Everything for Us (A Bad Boys Novel) (11 page)

SEVENTEEN

Nash

I knew sex with this woman would be satisfying. The depth of satisfaction I feel right now—lying on top of her, still inside her, our damp chests clinging together—is just a testament to how much I needed this.

Badly.

Very badly.

I fully expect my desire for her to start tailing off. It always does. No woman holds my attention for very long, and it’s always strictly sexual while it lasts. Besides, I still have a feeling Marissa will remember one of these days. And when she does, when she realizes what happened, she’ll hate me. As well she should. It was a pretty shitty thing to do.

I guess it’s a good sign that I’m starting to feel bad about it. Guilt is a nuisance, but maybe the presence of it means I’m starting to remember what humanity feels like. It’s been lost to me for a long time, living among the animals. The criminals. The lowest of the low.

But I could do without the return of guilt. It figures that it would be the first sentiment to pierce my thick scar tissue, the only one sharp enough to penetrate my years of emotional exile.

Marissa wiggles beneath me, situating, settling in for a long snuggle. My immediate inclination happens inside her. Blood rushes to my soft head, turning it semihard. I’m ready to go again, which is not unusual for me at all. I have a very healthy sexual appetite and short recovery time.

No, it’s my second reaction that I find strange and bothersome. The muscles in my arms actually twitch and I nearly pull her in closer to me.
That
is very unusual.

Maybe it’s just the fact that I haven’t had any in a few weeks. Yeah, that’s gotta be it. I’ve just missed women close. Any woman.

That rationale doesn’t make me feel any better. It doesn’t make me any more comfortable with it. And still, I don’t like it.

Extricating myself from the tangle of our arms and legs, I roll to the end of the bed and get to my feet, zipping my pants. “I’m thirsty,” I say casually. “You want something?”

Marissa is sitting up in bed now, her arms curled around her torso, covering herself. Her expression isn’t as much wounded as it seems to be puzzled. I’m okay with puzzled. It’s the wounded part that bugs the shit out of me. I hate it when women get all pissy and hurt because I’m not the warm and fuzzy type. You’d think they’d figure that out within ten minutes of talking to me, but they don’t. That or they all think they can be the one to change me. But that’s just not gonna happen.

“Um, no. I’ll, uh, I’ll use the bathroom and get ready for bed, I think.”

I nod and make my way to the kitchen, leaving her to all her girly rituals.

I grab a beer from the fridge and take it to the sofa, intent on doing some brainstorming, going over my plans in case the Dmitry situation doesn’t work like I hope. Of course, even if it does, all the other pieces would have to fall together perfectly, too. And that doesn’t happen very often. So it behooves me to have as many other options as I can think of.

My mind is whirling away on the different pieces and players in the grand scheme of this tangle when an image of Marissa moaning beneath me rises up to distract me. I push the thought aside in favor of the faces of the Russian mafia members that I’ve seen. Within two minutes, I’m thinking of her again, of how soft her skin is and what her neck smells like.

I take another long pull from my beer bottle, examining it closely and feeling guilty all over again. Over what I did so long ago.

Damn, she’s gonna be pissed.

Maybe she won’t ever remember. Maybe she’ll never find out. I don’t know why I even care, but I kinda hope she doesn’t. It’s not like I set out to make her hate me, like I
want
for that to happen.

The swelling of my dick behind my zipper is making it impossible for me to think, so I drain my beer, put the bottle in the trash, and head back toward the bedroom.

Let’s see how willing she is to play along now.

When I get to the door, she’s just pulling back the covers to get into bed. She stops and looks at me. We stare at each other for at least two full minutes before she drops the covers and turns to fully face me.

I cross the room slowly and stop in front of her, giving her one last opportunity to change her mind. I thread my fingers into the hair at her temples, gazing into her beautiful blue eyes. When she shows no hesitation, no sign of resistance, I take her lips in a kiss that’s meant to consume. The problem is, within seconds, I’m not sure who is consuming whom.

* * *

I rub the thick, soft towel across my chest and down my arms, drying water droplets and thinking about how rested I feel. I don’t think I’ve slept that good in months. Maybe years.

Good sex’ll do that to a man.

I dry my abdomen, making note of the red line where I was stabbed. It doesn’t bother me at all this morning and looks to be healing perfectly. I continue drying.

