“I want a kiss tonight,” she says emphatically as the sky explodes in pinks and purples behind her. The sun sits just over the water, staining it with its cantaloupe reflection, and Macy morphs into a burned-out silhouette, shapely and beautiful with her wild flowing hair touching the sky like tongues of fire.
“Demanding, aren’t you? Kiss me. Sleep with me.” I’m only half-teasing. I’ve never met anyone like Macy.
“Teach me.” Her eyes glint as she bites back a smile. “Everything you know.” Her hand touches over my cheek, grazing over my stubble as if she were petting a cat. “Stop trying to be a prude on my account. Technically, we had dinner, and this beachfront setting can’t get any more romantic in nature. Let me feed you my tongue, and we’ll call it dessert.”
A laugh begs to belt from me, but I refuse to give it. “All right, you had me at ‘teach me.’ We’ll speed up the countdown. But don’t go waxing your bikini line just yet, darling. Next Thursday sounds good to me.”
“My bikini line?” She tosses her neck back and howls out a laugh. “You wish I would tame my wooly mane. I’m not turning back the clock to my thirteenth birthday for you, darling. I’m going to give you a little education, too. A woman was meant to have hair, everywhere. Think Playboy circa 1970.”
“Groovy.”
“So, next Thursday, huh?” she says it slow, apprehensive. “Okay, what’s the deal with next Thursday? Is that when you finish your period?”
“You never stop, do you? Are you into kink? Because I can bring a muzzle.”
She averts her eyes, looking every bit the Irish vixen her genes have sculpted her to be, and my body stirs, begging to break these damn self-imposed rules and get inside her.
“It’s the date my father is giving me a bit of news.” I continue, “My sisters as well. You might want to come. It involves your good buddy, Luke.”
“Luke?” She ticks back in surprise. “Is he delivering the news?” Her expression brightens at the mention of his name, and it makes me want to plunge a knife deep into his belly while looking him in the eyes.
“Something tells me, he is the news. He’s up to something, working with my father. I don’t know what the hell is going on. I do know that my father asked that Stevie and Aspen come alone. That’s my father’s version of a Cannon lockout. This is Lionheart business, and it makes me wonder why this stranger, Luke, is at the center of attention.”
“Sounds mysterious.” Her affect flattens. Gone is the bubbly schoolgirl.
“What is it?”
“Nothing really. It’s just—” She tries to shake it off.
“You know something.”
“I know nothing.” Her face heats with color. “Okay, I may know something.” Macy leans in with those determined emerald eyes. “But it will cost you a kiss.”
“Macy.” I run my fingers through her hair, pulling her head a little closer to mine. “I’m not going to kiss you,” I breathe the words right over her lips. “Once you get me going, there will be no stopping me. You’re too beautiful, too sweet, too damn sinfully tempting to ever get me to stop. You’re dangerous in every way.” Macy O’Conner is a Cannon weapon of the highest caliber. She’s charming, disarming, perfectly tailored for me in every way, and I can’t have her. Only the Cannons can manufacture something so cruel.
“Then I won’t tell you.” She swallows the information, final as throwing a stone into the sea. “Unless, of course, you want to tell me about something. Jackie, maybe?”
“Let her go. I did.” Do not show any emotion. Do not fucking flinch. For so many years when I heard her name, I’d bolt, hide in my room, and bury my head under a pillow. It’s amazing how after all these years the wounds still lie open and weeping—no healing, just the raw sting of pain, ready and willing to take me down in the cruelest way with the slightest thought in her direction.
“I don’t think you let her go.” Macy’s voice carries with the wind, and I pretend not to hear it.
“Let’s get out of here.” I help her up and walk her to the car. Her fingers graze over mine, begging for me to take them, but she threw Jackie between us, and now I can’t catch my breath.
We don’t say a word on the way home. Eight days from now I’ll make good on my word, then move the hell out of Kinsley’s house and leave both Macy and the memory of Jackie behind once and for all.
