, baby. I’ll never be anythin’ but gentle toward you. Fear what I’ll do to him if he tries to come near you.”

She nods, her fingers grasping my shirt.

“I’ll never hurt you.”

Her trembling body is in my arms, pressed against me, held against me. Her hands are on me, her lips quivering, too.

“I know,” she breathes. The words are so fucking quiet I barely hear.

“Ever. Not the way he did. Trust me, darlin’. Believe me.”

“I do.” She takes a deep breath then sits up. Her hands fall away from me and I loosen my grip on her body when she tilts her head back to look at me. “Do you have multiple personalities?”

“What do you mean?” My lips quirk.

“One minute you’re storming in here being all rude, then the next you’re being sexy, then you’re being sweet.”

“Did you just call me sexy?”

“What? No. I said ‘being sexy,’ not ‘you are sexy.’ ”

“You said ‘you’re being sexy.’ ” I grin. “So you think I’m sexy?”

She knocks my arms away from her and pulls her plate from the table and onto her lap. “It doesn’t matter if I think you’re sexy.
You
think you’re sexy.”

“I am sexy. I just want to know if you agree.”

“And we’re on another personality—the stubborn-toddler one.”

I grab one of her nachos. “You’re naming my moods?”

“You don’t have mood swings, Tate. You really do have total personality flips. It makes no sense.”

“You want me to be an asshole all the time?”

“I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable with any version of you.”

“You’re comfortable when I’m kissing you.” I wink and grab another chip.

“Will you stop eating my food?” She pushes my hand away with a sharp slap to my fingers, then freezes.

I stare at her. Her hand is poised in midair, her gaze focused on it like she can’t believe she just did that.

I flick my fingers against hers and grab another chip. “No. They’re good.”

Slowly, she draws her eyes upward. Her dark gaze, full of uncertainty, lingers on mine for a moment. Then—hell—then she drops her hand and smiles. “Then order another plate of them.”

“Pass the phone.”

“I’m not your slave, I’m your assistant.”

“I know.” I grin. “So you should be orderin’ them for me, darlin’.”

She purses her lips and reaches behind her for the phone. Dialing the number, she pulls it to her ear and says, “Can I get another plate of chili nachos to room 218? Extra-large size?” Pause. “That’s great. Thanks.”

“Extra-large size?” I question, grabbing one of hers.

“Yes. All your talking is making me hungry, and since you’ve already eaten half of mine and don’t intend to stop, I thought it was wise.”

“You’re a smart girl, Els.”

“The fact I’m eating dinner with you puts that up for debate,” she mutters, grabbing her wineglass and pushing her plate onto my lap.

“Hey, thanks.” I lean back and coat a chip in salsa.

She shoots her eyes toward me over the rim of her glass, twists her lips to the side, then drinks. “Idiot.”

Ella

I grab five water bottles from the bar, charge them to the Burke account, and hop into the elevator. My arms chill quickly against the ice-cold bottles, and I’m thankful when the doors open and I can run down the hall to the gym.

I bump the door open with my butt. “Water.”

The guys all look up from the floor where they’re completing push-ups. “You’re a doll,” Aidan says, getting up.

Tate, Kye, and Conner each grab a bottle from me and then they all drop to the mats on the floor. Tate holds the cold bottle against his forehead, while Kye rolls it back and forth across his chest, and Conner drinks it quickly.

Aidan stares at them, still standing, and cuts his eyes to me. “Bunch o’ pussies.”

“Fuck off,” Tate replies immediately. “You did half as many push-ups as us. Kept stoppin’ ’cause your lil baby arms couldn’t take the pressure.”

“Shut it or my lil baby fist will meet your face, asshole.”

I cough and smile sweetly when four pairs of eyes snap to me. “Hi, I’m still here.”

“And thank you for giving us somethin’ nice to look at as we take a break,” Kye flirts.

Tate punches his arm. “Stop bein’ a dick.”

“And I am
still
here, when you’re done fighting.” I eye all of them. “Carla’s waiting for you in the Royal Room. She told me to tell you to move your lazy butts up there. Well, she used a lot more expletives.”

“Has she got PMS? Because if she does, I ain’t goin’ anywhere near her,” Conner mutters. “One chick with it is more than enough.”

“I’ll make a note to find Sofie tonight and hand her chocolate cake and wine,” I reassure him with a smile.

“That’s why we pay you.”

“Sure. That’s it.” I roll my eyes.

Carla shoves the door open and puts her hands on her hips. “Are all y’all still messin’ around down here?” Her eyes land on the guys. “Upstairs. Shower. Practice. Now.”

I blink harshly. Damn. Now I get why they mumble about her when she isn’t around—she doesn’t mince her words. She doesn’t sugarcoat them either.

“Keep your panties on, Carla.” Tate screws the cap back on his bottle. “We just finished.”

“Yeah, no shit. Now are y’all gonna do what you’re supposed to be doing or stand around here chatting?” She looks at me. “And aren’t you supposed to be making them do it?”