The muscles in my arm flex, drawing my attention to the winding, scroll-like tattooing that covers my right arm from elbow to deltoid. I think of the significance of each band of swirling art and I hope that maybe, just maybe the days of not knowing if I’ll live to see my next sunrise are over. Maybe I’ll never add another layer of tats to my arm.

For some reason Marissa pops into my head. She’s so different from anyone I’ve had in my life for the last seven years. She’s like a reminder of what life could’ve been, what it should’ve been for me. And it’s nice to experience a little bit of that, even if it is too late and only an illusion. My life can never be what it was meant to be. My future is set to some extent. Inevitable. Unavoidable. Unchangeable.

I growl at my thoughts, at the trapped feeling I’m getting. I don’t like inevitable. I don’t like anything I can’t control.

I’m partly relieved when I hear voices. On the one hand, they’re a welcome distraction. But on the other hand, I feel uneasy when I hear a man’s voice, one I don’t readily recognize.

I dress quickly and make my way out to the living room. I’m not at all pleased to see Cash’s friend Gavin sitting on the couch across from Marissa, relaxed and chatting away like he belongs there.

When I stop at the coffee table, arms crossed over my chest, Marissa glances up at me, causing Gavin to look up, too.

“Good morning, mate. Looks like Doc got you all squared away,” Gavin says. I couldn’t hear the hint of his accent from the bathroom, but now I can. It’s not thick, but it’s there.

His demeanor is friendly. But I still don’t like him.

I grunt in response. “What the hell are you doing here so early?”

“I was on my way to the club. Thought I’d stop by and check on Marissa.”

It aggravates the hell out of me that he’s not intimidated by me. He’s nearly as big as I am, so I wouldn’t expect my size to make an impression, but I’m a lot rougher than Cash, and I would think a guy like this might sense danger. And steer clear of it. He’s treading on thin ice right now. I’m not sure why his presence here irritates me, but it does and he ought to be smart enough to sense it and get his ass out of here.

“Well, you have. And as you can see, she’s fine. I’ve been with her. I’ll keep her safe. No reason for you to be concerned about her anymore.”

Gavin’s sharp blue eyes narrow on me. He makes no response, nor does he make any move to leave, which only further aggravates me.

Marissa clears her throat, drawing our attention to her. She smiles brightly. “Who wants breakfast?” she asks as she rises.

“We don’t want you to go to any trouble. I think I’ll just grab something later. I’ll follow Gavin over to the club. I need to talk to Cash, anyway.”

Gavin’s grin is playful, like he finds it amusing that I just cockblocked him. I don’t find it amusing at all.

Asshole.

Marissa just looks from me to Gavin and back again. No one says anything until Gavin gets up.

“You don’t have to leave, Gavin. And it’s no trouble to fix something, Nash,” Marissa says pleasantly.

“You don’t need any more trouble, Marissa. And I can tell you that this guy’s trouble. If he gives a damn about you, he’ll keep his distance.” I turn to Gavin, daring him to argue. “Right, Gavin?”

I’ve never been one to beat around the bush.

Gavin smiles again. “It’s funny, I was thinking the same thing about you.”

“I’m here to keep her safe, not to bring more shit into her life.”

“You’re saying that your mere presence doesn’t put her in more danger?”

“I’m saying I can keep her safe.”

If I’m being honest, I can’t say that I don’t bring danger to her door, because I probably do. But that’s different.

“I can, too. Probably even better than you can. Maybe we should just leave it up to Marissa.”

I grit my teeth. This guy needs his ass kicked. “That’s a good idea, especially for me. She’s already said she wants me to stay with her.”

Even though that’s not exactly what happened, I doubt Marissa will refute it.

Gavin looks to Marissa. “Is that true?”

“Yes, I told him he could stay here.”

Gavin laughs and nods in my direction. “Not quite how he made it sound, but I understand your predicament. A nice sheila like you will always do the polite thing. Just know that if you need anything at all, you’ve got my number. I’m only a phone call away.”

He already gave her his number? What the f—

He turns to me, all smug and arrogant. “I guess we’d better be on our way then, right, mate?”

He gives my shoulder a friendly slap as he passes. The thing is, it’s a little on the firm side. Makes me want to rip his arm off and beat the shit out of him with it.

I clench my jaw against the urge. Instead of acknowledging Gavin, however, I walk to Marissa. Looking down into her face, I raise my hands to cup her cheeks and bend toward her.

I didn’t intend for the kiss to be a chaste, standard good-bye kiss, but I didn’t intend for it to be so . . . stimulating, either. It’s like we’re combustible, like we have one default setting between us—fire.

