“How was your day?” he asked.
I blinked. “Since when do you engage in small talk?”
Lips curling, he lifted his brows. “It was a genuine question. I want to know how your day was.”
Impatient, I shrugged. “I’ve had better ones.” Also had worse ones.
Tipping his head to the side, he asked, “How’ve you been?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Humor danced in his eyes. “I genuinely want to know.”
I sighed, exasperated. “I’ve been fine. You?”
Just like that, the humor left him. “As I said earlier, it was a shitty week.”
The waiter reappeared, poured us each a glass of red wine, and then left.
Blake straightened and took a sip of his wine—a movement so slow and controlled I almost growled, envying how relaxed and at ease he could be even in a situation like this. Setting down the glass, he tapped his fingers on the cloth covered table. “Okay, let’s get to the point. This arrangement isn’t working for either of us anymore, is it?”
My chest tightened. “No.”
He gave a curt nod. “You want more.”
“I don’t want to want more. I don’t even have ‘more’ to give right now. Not to you. Not to anyone.”
He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Well, you will give it to me, Kensey. I won’t ever settle for anything less than all you have to give me.”
I mentally fumbled, rocked by his words. “You’re saying you want more?” I didn’t hide my disbelief.
“Yes,” he answered simply.
I shook my head, feeling off-balance. “You were very clear that you couldn’t give me a relationship. Where has this come from?”
“It’s something I’ve been thinking about during the past week. I wasn’t sure where your head was at, so I thought I’d broach the subject this weekend. Seeing you hurt earlier was fucking hard, but it made me think that just maybe you want more as well, or you wouldn’t have cared so much.”
Still dubious, I eyed him carefully. “Why do you want more?”
“I’m selfish when it comes to you, Kensey. I don’t like that you have a life separate from me; it makes me … nervous. I want to be part of that life. I want to see you whenever I want, wherever I want. I want it to be common knowledge that you’re mine.”
“You sound … well, a little pissed off.”
“I am.” He rubbed at his jaw, face hardening. “I don’t miss women, Kensey. I don’t wonder how they are, where they are, or who they’re with. I don’t give a rat’s ass if they had a good day or not, I don’t worry about them being shitfaced while I’m not there to be sure they’re safe, and I definitely don’t get jealous if they have male friends.”
I shook my head again, unable to fully believe what I was hearing. “But … you don’t call. You don’t text. Not unless you want to meet up, anyway. You put considerable effort into maintaining a nice big distance between us.” My eyes narrowed as something occurred to me. “Or was that you trying to re-establish a sense of control?”
He interlaced his fingers with mine and brought my wrist to his mouth. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss there. “This won’t be easy, Kensey. I won’t be easy. But do you really want to walk away? Wouldn’t you like to see where this can go?” He pressed another kiss to my fluttering pulse. The flick of his tongue made me remember just how it felt in much more interesting places.
I squirmed a little. My dress felt too tight, too restrictive. But even as my hormones took off, my mind didn’t lose sight of the super important thing here. “I won’t be in a relationship with someone who I can’t trust to be honest with me.” I tilted my head. “Why did you feed me the Chicago story? I didn’t ask where you were that weekend.”
“Your eyes did. I could see that you wanted badly to hear a valid excuse for why I didn’t call or meet with you. The truth wasn’t something I could share—”
“Wait, you couldn’t share that you were with your stepsister?”
“That’s not what I mean. I didn’t stay long at the carnival, I still could have met with you that night if it weren’t for something else—something I can’t share with you. So, I stretched the truth a little. There was a business trip, but I didn’t leave for Chicago until the Monday after I met with Emma at the carnival. I landed back in Redwater shortly before I sent you that text when you were at the mall.” He dabbed yet another kiss on my inner wrist; there was something apologetic about it. “I lied because I didn’t like that you were hurting, and I wanted to make it stop. And now, because of that lie, you’re hurting again. I fucked up, baby.”
I smelled the food moments before the waiter set our plates down in front of us. Steam rushed from my plate, carrying with it the mouth-watering smell of meat, onion, and peppers. Blake reluctantly released my hand, and we both dug into our food. But everything seemed tasteless while my thoughts were scattered—even the wine.
I peeked up at Blake. Once again, he looked relaxed. There was no tension in the set of his shoulders, no expectation of an answer in his eyes. And I realized something. “You’re not asking me if I want a relationship. You’re telling me that we’re now in one.”
He shrugged. “Why, if I want something badly, would I leave the decision of whether I get it up to someone else?”
He could not be believed. “This isn’t only your decision to make.”
“You want this, Kensey, or you would have already stated your objections by now. Don’t overthink this. Don’t look for reasons why it won’t work. Give it a try.”
“Do you really think there’s much point, Blake?”
His brows drew together. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“I’m not what anyone would call forthcoming, but you take evasiveness to a whole new level. It’s rare that you give me a straight answer to anything I ask. You either deflect my questions, trivialize them, or give me simplified answers. I don’t expect you to cough up your secrets, but you share as little as you possibly can. You say you want to be part of my life. The thing is, you’d need to also make me a part of yours. So far, you’ve kept me sort of … compartmentalized from the other areas of your life. You wouldn’t be able to do that anymore. I’m not sure these are things you could be okay with.”