“I’m sorry?” My eyes widen. “I just got down here like two minutes ago myself. I literally just told them they need to get ready to practice.”

“Mhmm.” She smacks her bright pink lips together. “So why are they still here? Don’t you know their schedule yet?”

“Carla,” Tate growls.

“I know their schedule.” I turn to face her. “It says they don’t have to be in the Royal Room to practice for another fifteen minutes. Then they’ll practice for two hours, break for lunch for one, then they’ll practice for three with a fifteen-minute break when they want it. And since there’s a table booked for dinner at a restaurant down the road at six p.m. that’s nonnegotiable, they can’t be late for anything. I
write
their darn schedule, so instead of coming down here and chewing their behinds out, let them do their thing.” I unscrew the top of my water bottle but pause before I take it fully off. “And making sure they’re where they need to be is my job. You’re only here to make sure Tate behaves himself and make sure everything is okay with the venue. They’ll meet you in the Royal Room in fifteen minutes, showered and ready to practice.”

Carla stares at me harshly, and I get the feeling she’s used to running the show around here. Well, she can—when she’s running her job. Not when she’s running mine.

I’m not a pushover anymore.

Carla turns without a word and slams the door shut behind her. I stare at it for a second, then remove the cap from my water bottle.

“Holy shit,” Tate says, making me turn to look at him. “I think I just came in my pants.”

I lick my lips and fight my smile. “What?”

“There’s nothing sexier than a woman who takes no shit,” he replies.

“And when you take no shit from Carla, you’re automatically up there with Scarlett Johansson,” Aidan adds.

“Awesome,” I reply. “Now get your butts upstairs and into the shower so I don’t have to cover your asses yet again. You were supposed to be practicing fifteen minutes ago.”

They all laugh, which makes my smile-fight futile. I eye them all as they walk out of the gym, except Tate, who pauses in front of me. When the door shuts behind Conner, Tate sweeps an arm around my waist and pulls me into him, squashing my water bottle between us. I squeak as the cold liquid bursts up and covers my front, but he ignores me and plants a huge, hard kiss on my slightly parted lips.

“Hella sexy,” he mutters, stepping back when I push at his chest.

“Speak for yourself.” I look down at my shirt.

“I didn’t realize there was a wet T-shirt competition today.”

“There isn’t.”

“Shame. You’d have won it.” He trails a fingertip down my front to the swell of my breasts, and I step back, away from his reach.

“You need to get ready to practice,” I say quietly, capping my water. “Like, now.”

“Els . . .”

“You want Carla to chew your ass out, then hang around, but I have stuff to do.” I dart past him and through the doors.

I’m still trying to reconcile soft Tate and asshole Tate. I’m still trying to make sense of the soft guy beneath the hardened exterior—why he’s so gentle with me but so harsh to everyone else.

And that soft act, I don’t want to get pulled in by it. The random kiss just then? It’s enough to make anyone believe that something tangible could be forming. Something real and longer-lasting than his usual thing.

Thankfully I’m not anyone. Thankfully, I’m so wound up in their lives that I know the frequency of Tate’s sex life is about to decrease quite drastically, and I’m probably nothing more than a time-filler for him. Something for him to distract himself with while he cleans up his appearance.

And . . . that isn’t okay. I won’t go from being used by one man to being used by another. I won’t fall for his gentle-protector act.

Because that’s all it is . . . An act. And I know an awful lot about acts.

“O
h my God,” Sofie mumbles so quickly the words all mesh together. “Chocolate cake!” This, she shrieks, and it bounces off the walls of the hotel restaurant. She falls into the seat next to me and dives the fork into the hot, gooey mess quicker than I can respond. She shoves a forkful of the cake into her mouth, moans, and leans back. “Chocolate
fudge
cake. Oh, Ella. I’m going to marry you one day.”

I laugh. “Don’t marry me—marry your boyfriend. He called me after practice and told me you needed to have chocolate fudge cake, not just any old cake, because he was pretty afraid of you.”

Sofie winces. “Yeah, I kinda flipped on Carla. She was bein’ a total bitch to the guys, and, well, hormones and all that jazz.”

“Yeah . . . I might have put her in a bad mood.” I chew the inside of my cheek and stab my fork into my cheesecake. I explain the events in the gym and how I covered for the guys, and Carla’s non-reaction to me calling her out. “So now, I think she hates me.”

Sofie giggles and sips her glass of wine. “Okay, she doesn’t hate you. She likes Tate.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“She likes Tate. Like . . . likes him, likes him. But he refuses to have anythin’ to do with her ’cause she’s Marc’s assistant, and it would be real awkward after.”

“Is that why she’s a raging pain in the ass? Really?”

“I love your passive-aggressiveness,” Sofie laughs. “Yeah, pretty much. I think she’s kind of the same as Tate in that she’s used to getting the attention she wants.”

“But why does she like him?”

“Why do you?”

“I don’t, I mean, wait. What was the question?” I fill my mouth full of cheesecake and chew slowly.