Her lips are enough to make me ache in all the right places. The pain in the ass, however, is that I can’t do anything about it. Instead of carrying Marissa back to her bedroom and doing depraved things to her, I’ve gotta escort this ballsy bastard back to Dual.

When I lift my head, I’m surprised to see that Marissa looks angry rather than turned on like I am. Her eyes fume for a few seconds before she puts her hands on my shoulders and rises to her tiptoes to whisper in my ear. Her words leave me in no doubt as to why she’s mad.

“If you ever kiss me like that again just to make a point, I’ll slap the taste right out of your mouth. I don’t care who’s watching.”

When she leans away, she’s smiling politely, but her eyes are like sparkling firecrackers. If anything, I’m even more turned on.

I can’t help but grin.

I’ll be damned. She can be feisty.

“Fair enough,” I say before turning back to Gavin. I give him a broad, cold smile.

I hope that smug prick is squirming on the inside.

EIGHTEEN

Marissa

I’ve cleaned the kitchen, polished the floors, scrubbed my bathroom, had a shower, and given myself a pedicure. As I sit on the edge of my bed, surveying my bedroom, I realize there’s absolutely nothing I can do to keep my mind off Nash. I knew he would get under my skin; it happened almost immediately. There’s something about him that’s so familiar, beyond his being the twin of a guy I used to date. It pulls me in like a physical tie.

It helps that I was primed to latch onto someone like him. I wanted to get lost in something far from the normal, far from what’s expected in my life. I needed it, needed
him
. Still do. But I didn’t expect it to be this . . . intense.

Every few minutes, my mind will stray back to last night, to his hands and his lips, to his body and his words. I get all hot and bothered within seconds. And that’s aside from the sweat I broke while cleaning.

It’s not such a bad thing, my attraction to him. It’s the emotional distance I feel from him that’s bugging me. I suspected he’d be in and out of my life like a flash of lightning—bright and electric and then gone without a trace—but on some level I must’ve expected him to be a little more open with me, a little more . . . feeling. But it’s like the only thing he feels is my physical presence, my
body
. And, of course, anger. Lots and lots of anger. It’s always there, hovering just beneath the surface. It’s like nothing is stronger than that, no feeling or person or emotion.

I think he loses himself in me much the same way I lose myself in him, only his is much more temporary and transient. As soon as his mind strays from our physical connection, from desire, he’s right back in his miserable past and his equally miserable present.

What bothers me most is that I’m starting to suspect there’s nothing I can do about it. No way I can change it, no way to make a dent in his life and his heart the way I think he’ll be making one in mine.

Hearts don’t often break even. One person is usually more hurt while the other is more relieved. But in this instance, there is likely to be devastation on one side. And it’s likely to be me. Yet here I am, thinking about him, anxiously anticipating the next time I’ll see him or hear from him.

You’re like a schoolgirl with one horrific crush.

Or maybe a glutton for punishment.

There are a thousand reasons I should stay away from him and only one that I shouldn’t. But that one reason is powerful enough to keep me right here, in the thick of things.

He’s the forbidden fruit. And I’m tempted beyond what I can resist.

With a growl of frustration, I walk to my closet to put on some presentable work clothes. I’ve got to get out of the house. But I don’t want to go to work. I figure a trip to the library will be both distracting
and
productive. At least I can continue trying to build a case, a case I know little about against people I know nearly nothing about.

* * *

Three and a half frustrating hours later, I’m driving home, considering calling one of my law professors for some guidance. What gives me pause is that it would be utterly humiliating to admit that I knew where my career was going because I was a spoiled little rich girl with a future set in stone, one that had nothing to do with criminal law. I felt zero need to retain what I’d learned in several of my classes.

Only now I need it. And so do the people I care about. I want justice not only for myself, but for Nash and Olivia. And a tiny bit for Cash, I guess. He
did
play a big part in rescuing me.

I still have mixed feelings about him for the most part. What I like least about him is that he reminds me of someone I no longer want to be, of someone I’d rather not ever think about again. But when I see him, that’s what I’m reminded of—the old me. And I don’t like it.

Every thought in my head is banished to a back corner as I approach the condo door. I haven’t walked through the front door by myself since the night someone was waiting on the other side of it. And even though my brain tells me I’m being ridiculous, that I wasn’t even the one they wanted that time and that there’s no reason for them to grab me again after they let me go, my muscles freeze. I’m stuck in a terrified stare, on the sidewalk, facing my front door, with no one around to help me.