Seconds of silence ticked by, knotting my stomach. His fork dropped to the plate with a clang. “Fuck,” he muttered.
“Look, Blake—” I frowned as he pushed to his feet. “Where are you—”
He moved to my side of the booth and gestured for me to shuffle along. Then he seated himself close to me, pulled his plate toward him, and said, “Better.” Snatching my cutlery, he cut into my steak and then offered me a piece. As soon as I closed my mouth around it, he said, “My parents divorced when I was nine. Although they argued like fuck when they were together, they got along pretty well once they separated. My mother died when I was fourteen. House fire. That was when I went to live with my father and Laurel. Your turn; tell me something.”
If what he’d shared hadn’t been so sad, I would have smiled at his quick, choppy, bullet-point delivery. The guy would make a shit storyteller. “My mother had me when she was seventeen. Maxwell Buchanan had played Clear like a fiddle. Told her he loved her and was leaving his wife. Clear believed him, thought she loved him.”
He fed me another piece of steak. “I admit, I asked about her. Wanted to understand why someone would marry a killer on death row. I expected to hear people call her a whack job. Most just said she was very fragile and broken. They seemed to pity her more than anything else.”
I nodded, watching as he ate some of his own meal. “She’s damaged deep inside—so damaged she doesn’t seem to see things the way we do. She believes Michael Bale understands her. Some people judged her for keeping me, but he doesn’t.”
“Why did they judge her?”
“Maxwell claimed that I wasn’t his; said he never touched her. People believed him, even Clear’s parents. They insisted that she abor
t me. They threatened to toss her onto the street and disinherit her if she didn’t. But she refused to abort me, and her parents made good on their promise. She left that big house with nothing but a car and a suitcase of possessions. She dropped out of school and, with no money or qualifications, ended up living in a shitty area, working shitty jobs. But she never once complained about any of the things she lost. Never threw any of it in my face, not even when she was at her lowest.”
Blake was quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “But that makes you feel indebted to her, doesn’t it?”
“In a way, yes, it does. But she doesn’t see that, so don’t think she plays on it. If she knew, she’d probably be upset about it. She prides herself on being a good mother, just as she takes pride in how Michael claims to admire and respect her for going up against her parents and keeping me. He makes her feel accepted, understood, and cared for. In turn, she forgives him for the crimes he swears to her that he regrets. To Clear, she’s sticking by her man and her family. That’s one thing I can say for my mother—she sticks by the people she loves. She just doesn’t always love the right people.”
I tried taking my fork back, but he shook his head and began to feed me again. “My mother, Rose, was nyctophobic,” he said. “She had a phobia of the dark. It varies from person to person. Some are worse than others. For her, it was an extreme, paralyzing fear. Rose wouldn’t go out at night. Wouldn’t let me go out either. Not until I was about seven, anyway.”
I wondered if that was why he had a chain of nightclubs—if he was seizing the dark in some way.
“She always had the lights on all over the house, even at night. Carried two torches wherever she went. Once, the bathroom light bulb went out while she was soaking in the tub. She had a panic attack right there, shaking and rocking. I kept telling her she was fine, but she kept whispering that bad things happen in the dark.”
My heart ached for her. “She was abused?”
“Probably. She never said.” He sipped at his wine. “The firemen thought one of her lamps was faulty and overheated, causing the fire. I got out in time. She didn’t.”
Fuck, I could only guess what that would do to a person. Especially a teenage boy. He’d no doubt felt guilty for surviving. I knew I would have done, in his position.
“It was Cade who told you about Emma and Tara, wasn’t it?” Blake asked. “He went digging for dirt, heard I’d been seen with other women, and ran to you with little tales. It makes sense that he’d want rid of the competition.”
I shook my head, brow furrowing. “Cade doesn’t consider you competition. He doesn’t want me for himself.”
“Of course he does—I can’t even blame him. But I don’t fucking like that he wants what’s mine. He’s not going to get it.”
“Really, he’s not interested in me that way. Hasn’t been for a long time. But we’re close.”
“I know you’re close,” Blake grumbled, shoving a forkful of lobster into his mouth.
Figuring it was senseless to argue further about it, I instead told him, “It wasn’t Cade who came to me.”
“Then who was it?” Blake’s eyes narrowed. “The reporter sniffing around you?”
I jerked back a little. “Reporter?”
“I asked Dodger if he knew why you were acting so edgy. He said you were probably dealing with unwanted attention from a reporter—according to him, you’ve had to deal with that sort of shit before.”
That was quick thinking on Dodger’s part.
“If you tell me their name, I’ll take care of it. I know—” Blake cut off with a sigh as his cell rang. Fishing it out of his pocket, he seemed about to cancel the call, but then his brow creased. Holding up one finger to me, he answered the call with an abrupt, “Yes?” His shoulders stiffened, and he straightened in his seat. “Where is he now?” Blake sighed again. “No. I have Kensey with me … Right … I’ll meet you downstairs.” Swiping his thumb across the screen, he gave me a soft, apologetic look. “I’m sorry, baby, I have to take care of something. I wouldn’t leave if it wasn’t important. Will you be okay here?”
