Sugarbaby (6 page)

But why? A billionaire wouldn't want any of
this
, so I had to be crazy to think he was into me when there were hundreds of barely dressed women writhing around in the main room. And it wasn't as if I were up for any more games, either. I'd had enough of those with Micah Wyatt, who'd liked to play with women like catnip. It hadn't been fun to end up as his toy.

Surely that's what these boys had been doing—playing with me. And I wasn't about to get into that kind of trouble again. I was in full control of myself now, not any guy.

“Ready?” I said to Carley and Bret.

He was inspecting what looked to be a small stuffed mushroom, and she was already drinking from a champagne flute. She had another glass in hand as she walked over to me.

“Can't we stay?” she asked. “This is so way better than the first Hellfire Club.”

I would explain everything to her later, but I took the glass, set it down on a nearby table, then not-so gently guided her toward the door, hoping Bret would take the hint to follow. Then I walked past Noah.

Maybe I didn't want to stay as the guest of a guy who was older and more experienced and probably much better at playing girls than I was at playing boys. But I wasn't an ingrate, either. “Thank you for the tip yesterday. And for any trouble you went through setting up this spread.”

“You're not staying?” he said in such a way that my belly flipped.

Did he want me to hang around that badly? Right.

But those eyes were a compelling light green color that had me swimming. They were enough to make me pause, make a secret part of me ache, just as I'd ached for Rex and Micah for a brief time.

Aches never turned out well.

“We were just going to stop by to see the sights,” I said, nodding at him one last time before I tugged Carley along.

“Thanks for the tip at the café!” she said back to him as we were enveloped by music again. We passed the muscle man outside the door, and he impassively watched us leave. I wondered who he would be letting in the room now that
these
VIPs had gone on their way.

Hah, me a VIP. Well, it'd been fun while it'd lasted. And the farther I got from that room, the more I wondered why I couldn't find it in myself to be less defensive. Couldn't I stay a little longer, letting my friends have fun . . . and letting myself?

But I'd proven that I didn't know the line between fun and overindulgence before. Maybe it was myself I didn't trust rather than some billionaire boys who'd asked me to the Hellfire for kicks.

The crowd had thickened, the music clanging on as if it'd never stop. To my left, a spectacle had started on the platform—a line of women parading in a kinky fashion show. There was a Halloween fox, pawing at the cheering audience while the strategically placed fur on her seemed to slip away, moment by moment. A cat-woman in leather, swiveling her hips to the beat. A ninja lady with two swords crossed at her back, grinding against a cheerleader.

The room was louder and hotter now, and I wanted out, but the crowd . . . it was so tough to get through, so many people . . .

I felt Carley's hand slip out of mine, and I spun around to find her again, but I was surrounded by bodies, undulating, dancing, carrying me farther into the center of the room until—

A hand grasped mine, pulling me back from them.

But it wasn't Carley.

Noah looked down at me, and I almost drowned in those eyes. I struggled for air as the lights throbbed over him and my gaze settled on that scar on his neck.

Something came over me, and I itched to touch the wound, to touch
him
.

Was it wrong to think that he was thinking the same about me? Because the yearning in his gaze ripped me apart, right down the middle, splitting me until I felt it between my legs.

“Don't go,” he said and, somehow, I heard him over the music, even though he hadn't shouted. His words vibrated through me.

My skin felt as if it were a mass of tingles, my breath caught in my chest.
I don't want to go
.

But then I remembered that there'd been another night when I'd told myself the same thing. I'd been drunk, sad, and ready to be a boy's toy.

I'd never be ready for that again.

I started to pull away from Noah, but he held firm.

“You don't like me much, do you, Jadyn?” he said near my ear.

“I don't know you enough to like or dislike you!”

“Then don't run away.”

Did he have a fetish for hard-to-get blue-collar girls who weren't interested in games? “What do you want from me?”

When he smiled, it was with a predatory slowness that mixed cryptically with the sadness and anger that always seemed to haunt him.

At that moment, the crowd swarmed, pressing in on us while a woman dressed in nothing but a well-placed ribbon bow strutted down the platform. One guy who smelled like too much cologne fell into me, and the next second, Noah was surging toward him as if something inside had snapped.

He took the guy by his collar, heaving him away from me. My heart throbbed as Noah stared at him as if . . .

As if he was daring him to punch him and start something up?