The muted
bleep
from my phone sounds from deep inside my purse. I force my muscles into action, reaching with one shaking hand into my bag to retrieve my phone. I slide a trembling finger over the button at the bottom of the rectangle to light up the screen.

It’s a text. Three letters. Two words. One sentiment. Something so simple. Yet it changes everything.

U ok?

It’s Nash.

There’s nothing in the message to identify who it is. But I know. Deep down in my soul, I know who it is. And he might as well be behind me, standing with me, an ever-protective shadow. The effect is that profound.

Maybe it’s knowing that I’m not really alone, no matter how often I feel that way. Maybe it’s knowing that there’s someone out there who cares about what happens to me. Maybe it’s just the fact that it’s from Nash. Maybe it’s that he was thinking of me, that he took the time to text me. Maybe it’s that he wanted to check on me, that he even
thought
to check on me. Maybe it’s that he seems always to be there for me when I need him, even though he doesn’t necessarily set out to be.

Whatever the real reason, whether one of those, none of those or a combination of them all, it breaks the firm grip of fear, not completely but enough to let rational thought in.

I type out my short reply.

Yes.

I slide my phone back into my purse. I know I won’t get a response from him, but that doesn’t matter. Even though I know it’s a mistake, that it’s probably leading me nowhere good, I walk toward the door with a smile on my face and hope in my heart.

* * *

I feel much more at ease once I’m safely inside with the door locked behind me. I won’t lie. I checked every closet and under both beds, but that’s just being responsible. Right? Right.

I peel off my suit jacket and hang it in the closet. I grab a hair band as I pass through the bathroom, pulling my hair into a messy bun as I set about changing the rest of my clothes.

I’m attempting to stuff wayward strands of blond hair into a fairly neat pile atop my head when the doorbell rings. My hands pause in midair. Reflexively, my pulse speeds up. My mind rushes through names and faces of people who might be visiting me at such an odd time.

I know it can’t be Nash; he’s not that polite. He’d try the doorknob first, and then when he figured out it was locked, he’d knock. Loudly, I’m sure. Unless he knows which key on Cash’s BMW key ring belongs to my door. I didn’t tell him. I mean, he’s staying with me, but I didn’t give him
that much
freedom. That would’ve required too much trust.

I make a mental note to get that key back from Cash.

I return to puzzling over my visitor. It shouldn’t be my father. Or anyone else from the office. Daddy’s working and anyone else would call first.

Who else could it be?

I reason with myself that it’s broad daylight, and that the likelihood that it’s someone with nefarious plans is slim to none. Still, I look out the peephole before I slide the deadbolt open.

I’m puzzled by what I see. Shoulder-length blond hair, pretty face, skintight miniskirt and snug T-shirt, all on a Christina Applegate look-alike. It’s Olivia’s friend, Ginger. And she looks irritated. The question is: Why is she
here
?

Probably looking for Olivia.

I flip the lock and twist the knob, opening the door.

“Hi,” I say stiltedly. I’m uneasy. I realize my instincts are spot on once Ginger speaks. The conversation does
not
start off well.

“I think we can both agree that you’ve treated Olivia like shit most of her life, but,” she says emphatically, “I’ll give you one last chance to make it up to her before I’m forced to kick your ass and steal your man.”

I’m essentially dumbstruck by her speech, so it’s no surprise that I find a response to only one small portion of it. “I don’t have a man.”

“Sure you do,” she says with a grin. “I’ve seen you watching that other brother. I don’t know how in the
hell
one uterus can spit out three boys that look like that, but I thank God every day for just such a phenomenon.”

I learn a couple of things during this very short introduction to Ginger. Number one, she has no idea about what’s going on with Cash and Nash. Obviously, she assumes Nash is actually a third brother.

The second thing I learn is that I like Ginger. I can totally see why Olivia enjoys her company so much.

“Well, you can’t very well steal what I don’t have.”

“Please,” she says with a roll of her eyes and a dismissive swipe of her hand. “Even if he
was
yours, if I wanted some o’ that, I could get it. Men are helpless to resist me when I turn on the charm.” The grin she gives me is devilish and teasing. Evidently she’s joking.

I think.

“The point is, you’re a beautiful girl and you can have him if you set your mind to it. But”—her look turns warning—“if you hurt Olivia, I’ll destroy you. Plain and simple. Fair enough?”

