Mind F*ck (13 page)

Once Drake has helped Mr. Bennett retrieve his bag from the trunk and he’s well tucked into his hotel, Lexy and I speak for the first time since last night, besides the initial introductions between her and Bennett, of course.

And honestly, no, what I say is
not
riddled with politeness and pleasantries. Between the hell storm that my career is at this moment, the shit I have going on with Summer and her indecisiveness, and this new associate I’m supposed to be
mentoring,
I’ve no patience for my wife or her semantics.

“I’ll pack a bag and stay at the penthouse until this mess is cleaned up. Just give me a few hours to clear out some work files and such. I’ll make room for whatever things of yours that were salvageable. If any. And of course we’ll replace what wasn’t. Mr. Smith should be getting back with me within the hour to let me know the length of time this should take. Surely no more than a few days. I have some extra business I need to attend to, so we’ll just drop you off at home. And no, I don’t have a time to give you to expect me back, but still, I want you to stay out of my main room until I’ve cleared it out. There are too many documents with client information and details, that you have no business being privy to.”

When I’m forced to wait for longer than ten seconds for a response, my patience with Lexy finally, truly, and completely snaps.

An eighth of a second later, the back of my hand connects with the side of her fucking face. Not once, but twice before my palm then connects with the opposite side.

“When I speak, you fucking respond, you little cunt. Do you fucking understand me?” My words fly out, unrestrained.

“Now. What is the response I deserve, darling?” My fingers clench harder around her jaw, and I curl my fingers tighter until the blunt tips of my nails score her into skin. “Baby girl,” I taunt. “Don’t make me wait—“

“Yes—Liam. Jesus, okay? Yes, Liam.” She must not think I can see her cutting her eyes at me through her bangs, so I wrench her head back up to me and pull her across the back seat by her waist until her body is flush with mine. With my hand still clamped down around her chin and her bangs now out of her eyes, I slowly explain myself.

“Don’t cut your eyes at me. Don’t fucking blabber, don’t fucking stammer. Speak clearly and concisely or don’t fucking speak at all. But most importantly,
NEVER. EVER
contradict me. Is this understood, Lexy? Or shall you take an extended vacation, making up for all that time you keep complaining about missing with your mother, only let’s have that vacation take place back on the West coast, at Gigi’s in Seattle. That’ll help snap you out of this…this fucking rut you’re in. I’ll tell you this,
baby girl,
I’m over it.”

And if I had an ounce of humanity left in me, I still don’t think I would’ve lessened the accurately aimed blow to my wife’s disheveled ego.

I allow the faint smirk to slightly cross my face before looking back and forth between her green eyes and winking. Then with the last reserves of my affections for her dying away, I blandly stare and speak, “Truth be told, I’ve been over you. And this sham of a family we can’t even make because you can’t hold a
fucking
pregnancy.”

And as if it’s choreographed, the limo pulls around the circle drive, parks in front of the house, and Drake opens Lexy’s car door as my words are finished being spoken.

She’s subconsciously shoved a good foot between us as I spat my words at her, and she’s hugging the door when it opens. And even as she almost falls out, her flapping jaw and the ignorant look across her face never cease.

“Mrs. Dean?” Drake holds his hand out for her, but she keeps her eyes pinned to mine, completely oblivious of his kindness to her.

I shake my head, hardly attempting to hide the disappointment from my face and then move my eyes to where Drake stands still holding open the door, hand still out, and I nod towards him.

“The driver is kindly holding not only the door open for you, but his hand out for you, too. Do you think you could return his common courtesy and accept, or are you past such minute commonalities?”

She just blinks. Opening and closing her mouth, like a drowning fish.
“Lexy!”
I shout. “Snap the fuck out of it. Get the hell in the house. Unpack our bags, and stay out of my main rooms. I’ll be back either late tonight, or tomorrow morning. But right now, I need you to get out of the car so I can go take care of business.”

I count to three in my head, then speak. “Move.”

And less than a second later she’s finally out of my face.

I can’t make heads or tails of Lexy Dean, and that fact doesn’t sit well with me. Not at all. I’m a people reader. It’s what I do. And it’s saved my ass more than once, I promise. So when I encounter someone I have a hard time reading, it bothers me. But usually not for long, because I eventually
do
get them figured out.

Not this time, though. Not with Ms. Lexy Dean.

Not on our first encounter, or our extended second. And I tried. I did—I tried reading her. Both from afar and from up close. At least when Liam wasn’t around.