That couldn't be right, though, especially since he was surrounded by guys who looked like they were ready to fight for their cologne-soaked friend as he yelled, “Fuck off, man!” and shoved Noah.

He wasn't moved at all, stone-solid as he merely stared them down. A tight smile owned him, his eyes seeming to go dark with temper and gleam with something else I couldn't describe.

But there was no time to figure him out because, suddenly, the throng welled toward the stage with the ribbon girl. They pressed in on me, and I gasped, pushing back at them, starting to fight my way out. My gaze met Noah's.

His expression seemed to change, panic taking over as I reached for him . . .

Out of nowhere, two men in black shirts appeared, dragging people off me one by one, and as the room swirled around me, I was aware of only one other thing—Noah, picking me up, throwing me over his shoulder, parting the crowd as he busted through.

I was too shocked to do anything, but at least I could breathe now that I was out of that mob. Too bad that every breath I tried to take was thwarted by the fact that my lungs were tight, due to the fact that I could feel his hand on the back of my bare thigh as my dress rode up.

The contact sent delicious shivers over my skin, webs of heat spinning through me. It wasn't until he set me down near a back staircase far from the action that my heart started up again. But his hand was still there, his fingers pressed over the back of my leg as I struggled for breath, my pulse beating in time to the flashing lights.

His skin—soapy and nice. His body—so close . . .

I told myself to push his hand away, to stop myself from sliding down the wall that was holding me up and get out of here quick. But his mouth was inches from mine—so near that his breath bathed my lips with warmth and set them to tingling.

Don't fall into another boy trap
, I thought.

Yet I was at least tripping, fast and hard, into his gaze.

He bent even closer, his mouth only a soft word away from mine now—a word that felt like
Yes
. And when he eased his fingers higher up the back of my thigh, to the curve of my bottom, I couldn't think of any words at all.

My body took over, doing the talking for me, my hips shifting, giving him silent permission to inch up farther until his finger swept under my panties, catching my bare skin.

Just a flutter of a touch.

Just a caress that made my sex clench.

As my vision went blurry, I gripped his sweater, expecting a kiss, just a whisper more . . .

My eyes half-closed as I held my breath.

Then, much to my shock, he pulled back, and my sight cleared, as if ice water had wiped it clean. He had a look of self-loathing to him that made me pull back my hand from his sweater and wonder what had just happened.

He retreated, acting remote, maybe even remorseful for taking advantage of the situation.

Was he being a gentleman? I wasn't sure about that, either.

As I wobbled, he started talking.

“Some of the people I invited obviously tend to go overboard,” he said over the music, which wasn't as loud here in this nook. “I don't know who the girl in the Christmas trimmings is, but she set off the drunks, and some of those drunks don't care who they crash into.”

“You mean you didn't plan for all this insanity?” I asked, and, somehow, my voice wasn't even shaking.

“I just wanted a party,” he said quietly.

His cologne . . . or maybe it was his soap . . . whatever it was, I could smell it on me. It was subtle, unlike all these loud lights around us. I fought the urge to close my eyes in the pure delight of smelling him.

Keep your eyes open
, I told myself.
You know better
.

“I should be more careful about who to invite.” He was shaking his head. Was he blaming himself because I'd nearly gotten run over by the crowd?

“It's okay,” I said.

“Not really. I invited people who posted on online boards about . . . let's say ‘alternative entertainment.' If they seemed like they'd be interested, I told them to come here without screening them, because I wanted . . .” His jaw tightened. “Maybe I wanted some variety. But I contacted the kids on the regular Hellfire list, too, even though I don't see many around now.”

“That's because you hijacked their Club.”

He frowned. “You think they're unhappy with how this party turned out?”

Was he serious? It was as if he didn't know anything about Texas or, heck, regular people at all.

“Yeah. From what I know, the Hellfire Club was arty, boho, more casual than this.” Like Bret. And speaking of Bret . . .

I started to leave, but that only brought me closer to Noah, so near to him that that all he had to do was whisper as I passed.

“Stay,” he said.

Lord help me
.

But my defenses were already up, bolstered by my common sense. “You're not serious,” I said, my voice close to shaking now.

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“Because I'm a waitress and not a socialite, for one.”

“I guess you don't know much about me, then,” he said. “If you did, you'd know that I haven't been on that social circuit for a while.”