We get home, and the lights are all on downstairs. Aspen’s car is sitting in front of the driveway. I’m glad about it. That leaves two people to dote over Macy while I crawl into bed and get some shut-eye—right after I bolt the door, that is. I haven’t gone this long without getting laid. And my hand, I glance down at my limb—no offense—is boring me to tears. I need to fuck. I need to get my brain so wrapped around the act of sinking my body into someone else’s that I don’t have room to hold any other thoughts.
We head inside, and, as I suspected, both Kins and Aspen bombard Macy as if she were their favorite little pet. Aspen’s belly is rounding out, protruding in front of her like a shelf. She’s happy, and that’s all that matters. Soon, I’ll have a new niece or nephew to watch over. I’ve already taken to her stepdaughter, Abby. She’s as special as Maddie to me. My heart sinks at the thought of never having children of my own. Once it could have been, but life enjoys its cruelties, and that isn’t happening for me.
I grab a soda from the fridge and listen as the three of them cackle up a storm before deciding to head out again. Maybe I should get laid, just something quick and dirty. Macy isn’t my girlfriend. There isn’t a reason I should feel an ounce of guilt in me.
But I do. I feel it all the way on the long drive to Gravity.
Hell, if that little girl didn’t sink into my marrow without me noticing.
I kill the engine and stare at the nightclub a good long while before heading inside.
I can’t let her win. Jackie, along with all the fresh pain she brings with her, sears through me like a nuclear blast.
Nope. Macy can’t have my heart. It’s far too damaged to give away.
* * *
Gravity is a cousin to Kinx, the club-slash-coffee house down the street. I would like to say that Gravity is the better of the two, but the Cannons reconfigured, redesigned, and thanks to Stevie, renamed their club, making sure it was damn better than the one we swiped in the first place. But tonight, my dick’s venue of choice is Gravity. In a fit of nepotism, my father gifted it to me through my trust. These are my walls, my music, and my gyrating light show that pulsate along with the beat of the furious music.
A dark-haired girl with olive skin watches me from the bar. Her eyes track me across the room, to the dance floor. She watches as I move my hips against a beautiful blonde, her laughter evoking a slight hint of nausea in me. What would Macy think is the only phrase running through my mind. She’s my favorite sin—that hair, those eyes, that fuckable body I’m about to make mine if only for one night. This doesn’t feel right, and despite the fact I have no plans of fostering a relationship with her, she still has managed to dictate how this night is going to end—alone. The only one wrapping a hand around my hard-on will be me.
The brunette cuts in, and the blonde staggers off, pissed, yet too drunk to care. The brunette’s eyes glow with lust as she glides her body up over mine, dry fucking me for all to see. It feels wrong, dirty, and, in retrospect, my hand doesn’t seem like such a bad plan B. The song comes to a close, and I simply walk away.
“Hey, handsome, where you going?” She follows me to the street in an effort to try and coax me back. “I know who you are. You work for Merlin. You stole Jinx! You’re the infamous Lionheart.” She pants, and I’d like to think it’s her need to get laid making her do so, but most likely it’s the energy she exerted bucking over my leg.
“That’s me. Look, I’m not in this for anything else. Sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.” I take off and don’t look back.
“I’ll catch you next time!” she shouts, her voice echoing down the alleyway, snaking i
ts way into my car.
There won’t be a next time. I already know this.
My worst fear is coming true. I’ve been captivated by Sin, and now I wonder if just one night will ever be enough to satiate me.
It’s going to have to be.
I say the name that’s been haunting me for the last decade all the way home to keep the pain alive, the wound from closing prematurely.
“Jackie, Jackie, Jackie…” I don’t stop until I hit the driveway.
The Lion and the Wolf
Macy
A week whizzes by in a blur. We’ve seen movie after movie, and tonight Lincoln is intent on taking me to see Little Lies perform downtown at the Walt Disney Concert Hall with drinks afterward at Gravity, the club his father gifted him. Of course, Lincoln didn’t tell me that little bit of real estate news. I heard Ford gravel it out over dinner last night. Stevie invited me to their home, and I had a chance to bounce their precious baby girl on my lap for three blissful hours. It was pretty clear by dessert that there was no love loss or gain between the Cannons and the Lionhearts, and by Lionhearts, I mean Lincoln.