And nothing. I got nada from her.

She’s so unlike anything I’ve ever known. Anything I’ve ever seen. She’s fucking beautiful, but that’s not it. Beautiful women are a dime a dozen, especially in our circles. Wealth equals beauty, or at least enough camouflage to conceal the fuck outta ugly. She’s more than just beauty. She’s smart and quick. And she’s funny. As hell. It took everything in me not to fall out laughing at her reaction when she face planted with my dick.

And she’s cute as a button, but she’s feisty too. I sense she’s like a still lake whose waters run deep. Very deep, but she also keeps herself so damn closed off that as soon as I start getting a feeling from her, it shuts off when she shuts down.

And the crazy part is, it almost seems like she’s fighting with herself. As if she wants me to know something, but she doesn’t know if she can trust me.

Seems I’m not the only one with trust issues.

The thought crosses my mind as I step into the swanky hotel suite that Trav set me up in either last night or this morning. When I called him last night after having half a drink with Liam and informed him that I expedited my tasks and was going to be available for his brand of rehab back into the stockbroker’s life much sooner than I’d anticipated, he shouted then laughed before finally explaining, “Good. I’ve been needing a guy like you. I have a whole world to introduce you to, brother, you truly have no idea.”

Whatever that means.

From what I could gather, though, I can only assume there will be more expensive suits, new cars, houses, and women involved…and even more money. Because with Travis, there always is. He’s always lived in excess. Always.

He seeks the best of the best. Then he keeps the best of the best. And because he has no qualms with playing with other’s lives, whatever is needed for him to maintain in total control, over all aspects of his life, is fair game.

Those were his words, exactly, to me the night before I left for Pittsburg to care for my dying mother.

His words.

And now, I can only remember those words and move forward. I can’t focus on the past. The past is for the dead. And I’m still alive—at least for now.

I don’t bother unpacking, or even attempt to settle in. Hell I don’t even remember to slip my shoes off before I begin stalking a twenty foot path back and forth across the plush carpet of the hotel room. I toss my satchel on a small decorative love seat on the first pass-by and pull my phone from the breast pocket of my suit jacket before thumbing through and finding Trav’s contact.

I replay the conversation I overheard between Liam and Lexy at baggage claims. Something about their house flooding or plumbing issues. And something about a Manhattan penthouse Liam wants to stay in until the damage is fixed.

And for reasons
completely
unknown, none of those plans sit well with me.

I want his Manhattan penthouse.

And I want his estate during the day while he’s at work.

But if the truth be told, and between me, you, and the fencepost, what I really want is more time with Lexy. I’ve
wanted
more time with Lexy,
alone
with Lexy, if the real truth be fucking told.

I pull the phone to my ear and hear it ring twice before Trav picks up. “Hey, man. How was the flight?” he asks.

“Fuck the flight. It was a flight, man. How’d you expect it to go? I’m here, ain’t I?” I quip before cutting to the chase. “What I want to know is, what’s up with your boy? Your little fuck boy, what’s his name? Liam?” I chuckle, sparking the first flicker of fire to the fire storm I plan to come.

“Fuck boy?” He laughs, but continues, “He’s not that bad, man. He’s just strung a little tight, that’s all.”

But I stay on track. Because you must with Travis. He has the attention span of a squirrel, and he can very easily distract his cohort in conversation. “I don’t give a fuck what he’s strung. I don’t like him. I don’t trust him.” I leave the silence alone when that’s all I’m met with.

If that’s how he wants to play, then two can play that game.

I wait him out.

And he breaks after only thirty-seven seconds, “Okay, Rhett. What is it you want?” He’s still on the same track as me.
Good.

“I want you to give me the job of fixing his house. Pull some strings, do whatever it is you do, make it happen. And don’t ask why—I’ll play stockbroker for you every other day of the week, but on Tuesday’s and Thursday’s I want to be behind the walls of his estate and have readily access to his personal space—at least until I find out what it is about this guy that creeps me out. That, and also…I want his penthouse. I know he didn’t build a fortress and then turn around and spend another hundred million on a Manhattan penthouse, that whole place probably reeks of black mail and Old man Jackson. But I don’t give a fuck. A prick like him shouldn’t get to stay in a place like that every night when he has a fortress with a wife at home. Not while I’m shoved up in a hotel. I want the conveniences of home. I’ve been without them for too long, brother. You can understand that, surely.”

I let out a sigh for extra effect, but it isn’t needed.

