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Letting shit go is about as easy as it is for her to make a left-hand turn without taking out another car. “Ican’t.”
“Try.”
Her eyes dart to mine, her bottom lip jetting out. “Roan....”
“Fuck, fine.” She’s not going to stop. “I didn’t sleep with anyone.”
Her face adopts shock, and then sadness as she processes my words. To my surprise, she grabs my face and yanks my head to her chest. There are two problems with this situation. Scarlet has no tits, I mean, she does, but they’re small and it’s strange that she’s fucking my brother and my head is pressed to her chest. It’s not unpleasant. And then she yanks my head up. “So you didn’t sleep with that reporter?”
I don’t answer because do you want to know the other problem with the situation? She’s fucking driving a car. We nearly miss a Stop sign when the car comes to a halt with a screech.
“You didn’t....”
“You need to let go and get out of the driver seat.” I unbuckle and open the door. “I’m driving.”
As luck would have it, we’re pulled over for an illegal lane change. That’s only one of the dozen traffic violations Scarlet committed in the last ten minutes.
Later that night, and I blame this on the cold medicine and the mixture of the vodka, but I call Ophelia. Thankfully, and probably not so great, she doesn’t answer, and I leave a message.
“I miss you,” I say, then hang up. It’s simple, yet maybe profound?
He calls me. Once I see his name flash across the screen, panic clenches my heart. My skin heats, my stomach knotting like a pretzel. And then comes his words, rough, callous, bleeding. “I miss you.”
His voice sends a conversant rush through me. Anticipation for the unknown gnaws at my resolve and I fight the urge to return the call. I don’t though because I know what it will lead to. I’ll go to him. I’m a mortal in his presence and he’s a god of the purest domination over me. I clench my phone to my chest, my hands shaking, continuously astounded by the depth of emotions evoked by even the simplest words.
The next morning I’m wading through depositions at Perez Law Firm when I get a call from my mom. Recently she opened up a second restaurant in Palmdale but hadn’t finished because of a land dispute they’d been fighting with the neighboring property. Funny enough, with all my legal expertise I’ve gotten—ha, I barely graduated—I’ve somehow been able to offer her some assistance.
You know what else I’ve come across in the month I’ve been back? A string of lawsuits and restraining orders against Tiller. No surprise there.
Anyway, my mom calls me up frantic that evening as Agustin and I are heading out to dinner. “Baby, can you do me a huge favor and stop by the Sawyers’. I need your dad’s signature to finalize the loan for the expansion.”
Agustin clicks the remote to his Range Rover, watching me over the hood of the SUV. He notices the panic on my face, and mouths, “Are you okay?”
I disguise the building fear with a nod. “I don’t have the documents though.”
“I faxed them to your office. Can you take them to him? I’m way across town and he won’t be around tomorrow with the Night of the JUMPs in Long Beach.”
I nearly forgot the freestyle motocross guys were taking over Long Beach tomorrow. Okay, I didn’t forget, but I think deep down, I wanted to because I knewhe’dbe there. “Shit, okay.” I hang up with my mom and smile over at Agustin as he slides into the driver seat next to me. “We uh, have to make a detour.”
I know what you’re thinking. Are the red lights flashing “this is a bad idea” in your head? Yeah, me too. I’m dating Agustin—okay, living with him—so he’d meet him sooner or later, right?
Riiiiiiight?
Not if I had any say in it, but I didn’t. My mom had been working on this expansion for over a year and I know what it means to her.
Forty-five minutes later, we pull up to the gate. Agustin chuckles at the sign. “So these guys are friends of yours?”
Believe it or not, I’ve avoided telling Agustin anything about my past here. As far as he knows, I was raised in Brentwood, my dad’s a bodyguard and my mom’s a chef. He has no idea what I’ve seen and done at this house in the hills of Pasadena.
“Uh, yeah. Sorta.” What the hell kind of answer is that? Nausea hits my stomach and if I wasn’t sitting, I probably would have stumbled at the way the rush hits me when the house comes into view. It’s still there, in all its magnificent glory.
Agustin dips his head forward as he pulls up next to Tiller’s Raptor parked in the driveway. “Wow, nice house.”
“Listen.” I shift in the seat, the sound of leather against jeans rustling through the car. I swallow, trying to find the courage, the warning needed before he steps foot out of this car. I want to even go as far as making him stay in the car, where it’s safe. “These guys are a bit much.”
He brings my hand to his lips. “They can’t be that bad.”
Those just might be Agustin Perez’s last words. Literally.