Page 45

That isn’t good enough for me. And hearing it out loud doesn’t sit right.

How many times have I listened to her tell Lincoln or Griz she’s “good?” Especially after this past year.

I’m realizing quickly how I could have missed the shit she’s been dealing with—she doesn’t want people worrying about her.

“You have the keys?” I ask.

“To Midnight Proof, yeah, but if she wanted?—”

“With respect,” I say, looking at Grant. “Laney, give me the fucking keys.” Julep lifts her head up and barks at me, as if she knows I just cursed at her favorite person.

Laney smirks and digs into her back pocket.

I catch them as she chucks them my way. “Thanks,” I call out.

I’m out the door and in my car seconds later.

She shouldn’t have dealt with any of that on her own.

I gun it through town and make it to the main drag of Fiasco a handful of minutes later, running through the roster of things that asshole could have said to her.

She’s a grown woman and can handle herself, but fucking hell, I didn’t like the idea that I’m hearing about this from someone other than her. And hours later.

“Ladies,” I say as I walk past the sisters starting their early morning prep at Crescent de Lune.

“Hey, Ace,” they both reply with a smile as I rush down the back stairs and toward the double doors of the speakeasy.

The music’s blasting loud enough that she doesn’t hear me unlock the doors and disarm the alarm.

Anything this loud makes me uneasy, but for Hadley, she gets lost in it.

Her codes are too easy to guess—she likes to tell people her favorite things, like numbers and dates, far too frequently. I always listen.

When I walk through the long black velvet curtains, she’s perched on the bar, shoes off and legs folded, a Boston jersey draped on the bar next to her, leaving her in a simple white tank.

She’s concentrating on writing in that black notebook.

I don’t know why I’m so interested in what she scribbles in there.

It’s been the same one for as long as I can remember, and I don’t understand how she hasn’t run out of space.

She’s different when she’s distracted—still beautiful, but it’s something softer and more vulnerable when she isn’t spitting out sarcasm and insults at me.

Her hair is gathered to one side, still messy and wild.

She drains what’s left in her glass, and then pours out another shot of the most expensive bottle of bourbon on her menu. I should know, it’s mine.

“Why are you still here?” I ask, loud enough that she’ll hear me over Britney fucking Spears. “You closed two hours ago.”

Her head whips up, eyes meeting mine. She’s pissed off and ready to lace into someone.

I’ve seen that look only a few times over the years—Hadley isn’t very good at hiding her emotions.

And she typically carries a lighter mood.

Right now, whatever looms over this room feels heavy.

Angry. It’s a stark contrast to the exchange we had this morning as she sauntered past me with her bare ass and pussy out for show.

Lowering the volume on her phone, she hops off the bar. “I’m not interested in talking to you. Get out.”

Alright, I did something to piss her off.

She plucks the shot off the bar, and noticing I’m making no moves to leave, she asks, “How did you get in here?”

I walk farther into the speakeasy. “Your alarm code is predictably 6969.”

With her head cocked to the side, she gives me a dead stare as she tips back a Glencairn filled halfway.

“You’re drinking a six-hundred-dollar bottle of bourbon like a Jell-O shot.”

It’s dim in here, but with the glow of the chandeliers splashing across the room, it’s bright enough to see the soul-cutting glare she’s giving me for that comment.

She walks around to the front of the dark oak bar and grabs the bottle next to her. Tipping it, she holds it high for a long pour, and with precision, fills the glass to its brim while her eyes stay pinned to mine. “I’ll drink my bourbon however the fuck I want, Daddy.”

“Don’t,” is the only word I get out before she’s tossing the full shot of bourbon at me.

Every drop in that glass splashes up my chest and across my face.

Turning her back to me, she slams the glass upside down on the bar top, then stalks off down the hall to her office.

I pluck open the top three buttons on my shirt as the bourbon drips down my chest, but before I can even untuck it to reach the bottom buttons, she’s hustling back to me.

“You’ve been working with my father.” And without pausing to let me answer, she grits her teeth. “How long?”

Well, shit. This isn’t how I wanted to tell her.