He replies almost immediately. “Of course, that’s understandable, bro. I get where you’re coming from. And yeah, I’ll set it up. I told you already, anything man. We’ll get you back on your feet. For your forgiveness, your friendship, and for you forgetting what happened with Scar, I’ll do anything you need me to, brother. You know that.”

And I also know that I’ll hold you to that, motherfucker.

“Thanks, Trav. I appreciate it, brother. More than you know.”

But before I hang up, I ask him to send me a text with Liam Dean’s Manhattan penthouse address and the time I can expect him to be cleared out. I also tell him to let his boy know that it’ll probably take a good three to six months before his house is ready, but that was just a rough guess-timate.

A man needs to give himself enough room to plan and maneuver—You know what I mean.

I’m not surprised when I walk into Liam Dean’s apartment and see nothing but perfect opulence. It instantly confirms my every suspicion about this cocky, self-righteous bastard. I don’t care what anyone says, when a man lives with this much excess it spoils him.

It blurs the lines between greed and need.

It really does, and I’m not just saying that ‘cause my Ma did, either.

But to be honest, I think the gold flecks and spindled spider webs snaking through the black marble floors and pillars throughout the place are a bit much. I do, however, appreciate the stark white plush carpet throughout the first visible floor and the thick red drapes covering the floor to ceiling windows on the back wall.

If I was a schmuck who didn’t know how to take care of his fine as fuck wife back in our
estated
grounds, I would possibly go for something with just primary colors—that’s what I’m trying to say.

And the more I see as I walk through my residence for the next half year, the more I want to sigh in frustration. Not because of how pompous this Liam dude is, and not because of his extravagant tastes.

But because of Lex.

I keep thinking back to her. And the more I see of this place, the more I wonder…about her.

I wonder if she’s been here. If she’s slept here. With him.

I shake my head and make my way out of the ridiculous master suite before stepping out onto the balcony off the main sitting area to clear my thoughts.

She wouldn’t have come here. He wouldn’t have allowed it. This is, no—this
was
, his and Summer’s place. I know it.

And I know it, because it fucking reeks of Jackson, and more specifically, Summer Jackson. Well that, and I saw the texts that interrupted Liam from finishing his drink in New Orlean’s  were from her.

If there was ever a woman who could blur need and greed, it’d be her. She’s always wanted more. No, not more, she’s always wanted everything. And then, more.

I stare out over the Manhattan skyline, but I don’t see a single building. All I see is Lex and all that damn strawberry blond hair spilling down and around her naked back and shoulders.
Goddamn.
And those emerald greens blinking up at me. Like she didn’t know whether she wanted to eat me, or haul ass running from me.

And thank God she didn’t run.

Thank God she fell.

Holy Christ, when my arms circled her I had to talk myself down—I really did. My cock was already a good ninety percenter, so as soon as her body crushed against mine, and all that strawberry blonde silk was in my face and all I could smell was her—just her, fucking everywhere—I went from a ninety to possessing the ability to cut glass or drive nails.

Or more pleasurably, drive into miss Lexy. Deep…into miss Sexy Lexy.

Fuck, I have another ninety.

I grunt, shoving myself away from the balcony rails and start pacing back forth between two Adirondack chairs. And when something I haven’t felt stir around in my chest in as long as I can remember begins stirring, it falters my steps briefly.

Huh…well hello, hopelessness. Depression.

What with the rage and revenge that’s been fueling me, I haven’t had room to notice you.

The hopelessness I feel isn’t mine, though. It doesn’t belong to me. Nor does the depression.

It belongs to the green-eyed angel I met this morning sitting atop a cloud of white down comforter and pillows.

My eyes scan the lavish penthouse and I can’t stop my heart from contracting in my chest when I think of her back at home oblivious to what’s happening here in this space, right where I’m standing, when he’s here without her.

And I can’t help the next thought from bombarding into my frontal lobes. I want to. I want to stop this shit—hell, I need to stop this shit. She’s freaking married.

But that’s just the thing, isn’t it?

Why?

Fuck that, how?

There’s gotta be something I’m missing. About her.

Something.

Just because she was as fresh faced on the plane and during our travels today as she was this morning while I watched her sleep, doesn’t mean she’s innocent. She can’t be.

I look back across Liam’s preposterous fucking apartment.

No, she’s just as blurred eyed when it comes to greed and need as the rest of them, I’m sure.

And I think that maybe Liam was correct. I think I do need more time to figure out just who it is I’m dealing with…only not where he’s concerned.

But where his wife is.