Lincoln. He’s all I think about from the moment my lids open until they close again for that eight-hour duration where I have the good fortune to entertain him in my dreams. Of course, I kick-start those nocturnal wanderings by touching that wet slick between my thighs, rubbing it raw until I come hard while envisioning the things he’s going to do to my body—his mouth running over my flesh as if it were a racetrack, his mouth grazing over my erogenous zone as if it were the winning lap.
But as enamored as I suddenly am with him, I’ve lost my luster for this bizarre arrangement I’ve entangled us in. Something has shifted in me these last few days; something has dulled. Gone is the New Me, exuberant as she was while wearing her lady boner on her sleeve like a badge of vaginal courage. The Old Me has resurrected herself, smacking away at my skull like a Catholic schoolteacher with a ruler and a heavy hand. My name is Macy O’Conner. A grown man should not be referencing me as his favorite sin while my most prized bits and pieces lie sprawled over a desk like some poker chips he’s won in a hand—worse yet, that he’s purchased. I was willing to sell myself, hell, give myself away like some cheap blow-up doll. I’ve lost hold of my good senses. They’ve up and blown away like an overinflated helium balloon. Sane people don’t schedule sex with virtual strangers—although, Lincoln feels like less of a stranger to me than Bradley ever did, and I almost chained myself to that bastard legally. Clearly, I am a dolt. Where is the fucking corner? Where is my pointy hat? Who in their right mind behaves this way?
Thank God, Lincoln cushioned my need to punch my V card with enough time for me to gain some clarity. I’ve been on the rebound, hard, looking for someone to shove their spare parts inside me so I could call it a day and claim the rest of my life. Really? Has the rest of my life been hiding behind some hillside that can only be accessed through the depths of my vagina? It makes no sense, but even though I’m aware of the fact that what I’m trying to do is morally wrong, I’m not about to do anything to stop it. My body still screams for Lincoln with the enthusiasm of a 1950s Beatles’ fan each time he steps into the room. And last night, he made it a point to let me know that he’s holding out for me. He said this has been his longest dry spell on record and gave a little wink as if implying he didn’t mind. I wish he didn’t mind a lot of things, like accepting me for the girl I really am—the one who prefers to shackle herself in a committed relationship before letting someone impale her from behind.
The morning sun licks at my face with its blinding tongue, forcing me to get out of this wire trap Kinsley passes off as a bed. Lincoln’s door is open, and I hesitate before heading over. He’s the only man outside of my dad and stepfather whom I’ve ever let see me in the morning, bedhead and all. By six a.m., I look like I have a blood-soaked tumbleweed sitting on top of my head, but he never says a mean thing about it. I’ve grown strangely comfortable around Lincoln, and that’s something I never felt with Bradley. With him, I thought I’d have to pull a Tammy Faye and go to bed each night with full makeup, trani style no less, thick, fake lashes, lots of mascara over that, bright lipstick, lip liner, lots and lots of cover-up while doing my best—and by proxy, very worst imitation of a porcelain doll, the wrinkles under my eyes annunciating themselves a bit too harsh, aging me ten years. With Bradley, I was always hiding behind something—my cosmetics, my hair, my virginity. Somehow I sensed that even at my best, I would never be enough for him. I was committed to keeping him distracted from all the sorority girls the world had to offer. I never wanted him to wake up one day and realize he should have gone with one of the effortless Barbies and not the Irish troll. If the masks ever started to come off, then he would have no choice but to leave me. I believed it like it was some biblical truth, so he must have, too. Only Bradley didn’t wait for me to pull down any defenses. He chose to leave before I gifted him the most precious part of me. I’m so very thankful I overheard that conversation. Leah would never have fessed up. She’s too much of a coward, or more accurately, too big of a bitch. This was a secret that would have superseded my wedding night. Those side-glances she threw his way weren’t wishful thinking as I had once thought. That was just Leah revving up her engine for what would come later—namely her. The humiliation of it all boils me to a rage.
Leah doesn’t have anything to do with the fact I’m heading into Lincoln’s bedroom, though. Cash and Carson do. A little over a week ago, they offered me a hefty cash bonus if I could give them any leads on what my lovely Lionheart might be sharpening his claws for next. And we’re not talking some twenty-dollar gift card to Starbucks. This is a serious financial incentive that can leave an imprint on my checking account for decades to come, enough money to purchase a home in the Palisades for myself—in cash if I wanted.