“What have you been paying for, Ace?” She lifts her chin, finger pointed my way, chest heaving as she waits for my response. “Hawk said something, and it just didn’t—” Releasing a frustrated breath, she shakes her head. “Tell me you’re not in business with my father.”

I take my time to finish unbuttoning my shirt.

When I finally do, I unclasp the cufflinks and pocket them.

Taking off my dress shirt, I wipe what’s left of the bourbon from my chin.

“What is it you think I’ve been paying for, Hadley?

” I ask as I gather the hem of my undershirt and pull it over my head.

She swallows, looking down at my chest, more distracted. I know this warrants a conversation, but I need her to calm down if she’s going to understand all the moving parts. “You think taking your clothes off is going to chill me out here? Not happening, Foxx.”

“Liar,” I breathe out, taunting her. Hadley pissed off is a fucked-up drug that feeds me.

I look down the length of her body, appreciating each curve in a way that I rarely ever do.

Allowing my eyes to linger in all the places I want to touch and suck.

Eyes narrowed, she plucks the bottle off the bar and pours out another shot, kicking it back with her eyes still on mine. It’s fucking sexy.

“I’ve spent my entire life being dealt half-truths and bullshit answers to appease me.” When she looks down, I feel her dejection competing with her anger. “I’m done with that now.”

My stomach bottoms out. The last thing I ever wanted was for her to think I’m anything like her father. “I made a promise to him,” I tell her, taking a step closer.

She blinks back tears, just as confusion settles in the way she’s looking at me.

“And in return, he agreed to keep men like Switcher away from you. No more pushing for some bullshit marriage to some asshole you didn’t want.” I sniff out a laugh, realizing that’s exactly where she ended up anyway, only the asshole now is me.

She stands taller, pushing back her shoulders and watching me closely as she asks, “What was the promise?”

“Your father capitalized on my weakness, and he had stipulations.” I clear my throat.

“After I killed Switcher, I confronted your father. I walked right into his house, pissed off and without thinking.” I shake my head, still angry at myself all these years later for being outmaneuvered by him.

“I wasn’t going to watch shit like that happen again, Hadley.

You being traded or auctioned to the best offer, like you were some kind of property of his.

” Rubbing along the back of my neck, I take a deep breath before telling her the rest. “But he had leverage that I didn’t see coming.

Switcher didn’t matter. He got what he wanted—an upper hand on the Foxx brand, through me.

I gave him a percentage of earnings. I became the private investor for the Finch & King breeding facility.

And...” I pause as I look at her. “I paid out monthly the remainder of your trust.”

Her eyes widen. She stares at me as if she’s waiting for more, but I know it’s just because she wasn’t expecting any of this.

“Nobody knows. Not even Griz. I covered any trails that connected the Foxx brand to Wheeler. I promised to stay away from what I wanted, if he left your relationship status alone—no more pieces of shit being paraded around as marriage material to you.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, and when she opens them, a single tear falls down her cheek.

Swiping it away, she tries to put on a brave face, still looking angry, but possibly even more emotional.

“If you keep something like that from me ever again, I swear to every goddess from Aretha to Zendaya that I will make your life feel like the 10th ring of Hell,” she says firmly, hardening herself.

It's the one thing that equal parts pissed me off and served as the thing I crave. She walks up to the things that would scare the hell out of most, and then flips them off with a charming smile. She’s the kind of woman most men don’t even try to approach or handle—to them, she’s too much.

Too confident, too smart, too attractive for those who would never come close to measuring up.

It makes her that much more dangerous because she has no idea.

When enough people who are supposed to be important to you tell you and show you that you’re not, you start believing it.

She has no idea how much power she wields.

And she needs to know how important she is to me.

“There’s one thing I still don’t understand...” she trails off, pouring out another shot.

I eye what she’s doing this time, not trusting that her bratty side won’t toss another right at me.

“You said you promised to stay away from what you wanted...” Tilting her head, her eyes collide with mine again as she asks, “What was it you wanted?—”

“Want,” I cut into her question, anticipation thrumming through my veins at what this admission is going to mean. “Ask me what I want?”

Her lip quirks slightly, that small dimple puckering, like she knows what I’m going to say. It’s written all over my face right now and along the lines of everything I’ve done. “What do you wa?—”

“ You . I want you.”