“Why do you like Tate?” she repeats. “Don’t think I don’t see how y’all look at each other. Is he as good a kisser as the rumors say?”

“Isn’t he practically your brother?”

“Yes. But I’ve heard enough rumors to want them cleared up, and you didn’t deny it.”

Ah, crap. That’s what I should have said. “I haven’t kissed him.”

“Nice cover up.”

“I haven’t. He’s kissed me.”

“Semantics.” Sofie squeals, setting her fork down. Apparently the cure for her PMS isn’t chocolate fudge cake, it’s girl talk. “Tell me.”

I stare at my plate. Before I can think it over, the words tumble from my mouth like they’re falling over a cliff edge. I can’t stop them, I can’t slow them down. From our fight in the parking lot in Charleston and him having me cornered against the bus and my breakdown to me talking to him after the sex tape thing to dinner last night, I tell her everything.

How he changes from rough to gentle, and how he talks softly when I clam up. How he promises me I’m safe now, and how he holds me when I’m afraid. Mostly how he holds me when I’m afraid.

How he’s nothing like everyone thinks he is. How the person he is behind closed doors isn’t the guy the media and the girls in his past portray him.

And how I’m confused, because not ten days ago I was running away from my abusive fiancé, and now I’m here, having kissed the worst kind of guy possible, wondering how my life has changed so much.

Sofie reaches over the table and swaps our plates. “I think you need the chocolate cake more than me.” Then she refills our glasses.

I stab my fork into the hot mess and scoop a big piece into my mouth. I nod. I do need it.
God I love cake.

“So . . . what are you going to do?”

“What am I going to do? I was kind of hoping you’d have the answer,” I grumble. “I don’t get this . . . confused stuff. And I certainly don’t get kissing without being in a relationship at all.”

“Ella,” she says softly. “Do you know a real relationship at all?”

I pause, looking down, and swallow.
No. I have no idea what one entails.
My head jerks side to side roughly, and I sit back.

“Real relationships aren’t cut and dry, and most of the time the people involved have no idea what’s happening. Me and Conner spent three weeks in limbo after I returned to Shelton Bay, and it wasn’t until I agreed to do the damn tour with them that we defined ourselves as back together. Now I’m not sayin’ you and Tate have any kinda relationship. I’m just sayin’ that you’re kind of alike. You have a past you’re ashamed of, and so does he. Both of you are forcin’ yourselves to move past the bullshit and onto somethin’ better.” She licks her fork clean and points it at me. “But if I see you fallin’ at his stinky feet I’ma drag you back up.”

I laugh. Hell no. “No falling,” I assure her. “No falling, no tripping, no slipping. Besides, I’m afraid of what he might think I’m planning if I do that.”

Sofie grins and sips her wine. “He’s not a bad guy. Not really. He just went too far at the start of the Dirty B. boom, and now he’s stuck with a stereotype I don’t think he knows how to shift.”

“So you’re saying I should just let him keep kissing me whenever he wants.”

“Well, I’m not saying let him, but if you like it, then you don’t have to stop it.”

I open my mouth, but close it again seconds later. Purse my lips. Lick my lips. “Well, I don’t
not
like it.”

Sofie’s eyes flick from the cheesecake to me several times, her lips twitching. “So like it some more. And, Ella? You’ve been a lot happier the last few days. Like . . . you’ve come out of that tight little shell you had yourself wrapped in. You’re givin’ the guys as good as you get, and from what Conner said, you gave Carla a real ass-kickin’ earlier. You wouldna done that when you got here. Just . . . I dunno, doll. Let whatever happen. It won’t kill either of you, and you sure as hell deserve some fun.”

I guess she’s right. I’m just not sure Tate Burke is the right kind of fun. In fact, I’m positively sure he’s the worst kind of fun. Not least because we essentially live together for the next few weeks. What if . . . what if I like the man behind the mask and, as soon as his bad behavior quarantine is over, he grabs some random chick?

“Fucking shit.” Tate sits opposite me at the table. “That chick . . .”

“What chick? The receptionist?”

He looks at me, exhausted. “I’m so glad y’all don’t talk that much. It was like being around ten Milas, all chattin’
Frozen
shit at the same time, only there was another fuckin’ fifty in the background yellin’ about Elmo and Peppa Pig.”

“Ouch.” Sofie winces. “How’d you get away?”

“Told her my PA needed me.” His eyes still on me, he smirks. “So need me real quick, darlin’, before she walks through here and sees I’m just chattin’. Wait . . . fuck! She’s comin’! Do somethin’!”

“Never thought I’d see the day Tate Burke would run from a girl,” Sofie giggles, finishing her second glass of wine.

I agree, nodding, and finish mine, too. “Come on.” I get up and grab Tate’s hand. “Let’s keep with the toddler analogy and play pretend. Sof, Marc called and Tate said bye.” I wink conspiratorially, and she grins.

I pull Tate out of his seat and tug him behind me.

“Els . . .” His fingers tighten around mine. “What are you doin’?”