Page 27 of Caged By the Stranger (Bad Decisions #1)

I curse at the fancy sports car parked on the street way too close to the entrance of my driveway.

They mustn’t value it enough if they’d risk it getting sideswiped by parking like an idiot.

Parking my SUV, I let out a sigh. I never used to have anything against Mondays.

I’ve never understood people who do. My ass, however, feels like it’s dragging from the grind of work for the third in a row now.

It’s been two weeks since I’ve been back from the most fucked-up cruise to ever cruise.

I was supposed to be happy to return to my routine, but work has lost its luster.

Making my way to my front door, I grind my teeth, knowing that’s not exactly true.

Work is fine. I’m just…distracted. If I could stop thinking about a certain CEO and the cruise activities that I got up to with said CEO, everything might feel more like it’s gone back to normal.

I don’t want to quit. Quitting won’t change what happened.

Why should I quit? I kick ass at my job.

I don’t have to see or talk to him. His name is on several mass emails now and then, but it always has been.

It doesn’t matter that I now know what the face of that name looks like or…

the rest of him. And what the rest of him… feels like.

“For fuck’s sake, Charlie,” I grumble to myself, unlocking my house.

Maybe it’s because I haven’t forgotten that little tease he dropped about me getting the promotion. Was there even a fucking promotion? If so, I’ve not heard a word about it. Certainly nothing from one Riordan McDonnell. The bastard.

It was all bullshit. Wasn’t it? He toyed with me to get me to let him fuck me, and it worked.

Growling, I curse under my breath when the lock sticks. He’s still so much in my head that I can’t even focus enough to unlock my fucking door.

Mostly, I hate the complete and utter mush that has become my brain for thinking shit like that. I would never let someone fuck me just to get a promotion, so I know that’s my pride talking. I…did what I did because…well, because I couldn’t help myself.

Whatever. I tried something new. That’s human growth. Right? It’s supposed to be good for people. Even people who don’t need to change.

I just…don’t like the idea of being…forgotten. Snorting, I shake my head and turn the key the right way, like a sane person this time, unlocking my door. Why the fuck do I care if Rory McDonnell forgot about me? Part of me can’t believe that he would, though. After all the things he said.

And that’s the other thing that doesn’t make any sense. The more I go over everything in my head, the more I can’t sell myself on the idea I was just a game to him. Who puts as much thought into everything he said and did just to have a one- or two-night stand with someone?

That combination—the one he gave me for the first lock on the cage—I think it means something. I mean… to me it does at least.

Going through my calendar last week, I got distracted—imagine that—and rehashed a timeline of interacting with a certain someone.

1-0-2-5 . That was the combination he gave me.

1-0-2-5 —October twenty-fifth. The date of the Seattle convention I met him at last year. Is it a coincidence? How can it be?

But what does it mean if it’s not? What does it matter? It would only matter if I wanted it to mean something, which I don’t. Because I’m over the entire ordeal.

A knock at the door has me nearly jumping out of my skin.

If it’s one of my freaking brothers right now, I don’t have the patience to deal with them.

I love them in my own way, but it’s like listening to someone speak a foreign language whenever we talk.

Wives, girlfriends, kids, Little League games, home repairs.

There’s never talk about cock or just hiring a contractor to do home repairs right because some of us weren’t born with brain cells that give a shit about learning home remodeling.

Honestly, I think I’d die if any of my brothers were into guys and tried talking to me about men.

Right. I need to quit my bitching. Everything’s fine being Greek between us.

“Hey, Mr. North!” my mailman greets me when I answer the door. Thank fuck, it’s just him. “I’ve got one that needs a signature today.”

I take the stiff cardboard mailer from him and close the door.

Inspecting the label, I go as rigid as the envelope.

The addressee reads, Riordan McDonnell .

I know for a fact the return address under his name isn’t the address to headquarters.

It’s from an address in the Northwest Heights area of Portland.

He said his home was in Northwest Heights, didn’t he? He sent this with his home address as the return label? Why would he do that?

My throat goes thick at the possibility he wants me to know where he lives. Why the fuck would I want to know where he lives?

Making my way to my kitchen island, I tear open the seal, ignoring the way my hand trembles. Maybe it’s photos, and he’s going to blackmail me over our…our…whatever the hell it was.

He’s a billionaire, Charlie. Why the fuck would he blackmail you? And besides, it’s lumpy. It can’t be just photos.

Oh my God. Is it another sex device?

I give myself a mental slap when my cock twitches at the thought.