At the longing in his voice, a slow melt trickled down me, from stomach to belly, from belly to a part that still ached, but even worse now. I was going damp, somehow turned on by the confusion of the night.

It'd been Simmons texting me, but here Noah was, actually pursuing me, touching me . . .

God, yes, he was tracing his finger over the back of my hand, and it was the dirtiest, most innocent thing I'd ever experienced. He touched me like he knew me, or wanted to know me.

But, sadder but wiser girl that I was, I moved away, a knot in my chest.

“What's your game?” I asked, thinking of Micah Wyatt again. “Do you always use Simmons to hook the ‘different' girls and then you reel them in the rest of the way?”

His gaze clouded in the hint of those flashing lights from the main floor. Light, dark, light, dark—his mood seemed to be one thing the first second, another the next. Changeable. Unpredictable.

What had Simmons said earlier? “Rash”?

In the end, he seemed stung by my insinuation, but he covered it well, backing off, his shoulders tense.

“Again,” he said, “I'm sorry if you were unsettled.”

Then he looked to the side, nodding his head, and before I knew it, one of his men in the black shirts appeared.

“This way to your friends, miss,” the guy said, gesturing toward the party.

I turned back to Noah, just for one last look, but he was already gone.

That night at the Hellfire Club was almost like a dream, and when I went to sleep, I told myself I'd only imagined everything—the VIP room, the ear-crunching music, the sexy costumes, and the way all the people in the room had wanted to get at the girls on that runway.

But those sensations were only the confetti in my fantasies, the falling debris that obscured the real reason I was in my bed, hugging my blankets to me, smiling.

Mostly, I couldn't stop thinking about how Noah had unexpectedly tossed me over his wide shoulder, his hand pressing down on the back of my thigh as my skirt had crept up. And then there'd been that startling moment when he'd stroked my sensitive skin there, making me shameless.

Somehow, some way, Noah had my number.

Fantasy or not, though, he was gone. Yes, I'd blown him off thoroughly, so why would he ever come back for more smart-mouthing from me?

Better yet, what exactly had attracted him in the first place?

There were still so many unanswered questions, and I slept on every one of them. Then I trudged to classes in the morning, barely hearing anything about modern literature, advanced physics, or anthropology, and when I got home, I fully intended to hit the books since I had the day off and I usually got a lot done when I didn't have to report to the Angel's Seat.

But I couldn't concentrate worth a cock's crow.

What I needed was to distract myself, and some physical exertion would help me with that, so I ended up going to the garage, where I was still sorting through Uncle Joseph's possessions. Delroy had asked if I would take care of that, and I'd agreed since I couldn't bear the thought of my great-uncle's precious boxes being given away unopened to just anyone.

I'd already managed to get through half of his things, and believe me, it wasn't easy to part with what I'd found: old turntables with a library of jazz, country, and blues vinyls; vintage suits that came in all colors; an acoustic guitar and a fiddle; faded slides and photos of Delroy when he was little, hanging out with family members I barely knew, although I'd tucked the ones that included my parents into a shoebox that I kept on top of my desk. I hadn't been able to give away any of those other things, either.

That made me kind of useless as I went through Joseph's belongings, but I felt as if he lived in these objects, and it was hard to let go.

The same held true when I came upon a box brimming with Little Golden Books that I recalled reading as a small child, when I would come visit Uncle Joseph with my parents and sit on his lap to recite
Little Mommy
from memory because I'd heard it from him so many times. That'd been before I realized the book was rather sexist, but it was sweet and innocent, too. Just like I used to be.

“Your parents raised you well, little girl,”
he'd say to me.
“They're real proud of how you're turning out.”

Would they still feel that way? I liked to think so, even if I'd misstepped a time or two. But I'd avoided making a mistake with the wrong guy again last night, hadn't I? I'd exercised some willpower, refusing to be led around like a puppet on string yet again by a man who didn't actually care all that much about me in the end.

Wasn't
I
just the champion?

My phone, which I'd set on the concrete next to me, buzzed with a text that nearly jarred my bones. And when I picked it up and saw the number and message, I only gaped.

555-8465:

You missed a good party.

Simmons? Why in the world would he want to contact me after I'd zoomed out of the Club?

I set the phone down for a moment, almost as if it'd needled me. Simmons had no reason to carry on this conversation—not unless he was offended that'd I'd shafted his boy after Noah had gone through such effort for me at the Club. Or if Noah had told him to still pursue me. Some guys—especially worldly businessmen, I imagined—didn't take well to losing, especially to someone who wasn't in their class.

