Page 19 of Play for Power (Central Sparks #3)

all little bitches need a collar

Caleb

“ K yla, Jeremy, you finish on the Baker account?”

“Yeah, new brief was emailed this morning, should hear back today.” I incline my head in their direction; they were handling the rebrand for the Baker sister’s studio.

They had finally incorporated some full-time self-defense classes and thought their original logos were deceiving.

They wanted something stronger and we delivered. Of course.

It was finally some good news. I still haven’t heard back from Andersen Schulz and Meyers and it has been a week.

Add to that, I had to fire two of my top salesmen today after word got around about some shady shit they were up to at Lucas’s bar.

I’m not one to rain on someone’s fun parade when it’s outside the office, but there are just some moral lines we don’t cross and I know Noah and the company won’t stand for that shit, me included.

It means my workload has increased until I can find replacements. Like my stress and exhaustion aren’t enough, it has also been a week since Rosie finally caved, but I still haven’t heard from her. It’s beginning to make my skin itch.

I want to burn through some of this energy and, despite knowing we aren’t exclusive, I want to exclusively use her to burn through it.

“Package on your desk, boss,” my assistant says as I pass her on my way. I smile in thanks as I make my way in and sit down. A square box that looks suspiciously like a jewelry box sits on my desk. I take the folded note from under it and flip it to read the feminine handwriting.

Ready to beg on your knees like a good boy?

R.G.

Goddamn. The smile that splits my face is instant and I feel my cock twitch. Rosebud came to play.

I open the box and a masculine silver chain sits in a deep purple cushion. Pulling it from the box, a little charm falls and air gets stuck in my throat. “The fuck?” I whisper to myself.

It’s a snarling dog; a rottweiler, I think? With a spiked collar. Without wasting a second, I pull out my phone and dial.

“Rosie Garcia,” she chimes, as though she hasn’t a clue who called.

“Cute.”

“I know, thank you.” I picture her flipping those tight curls over her shoulder.

“I got your gift.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t play coy. A dog?”

“All little bitches need a collar, hotshot.” Without even trying, Rosie has me standing at attention in the middle of a fucking workday.

“I’ll punish you for that brattiness, Rosebud.”

“Please, I?—”

“That’s almost perfect, best to work on those manners, you’ll need practice if you want me to go easy.”

“If I wanted easy, Mr. Smith, I wouldn’t play with you. ”

“Mine, eight p.m. tonight. Let’s see just how polite you can be.” The growl in my tone is uncharacteristic, I usually go for playfulness, but something about Rosie Garcia sends me feral.

“Can’t, got plans. Some other time maybe.”

“Rosie.” The tone is warning but she huffs a breath like she is completely unfazed.

“ You should practice that patience, maybe you’ll get a little treat if you behave.”

“I’m warning you.”

“You forget, Caleb, I’m in control here. You want to play? You better beg for it.” The line goes dead before I even have a chance to retort.

Standing from the desk with more aggression than I had meant, I swipe a hand down my face and storm for my door, slamming it closed.

“Rosie Fucking Garcia.”

“Four pints, thanks.” Stella starts to pour my order.

“How was work?” she asks, and with what I’m sure is barely a smile, I manage only a grunt in response. “That bad, huh?” Her smile spreads, like my misfortune brings her joy.

“You revel in other people’s pain?” I joke, but her dark eyes cut to me, and though her expression is playful, those eyes are haunting.

“Pain is lonely, it’s reassuring other people feel it.” I gulp as her quiet words cut through the air. She dumps the four pints in front of me, her smile barely reaching her eyes. I nod, chuck a few bills on the bar, and hightail it out of there.

“Hey, how’s Stell doing?” I direct to Lucas as I put the beers on the table in front of Ethan, Lucas, and Jessie.

With Matt stuck at home with two kids, and Noah in Chicago, the group is scarce for our Monday catch-up.

The addition of JJ is nice, though; glad the grumpy asshole finally gave us the time of day.

“Fine, I guess. Why?” Lucas frowns and lifts his beer for a drink.

“She just seems…off.”

“She’s always like that. Woman likes her secrets and privacy, who am I to judge?” he says nonchalantly, and the rest of us agree, save for Ethan. He stares into his beer with a white-knuckle grip.

“She get any visitors?” Ethan asks Lucas, who narrows his eyes in return.

“Visitors?”

“Yeah, people coming to the bar asking for her?”

“Ahh, no…why? You jealous?” Lucas snickers and the rest of us chuckle, but the darkness radiating from Ethan has us shutting up real quick.