I still don’t understand why my dick has felt like it’s been tranquilized since returning, unless I think about you-know-who.

Pinching my eyes shut, I shake my head over how my trip to a club over the weekend signified that aggravating factoid.

I was horny—horny from thinking about you-know-who.

Or…what I did with you-know-who. At least, that’s what I told myself when I entered that dark club in Seattle on Saturday night.

No fucking way was I chancing going to one in Portland and running into him.

Not that he probably goes to gay clubs in Portland—he fucking has his own private one. Why would he need to?

I had a shot or three for courage and danced.

It didn’t take long to feel a willing body grinding up against mine once I hit the dance floor.

It took about the same amount of time to make it to my SUV with the guy, and then…

then it took way too fucking long to realize my cock wasn’t going to work.

Because…because he didn’t sound like Rory.

Didn’t smell like Rory. Didn’t feel like Rory.

And maybe even because I didn’t…because my junk wasn’t locked up… locked up by Rory.

I will get over this…

I will.

Just as soon as I see what’s in this fucking envelope.

Reaching inside, nothing bites me. I pull out a packet of papers stapled together. My eyes scan over the works of a letterhead. It’s professional. It’s Amor’s logo. Rory’s signature is at the bottom. I read and then reread again. And again.

It’s…the promotion. I got the promotion.

I fan through the packet, catching a statement of work outlining the new position. There’s a benefits package that makes my eyes nearly boggle out of their sockets, and onboarding forms for me to sign if I choose to accept.

When I find myself scouring the fine print to see if there are punishments for violations, I give myself a mental slap over the flicker of disappointment that trickles through me when I find none. It looks legit. Professional. Entirely work-related.

Glancing at the mailer, I notice it’s still bowed open. Tipping it upside down, a key fob falls out onto my countertop. I blink at the Porsche logo on it. A Porsche… He’s giving me a Porsche as a work car?

Picking it up, I click the lock button and hear a faint chirp outside.

I walk to the door like a zombie, holding the fob out as though it’s a flashlight helping me see in the darkness.

Stepping out onto my porch, I click the button again and watch as the lights on a brand-new Porsche flash near the end of my driveway—the car I nearly sideswiped on my way in.

He delivered a Porsche to my house. Was he here, or did he pay someone to drop it off?

It shouldn’t give me a dangerous thrill to think he might have been here.

He’s a billionaire—why would he bother dropping off cars to his employees when he can pay someone?

And, of course, he can find my address if he wants.

I work for his company. All my information is on file with the HR department.

My shaky legs take me across my lawn to the curb.

I should probably be feeling something, but my emotional circuit is so confused, I don’t know what to feel.

Excitement that I got a promotion? Excitement that Rory kept his word—that his promise wasn’t bullshit?

Aroused by the license plate that reads, RC 1025 ?

RC…Rory and…Charlie? No. Another coincidence.

Right? He wouldn’t be so bonkers, he’d put that on there. Would he?

Unless…

For fuck’s sake. What is wrong with me? He’s corrupted my brain as much as his, if I’m contemplating it. Rory’s…cock?

Maybe I just have some employee number I don’t even know about, and it just happens to be the date I met him at that convention last year. Yeah. That’s totally more plausible.

Opening the passenger door, my breath catches at the sheer beauty of the custom leather interior. There’s a cell phone with a little red bow on it sitting on the seat. I tremble, reaching to open the notecard attached to it.

Our new CEO of Marketing should have a comfortable ride. Hope you like the color as much as I do.

The car is blue. I can’t help but notice it looks like a custom paint job. I’ve not seen this color on a car. It almost matches the color of my eyes…

Tapping the phone, I don’t know what I expect to find on the home screen.

A love letter? Again…what the fuck is wrong with me?

There’s nothing but a generic home screen, which brings me both relief and disappointment.

Clicking on the contacts, I still at the sight of three entries. HQ. HR. And… Rory .

If I fucking accidentally dial him right now and have to talk to him, I’ll never forgive myself.

Carefully, I click on his screen name, and it brings up his details.

I need to know. I just have to. There are three entries in his contact profile.

His work landline. His work cell phone. And a third— Rory Personal Cell .

He gave me his number. I now have his number. After a rush of shivers fans over my body from head to toe, I suck in a breath. And then…I slam the car door shut and lock it.

It’s bait. I fucking know it is. I’m a mouse and he’s dangling cheese in front of me, waiting to see if I’ll bite.

I won’t.

I’ll take the job and keep the fucking car. I earned the job, at least. But I won’t bite. I’m no fucking mouse.