I feel the urge to laugh, but I don’t. I have a feeling Ginger could be quite feisty if she thought I wasn’t taking her seriously. “Fair enough,” I agree mildly. “So, what brings you here? Other than threats of bodily harm.”

Her eyes light up. “A surprise party. You interested?”

Despite the life of privilege I’ve enjoyed, I’ve never participated in a surprise party. I’ve never really wanted to. Until now. It sounds like lighthearted fun. And I need some lighthearted fun. Heck, I just need some lighthearted
anything
. Although I’m making some major changes that should have the opposite effect, it seems my life has gotten
even more
intense and complicated than it was before. Still yet, I’d take it over the blind, thinly disguised misery I was previously trapped within. Any day of the week.

Any.

Day.

“I’m sure I should ask more questions before I agree to anything, but I’m gonna throw caution to the wind and say yes right away. What did you have in mind?”

“Can I come in? Or are you gonna make me stand outside all day?”

“Oh. Sorry,” I say, stepping aside so she can come inside. Ginger walks into the living room as I shut the door. She stops right in front of the coffee table and turns toward me. Her eyes are narrowed like she’s assessing me. I stop and look left and right. “What?”

“You know, I think you really have changed. You don’t strike me as a wicked bitch-on-two-sticks at all.”

I grin, not sure how to take that. “Um, thank you?”

Ginger smiles and drops down onto one end of the sofa. “You’re welcome. But your legs are pretty skinny.”

Ahhh, so that’s what the “two sticks” meant.

I look down at my legs, poking out from beneath my skirt, and then I look at Ginger’s as she crosses them toward me. “They’re not much thinner than yours.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing. They’re better to wrap around prey, don’t you think?”

I grin again. Yes, this woman is a character. “I’ve never really thought about it like that, but I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. That’s something you should get used to. There’s no sense in arguing. Just ask Olivia. She’ll tell you. I’m full of raging hormones and wisdom. And, on the weekends, vodka,” she adds with a wink.

“Don’t you work on the weekends?”

I thought Olivia had told me she was a bartender where she used to work.

Ginger looks at me with a blank expression. “What’s your point?” As I stammer for something to say, she starts laughing. “I’m kidding. What kind of an employee would I be if I turned up pickled every weekend?”

“A bad one?”

“Damn straight. And I’m a great employee. And you can pass that along to Cash, since I’m seriously thinking about moving to the city and I’ll be needing a job. And, you know, any job where there’s a chance I’ll run into one or a dozen hot young men is the job for me.”

“I’ll be sure to mention it.”

“Great. Now, down to business. Olivia’s birthday is tomorrow and I’d like to throw her a little surprise party.”

“Olivia’s birthday is tomorrow?” I think to myself that I really am a terrible person. Not only is she related to me, but we live together and I had no idea. And of course she’d never mention it. Because she’s decent. And that’s what decent people do. “Ohmigod, I really am a wicked bitch-on-two-sticks, aren’t I?”

“Let’s call you an
ex
wicked bitch-on-two-sticks. And ‘ex’ doesn’t mean shit, right? Like ex-boyfriends. Who gives a damn about them? The past is the past. Let it go and move on. The point is to learn from our mistakes and do better the next go-round. And now’s your chance. You in?”

I feel Ginger rubbing off on me already. “Hell yeah, I’m in!” I agree enthusiastically, laughing as I say words that sound so out of character for me.

“That’s more like it,” she says excitedly, leaning in toward me conspiratorially. “Okay, so I got Tad to agree to it, so we can have the party there. Olivia’s dad’s in and I’ve already told all of her old friends, so that takes care of my end. The problem is, I didn’t have any of you Atlanta people’s phone numbers, which is why I had to drive my ass all the way up here to get in touch with you.” Ginger reaches into her bright red purse and pulls out her cell phone. “I’m taking care of that right now, though. Here,” she says handing me her iPhone. “Put your number in there. And Cash’s, if you know it. We’re all one big, happy family,” she says with a smile. Her expression sobers a bit. “I just wish we shared everything. Damn, those twins are hot! And that third brother, too. And even the foreigner. Good gawd!” She fans her face and crosses her legs in the other direction. “I love a man with an accent.”

“You must mean Gavin. I don’t think he’s seeing anyone. At least not that I know of.”

“Realllly,” she says, arching a brow with increased interest. “I’ve always thought it’s only polite to make sure your best friends get laid on your birthday, too. Maybe it’s a Southern thang and Olivia was raised the same way.”