“I’ll be fine.”
He stood, eyes searching mine. “You’ll stay?”
“I’ll stay.”
Satisfied, he nodded and landed a soft kiss on my mouth. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”
I watched him stride purposely across the lounge to the elevator. Whatever people saw on his face made them move aside rather than try engaging him in conversation.
Blowing out a breath, I sank back into the cushioned booth. I was still struggling to process everything he’d said. He’d given me a lot to think about.
Did I believe he’d idiotically lied about Chicago in the hope of sparing my feelings? Yes. His words had rung with the truth, and his apology had been sincere.
Did I believe he truly wanted more? Yes. And no. I could see that his possessive streak was giving him trouble; it was entirely possible that it was the driving force behind his little declaration. Surely if I was truly on his mind so much, he’d have made it clear in some way before now.
Did I believe he was capable of more? Not really. He hadn’t been part of a relationship since he was seventeen—a relationship that may have gone badly and, as such, was quite possibly the very reason why he hadn’t made another attempt at one. Or maybe that was just my writer’s imagination making leaps. But it was possible.
Oh, God, his ex-girlfriend wasn’t Tara, was it? My nose wrinkled at the thought.
There was still so much I didn’t know or understand. The fact that he’d shared some of his past with me was big, though, right? It showed that he could share things about himself. Showed that he was willing to try and make ‘more’ work. But could it work? I just didn’t know. And I really didn’t know whether I wanted to take a chance, because it had become abundantly clear that this guy had the power to really hurt me.
Very aware that I’d only think myself in circles—I knew the signs—I fished my phone out of my purse to distract myself. I smiled when I saw I had a message from Sarah:
Well???????? xx
I quickly typed:
Blake says he wants more xx
Sheer moments later, she replied:
I knew it!!!
I snorted to myself as I responded:
No, you didn’t xx
I added an emoji with a long nose and then pressed ‘send.’ Her reply was fast.
What did you tell him? Xx
I bit my lip, wondering where to start and whether to ask for any advice. I decided against the latter; this needed to be my decision. As such, I typed:
There’s too much to cram into a message. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow xx
Before I had the chance to return the phone to my purse, it began to vibrate in my hand. I would have thought it was Sarah demanding more information if Private Number wasn’t flashing on the screen. I answered, “Hello?”
“I’m disappointed with you, Kensey.” The voice was male, raspy, and filled with a gentle reprimand. “You know he’s not loyal to you. He spends more time with other women than he does with you.”
Motherfucker. Anger welled up fast, bunching my muscles. “At least he doesn’t sneak into people’s apartments and take pictures of their cups. The video was petty, by the way.”
A sigh. “It was. But you needed to know.”
“Know what?”
“How easy it is for me to be close to you.”
The hairs on my nape rose. “You’re not so close to me right now.” Was he? I glanced around, but no one appeared to be talking on their cell phone.
“Close enough.”
He’d quite possibly followed me all the way here, so there was a good chance he was outside. Yep, that was indeed close enough. “Why do you want me dead?”
“If I wanted you dead, you’d already be dead.”
I wasn’t buying that; not given that the end of his little story had seen my death. “You want me dead. You just don’t want to
be the one who makes it happen. Maybe you don’t have the stomach for it,” I taunted. “I mean, all you’ve done is write a half-assed story, break into my apartment, play with my phone, make a petty video, and send me some pictures.”
Silence. “Why don’t you come down to the private garage? I have a nice view of what’s happening there. Come and see why Blake Mercier isn’t for you.” The line went dead.
I stared at the phone, pissed and incredulous. The bald-faced fucker had called me. He’d actually fucking called me.
He’s escalating—the disturbing thought came from nowhere, like a ghostly whisper. It was also right.
First came the story, which now seemed like more of a ‘Boo!’ to get my attention and scare me. But he’d gotten bolder—broke into my apartment, left evidence on my phone of his presence there, videoed me in the shower, sent me incriminating pictures of a guy I was seeing, and now the phone call. He even had the gall to reprimand me for being with Blake. And what was that shit about inviting me to go see why Blake wasn’t for me?
My eyes flicked to the elevator. Ricky could be just trying to lure me outside, though it seemed doubtful—it wasn’t like he’d be able to touch me unless he had access to the private garage. What I was certain of was that he wanted Blake out of the picture. To call me now, he must truly believe that what I’d see downstairs would lead to that. And before I knew it, I was heading for the elevator.
Maybe it was shitty of me not to have a little more faith in Blake. Yes, it was shitty. But as I ascended to the main floor, I realized that it wasn’t distrust that had me heading outside. It was simply the need to know.
Finally reaching the door that led to the garage, I pulled it open, stepped out … and stopped dead.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It took a few seconds to process what I was seeing. Four guys were kicking the shit out of a rolled-up piece of carpet that had been dumped on the pitted pavement. It was only when I heard a pained howl that I realized somebody was inside the carpet.