Talk about not taking “no” for an answer. But burn me once, shame on you, burn me twice . . . Well, I'd been there, and I wasn't going for a third time.

Still, I highly doubted Simmons would go away if I just ignored him.

Jadyn:

Did your boss tell you to check up on me?

555-8465:

LOL. You're talking to the boss.

I didn't know whether to keep hold of the phone or shove it into a box where I'd never see it again.

Noah?

His next text flashed over the screen.

555-8465:

I snatched Simmons's phone when he wasn't looking.

I almost asked if Simmons was keeping my number away from Noah for some reason. Why else wouldn't Noah just get my number from his friend and call me on his own?

Maybe he didn't want me to have his real number, I thought. Maybe this phone would be thrown away just as soon as the games were over with me.

Jadyn:

Maybe you should mind your valet and stay off the phone, especially when it isn't even yours.

555-8465:

Just as lively as last night. Has anyone ever told you that you're pretty fun?

Me, fun? Oddly enough, he seemed fun right now, too, as if he'd shaken off his moodiness from before.

Jadyn:

I wasn't ever going for “fun,” Reeves.

Psychology 101—last names put people at a distance. I'd learned that from my friend Evie during the summer. She was full of helpful tips like that. And Lord knew I needed all the distance I could get from . . . Reeves.

555-8465:

Why'd you leave the Club so fast?

Okay, clearly the only way I was going to get through to a hardheaded tycoon—jeez, a
tycoon
—was to lay everything out there and give it to him straight, like a memo or a report. Something he'd understand.

Jadyn:

Listen, I'm not trying to play hard to get. I'm simply not interested.

Was he laughing uproariously yet? How many waitresses had turned him down lately?

555-8465:

Interested in what . . . ?

Cute. It was the dot, dot, dot that told me he was stringing me along, wanting me to admit to what we were really talking about here. Attraction. But the doubts crept up on me, anyway: What if I was reading too much into him? What if he was just looking for a temporary chat buddy right now or . . .

Right—that's why he'd set up that VIP room at Hellfire: to chat. But I still couldn't believe he'd be into me, Random Miss Sexter.

Jadyn:

If you don't know what you're interested in, that's not my problem. I'd see a therapist about it, STAT.

555-8465:

See, you're VERY fun.

Jadyn:

And you're the sort of guy I try to avoid.

555-8465:

What kind is that? The kind who's fun, too? Come on, Jadyn, you *know* I'm fun. Everyone needs some of that in life.

Jadyn:

I've had my fill.

555-8465:

You certainly seem to want more of it right now.

Dang it, he had me there. If I didn't need some of what he was bringing, why couldn't I keep myself from answering these texts? And why couldn't I stop breaking off into la-la land via the Noah Reeves scenic route every five minutes? I couldn't get him out of my head.

It probably would've taken superpowers to stay away from him, but I drew upon the only power I had—the truth.

Jadyn:

I don't know why I'm still chatting. You remind me of an ex—or two—and let's just say they didn't leave a good impression.

555-8465:

How do I remind you of them?

Jadyn:

Too much charm, not enough sincerity. We're gonna leave it at that.

So far, I hadn't experienced any text-pauses with Noah, not like I had before when Simmons had been messaging. Was it because we'd face-to-faced and Noah wasn't just a bunch of words on a screen like Simmons had been?

I wished he wasn't so easy to talk to, so easy to like.

His answer buzzed me.

555-8465:

You're one hell of a guarded woman.

Ah, so he was finally getting it. I wasn't sure if I should be happy or bummed about that. From the way something in my chest sank, I knew whatever I was feeling wasn't happy.

555-8465:

Guarded and unhappy is no way to live. Believe me.

Now I was the one who hesitated. He seemed to be saying a lot more about himself than what was on the surface, and damn me, but I wanted to know what he was truly getting at. I wanted to rest my hand on his, just as I would with anyone who needed a good listen, but with Noah . . .

I was one-hundred percent certain it wouldn't end there. He was surely the type who took, and I'd always been the kind to give—at least before I'd learned the hard way.

555-8465:

Do me a favor?

Jadyn:

Depends.

555-8465:

Just look out your window.

Dear God. What now?