My heart thrashes, trying to evict itself from my chest as I take a step toward his room. Just the thought of turning on Lincoln makes me twitchy. I should cancel this sex scheme of mine. I should tell Cash and Carson to take their money and shove it, but I don’t seem to have enough conviction to do either. The truth is, Lincoln is just a friend, and hardly that at all. He’s already made it clear he wants a clean break after our fuckfest. The romance stops at the edge of the mattress, sweetie. He didn’t really say that, but he may as well have. He’s unplugging the electronic bull and booting me out of the barn.
I give a gentle knock to his opened door, but note that his bed is empty. His bathroom door is wide open, too. He’s not here. His comforter is pulled tight, and the bed doesn’t look slept in at all. My heart does a somersault right into my throat. What if he decided that a dry spell is something he’s no longer interested in? What if he ended the drought last night with someone else raining down over him? A heavy feeling takes over, and I’m sickened by the idea of Lincoln sharing his magnificent body with anyone but me.
My body flashes with a spasm of heat. I care. I really do care. I almost want to laugh. This man, this god has somehow managed to do what Bradley couldn’t—make me want him and make me wish he wanted me, too. With Bradley, I was indifferent and didn’t even know it. Sometimes in life we just go along with an idea, like an engagement, a wedding, because we believe it’s the logical next move. Bradley and I looked good on paper, so why not? With Lincoln and me, it’s the opposite. We do not look good on paper. No one in their right mind is going to give this relationship a stamp of approval, least of all my uncles.
I head over to the window that kisses the Pacific, and my eyes snag on the fact his dresser drawers are slightly askew. I’m too OCD to let this furniture-based malfeasance slide, so I go to close them, but my fingers disobey and pull in the opposite direction. I do a quick scan of the first one—socks, neatly balled. I’m sure that says something anal about a man. Next up are boxers, black and gray, tossed about willy-nilly, defying the anal wrap I just slapped him with. I’m sure there’s a sexual innuendo deeply rooted in here somewhere. The third yields
a drawer full of T-shirts, half folded, but the effort is still impressive since I know for a fact Kinsley’s housekeeper doesn’t do laundry with the exception of sheets and towels. The bottom drawer is a mishmash of junk, old paperbacks, a few blank notebooks, and some loose rings settling near the bottom like stones tossed to the bottom of the sea. In the back, a wooden box sits tucked near the corner as if in hiding. It’s heavy as lead as I pull it toward me. Probably a collection of old coins. My father had one and took it with him when he moved. I wished he had taken me instead.
The lid comes off with ease. I quickly peer inside as my body heat index rises to dangerous levels. With my luck, I’ll pass out, and Lincoln will catch me with my hand in his kinky collection. A velvet bag sits nestled in the box, and my fingers quickly work it open. Inside are trinkets, a necklace with two hearts intertwined, and beneath that lies a stack of tiny crystal animals. Their glassy bodies gently click against one another as I shift the bag to inspect them—a rabbit, a cat, a mouse, and a frog. There must be at least twelve if there aren’t twenty.
A rustle comes from down the hall, and I quickly replace the lid and close the dresser, bouncing out the door like a drunk kangaroo.
“Kinsley!” I say out of breath. “Good morning.” I pant, my eyes blinking away my guilt as I silently beg my body to settle the hell down. It was an exercise in snooping, not a breach in national security, although it felt like something far worse than either of those things.
“I was just heading out to breakfast with Stevie and Aspen,” she chirps with that perennially happy inflection in her voice. “You wanna come?”
“Oh, no, that’s okay. I’ll hitch a ride to work with Lincoln.”
“He’s not in. He got up early and went to the gym. Said he’s going to have a big day tomorrow and wants to be ready. Probably has something to do with a girl—he has a thing for club whores.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, my father’s dinner is tomorrow night, but I didn’t have the heart to remind him. That boy has been a slug.” She pats her flat stomach. “He can use a good workout. He’s usually at the gym with the sun every single morning, but lately he’s been a slacker.”