Page 6 of Come in with the Rain
“Yeah,” I say, even though I’m not sure I’ve ever been further from okay.
CHAPTER8
STELLA
Iwatch Mickey laugh, the way he throws back his head, his face full of glee. I can’t tell when it’s real and when it’s not anymore. I used to be able to.
“Stella.”
I turn and smile at the woman whose name I absolutely should remember, but I don’t. She works for Mickey; everyone here does. These are the people who run his boards and manage his properties and make foreign deals with Kline Corp investors. And this woman, dressed in a black gown that flows all the way down to the floor, is someone who I know I’ve met before, probably at the last event Mickey threw for his top people. I always come to the events.
“Hello,” I say, handing the woman the untouched champagne in my hand and signaling for a new glass. “Are you having a good time?”
“Absolutely,” the woman says. “We always do. Mickey really knows how to throw a party.”
I chuckle politely. “Yes, he does.” Complete with a string quartet, gift bags for the guests, and a four-course meal. You would think he was preparing to welcome the President of the United States, but I suspect that he likes to throw these massive soirees because it makes people like the woman I’m speaking to now giddy over a night of luxury.
Mickey chooses that moment to look my way, and something on my face must convince him to come over because he makes his way across the room as the woman I’m talking to gets distracted by a familiar face over my shoulder. When Mickey gets to me, he wraps one warm hand around my elbow and leads me away from the crowd, off to a quiet corner.
“You okay?” he asks, examining my face, and I feel something thick settle at the base of my throat. When I first started seeing Mickey, he was attentive. He noticed when something was wrong. He gave me attention when I was craving it. But when was the last time he looked directly at me, instead of right past me, like this? I press a hand to his stubbled cheek.
“Yeah, I’m okay.” It’s not exactly the truth, but it’s okay for now. I don’t want to burden him with this growing feeling I’ve had in my stomach all night. This feeling like I’m not really here, like I’m a sort of living statue that’s been paid to stand in the corner, occasionally addressed by people who most likely refer to me as “Mickey’s girlfriend” when I’m not around, instead of my actual name.
“Did something weird happen with the contractors today?”
His words are so unexpected that I jerk a little in his hold. All evening, I’ve been running through the events of this afternoon in my head. Hearing Adam shout through the walls of my bedroom, finding him on the bathroom floor with his hands over his head like a bomb was about to go off, Shawn showing me the power drill with that devastatingly confused look on his face. Adam pulling me to the ground, covering my body with his, looking at me with so much fear that my heart broke. I can still feel the heat of him, every powerful ridge of muscle holding me down, his breath huffing out in that rhythmic way that made me sweat.
“Who told you something happened?” I imagine Adam’s boss, the way his face was red with anger by the time he got to the bathroom, even though Adam was clearly experiencing side effects of some kind of PTSD. Would Adam’s boss go to Mickey? Would he rat out his own contractor?
Mickey shrugs. He’s not looking directly at me anymore. He’s scanning the room. “No one. Happened to catch some of the commotion on the monitors.” He must have seen me go into the bathroom, or maybe just all the guys gathering around the doorway. He definitely didn’t see what happenedinsidethe bathroom. There are no cameras in there.
I see his jaw work for a moment, the way it does when he’s frustrated and trying to maintain strict control over himself, but he keeps his eyes trained on his guests. “They’re not giving you any trouble, are they?”
My face flushes. Mickey may be quiet and focused and gentle, but if he thought any of those contractors was messing with me, he would come for them in a big way. And Mickey can ruin anyone’s life with a few phone calls.
I quickly shake my head. “No. They’ve all been very nice. Adam just had some trouble today.” Mickey’s eyes shoot to me, and I know it’s because I’ve mentioned Adam by his first name. It’s not impolite but I guess unexpected. Why should I know any of their names? Why should I be speaking to them at all?
Mickey’s gaze roves over my face, and I have no idea what he can see there. If he can tell that ever since the men went home earlier, I haven’t stopped thinking abouthim: how tall he is, how unbearably handsome, with his short blond hair and square jaw and chest so broad that it pushes against the front of his t-shirt, all the way down where his muscled torso disappears into his jeans. Haven’t stopped thinking about the fact that having his arms around me, even in his moment of distress, was the most exciting and intimate thing that’s happened to me in a long time.
I take a deep breath and smile back at Mickey, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. “We should go spend time with our guests.” He doesn’t stop me when I walk away.
CHAPTER9
ADAM
Berserkr Gym is quiet. I can’t recall when the music blasting out of the four-foot tower speakers at the back of the room stopped, but it did, and it’s only now that my brain has finally given me a rest that I realize Ford is watching me. I wish I could say I’m not sure how I missed him standing there all six feet four inches and two hundred fifty pounds of muscle of him leaning against the wall. But I do know.
I missed him because I’ve spent the last two hours thinking about Stella, punching all the way through the wrap around my knuckles. Stella naked in bed. Stella pressed to her bathroom floor. Stella stopping outside her own door to brace herself before coming inside. It’s like I’m strapped to a chair with my eyes taped open, and someone is force-feeding me footage of her.
“What’s wrong, amigo?” Ford asks when I’ve grabbed onto my swinging punching bag with both hands to still it. He offers me my water bottle. I take it and pop the lid open.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I pant. I can feel the sweat going cold on my lower back, my stomach, my chest.
Ford nods, his arms crossed, showing off his tattooed skin. “Right,” he says in his gruff English accent. “Nothing’s wrong, and that’s why you’re here, beating the stuffing out of my punching bag at”—he consults the clock on the wall—“11:28 at night.”
I run a sweaty hand down my sweaty face, accomplishing nothing. “Shit, man. I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.” I glance behind me, and sure enough, the rest of the boxing gym is empty. Not even Danika, Ford’s business partner and our mutual best friend, is lurking around.
Ford claps one hand on my shoulder hard enough to make me wince. “It’s fine. It’s not like I wasn’t going to be here late anyway, living upstairs and all, but you’ve got to find a healthier way to sort through your shit.”