I glanced down at myself. I had on a dust-covered T-shirt, jeans with holes in the knees, old kicks. My hair wasn't any neater in the haphazard ponytail I'd put it in, and a jolt of panic sent me to my feet. If Noah had done something impulsive like search out my address and come to my house, I was gonna die.

With my heart in my throat, I dragged over a stepstool, climbed on it, and peered out one of the dirty rectangular windows of the garage.

Shit
.

Even though I'd just thought it, not said it, I still covered my mouth and ducked. But in a millisecond I was right back to looking outside.

That slick red sports car I'd seen in the Angel's Seat parking lot was waiting at the curb, and Simmons was standing by the passenger side door, all boy-bandy and casual.

I madly texted Noah.

Jadyn:

No.

555-8465:

No what?

Jadyn:

No to whatever Simmons is here for.

Heart blipping, heart singing, I didn't know whether to laugh or run. I only glanced out the window again, where Simmons seemed to be getting more impatient by the moment.

555-8465:

Jadyn, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that you probably don't trust me. But if you did, I wouldn't take advantage of it. Can you believe that, just for a couple of hours?

Wow—was this the guy who'd almost gotten in a brawl last night? I didn't know if he was coming or going because, at the moment, he sounded rascally, not haunted.

My instincts shook their emotional heads, telling me to block his number and stay here in the garage until Simmons left, because he'd have to go about his business someday.

But, as I said, he had my number—and not just on a phone.

555-8465:

Just one safe afternoon, Jadyn, that's all I'm asking. Then I won't bother you anymore.

Unreal, this chase, his determination. And I wanted to go wherever that car might take me—yes, I did. Because in forty-five years, when I looked back at all my pictures in the boxes I'd have in my own garage, would I regret saying no today?

Just one safe afternoon. That was all he was asking.

So, in spite of all the common sense I had left, I sent a text.

***

Jadyn:

Simmons is now driving me out to Miller Dock Lake. Still won't tell me what's going on. Just keeps saying it's a surprise and then sighing like he's seen a lot of Noah's surprises before.

I put the phone in my lap. Back in the garage, I'd sent Carley a text, and then another after I'd called to Simmons from the porch about how I needed to get dressed before we went anywhere—and getting dressed had entailed a quick shower, because I was not going to step foot in that hot car all work-dusty.

I'd sent yet another message after we got on our way, keeping Carley abreast of everything, being a smart girl just in case Noah was . . .

What? A killer in disguise?

Uh-huh.

Simmons had been silent this whole time, even while I'd been worshipfully running my hands over the car's leather, inspecting the space-aged dashboard, and generally shooting questions at him like he was a cutout in a cowboy-themed gallery with pop-up targets that dinged when you hit them. But that didn't mean I wasn't still trying.

“Can't you give me even a hint as to what Reeves is up to?” I asked.

He gave me a strange look at how I'd used Noah's last name. “You know what I'm going to say.”

“That this is all a secret and he just wants to have fun with the non-coy accidental texter before he leaves town.”

He nodded, steering us onto the dirt road by the lake. A message from Carley came through, and I gladly accessed it.

Carley:

I still can't believe this! Take pictures, k? Tell me if he's a good kisser, too!

Jadyn:

Kissing=verboten.

Carley:

Really? You're going to make me look that up?

Simmons was driving the car—I'd found out it was a Ferrari—toward the water. The expanse of the lake, the sun-sparkle of a fall day with Halloween-tinted leaves on the trees, and the stately pines and the dock where kids partied during the summer clutched at me. There'd been good times and bad times here, but I'd grown up swimming in these waters. I even remembered coming with my parents once, so this could never truly be a place I'd avoid.

Not even with Noah waiting on the shore next to a tent with violet material flowing in the slight wind, a table and chairs set up inside.

“No way,” I said.

I slid a glance to Simmons, who merely pulled close to the tent and then cut the engine. He got out of the car and came around to my side, opening the door for me.

I got out. “Thank you.”

He made a sound that could've meant “you're welcome” or “whatever,” then walked away. That left me to turn toward Noah, who had strolled up the shore with a smile that was definitely more devil than angel.

Had he deliberately dressed like he was ready for the Hamptons? His broad shoulders pulled at his white cable-knit sweater, and his pants and tennis shoes were also white and crisp. His light hair, cuffed by the breeze, even gave the impression of a golden boy who'd gotten a little tarnished somewhere along the line. The scar on his neck only added to that impression.