“No, I am not jealous.” Simple, straightforward, just like the Ethan we know. With that lethal undertone that makes you want to tread lightly.

“How’s the self-defense classes going, Case said they’re a hit?” Jessie breaks the awkward silence.

Ethan jerks his head, a smile slowly forming. “Yeah, those girls are great. Grace is a force, but Casey is sweet, really runs a tight ship over there.” The pride that seeps from Jessie could light up a sky, and I flick my eyes upward. Ugh, caveman.

“She said the ladies all flock to your classes, wonder what that’s about.” Well, I’ll be; the caveman made a joke and is chuckling…I repeat, chuckling.

“Aw, Ethan, you’re the teacher’s pet, a class favorite. Isn’t that cute?” Lucas pats his brother on the back, and the menacing growl is back as he levels everyone with a death stare.

“I am not cute,” he says under his breath, and we laugh at his expense.

Lucas bumps my elbow. “Blonde, four o’clock.

” I subtly turn my head in the direction he pointed, and sure enough, a cute, perky blonde sits in the corner of the bar, eyeing our table.

I think her attention is actually on Lucas, but she is cute, and I have nowhere else to be tonight.

I’ve been playing a game of cat and mouse with the real reason for my permanent boner lately, and I am determined not to be the one who caves first. Perhaps the pretty blonde will be the one to help delay the craving.

Who was I kidding, there was no satiating the craving for Rosie Garcia.

“Cute.”

“Cute? She’s a bombshell.” He scoffs.

“Well, if you think so, why don’t you shoot your shot,” I challenge him, knowing full well the man’s been hung up on his roommate forever, even if he is determined to deny it.

The only thing stopping me from goading him is that his roommate’s brother is sitting on my other side. And I am more scared of him than Lucas.

“I’m good,” he mumbles, going back to his drink.

“Mm-hmm.” I smirk through my drink. Jesus, what happened to us. Hung up on women who would chew us up and spit us out like last night’s leftovers. And here we are, just salivating over them? Fuck that.

Nonexclusive, no feelings, exactly what I asked for, exactly what I wanted.

“Fuck it.” I down the rest of my beer. “Blondie bombshell for dessert,” I mutter to the table, turning to make my way over to where she sits. I muster up the desire to take her home, turn on the charm, and shove down every ounce of feeling that tries to claw its way to the top.

First thought that gets burned: she isn’t Rosie.

“So, can I call you?” Emily, the blonde bombshell from the bar, asks as I open my front door for her, her heels in hand, about to do the walk of shame.

“Do you believe in fate?” I question, tucking a blonde strand behind her ear, letting my finger trail down the side of her neck.

As anticipated, she melts into my touch and bites her lip with a quiet “Mm-hmm.”

“Then if we’re meant to be, fate will let us find each other again.” I lean down and give her a gentle kiss to her pink lips and she breathes a sigh. Before she even has her eyes open again, I close the door and lock it, dragging a hand down my face.

“Fuck, I’m beat.” I won’t lie, Emily was cute, wasn’t into too much variety, I gave her a little love tap when she had me down her throat, but she wasn’t quite into that.

It became clear this would be a sweet missionary escape, with light kisses and sweet words, and hey, I’m not one to deny a woman her desires.

I gave her two orgasms and pushed mine through quickly after.

I was tired and exhausted but not nearly enough to fall asleep without turning my brain off.

The whole evening left me feeling hollow.

It was designed to numb that sting of being an eternal bachelor, and yet…

This instant sickness in my stomach is a new feeling, and my skin feels entirely too hot—and not in the usual way that feels good.

Everything said, the way I looked at her, all of it was fake.

It was empty and hollow, and it was easy.

So easy to pretend I felt something. So easy to act like a heartless bastard.

Like a selfish prick who only worried about his own needs, wants, and desires.

The realization of how easily it all was to fall into is a sobering thought.

One that is turning my stomach. I think I’m officially too old for this bachelor lifestyle.

I head for the kitchen and pour myself a glass of whiskey, trying like hell to shake the melancholy.

The apartment is dark, the only light coming from the city through my floor-to-ceiling windows.

I make my way over, leaning on a pillar that splits the windows, and I take in the beauty of the city we live in.

Trying to feel the peace of it, the lull of the busy streets below.

But instead, I can’t get my head to switch off.

Emily was meant to quell the thoughts, help me bury all this bullshit that loops in my head, or at least help exhaust me enough to collapse in sleep and dream before I was back in the office.

Not enough to make her stay.

Love is worthless, boy.

Don’t be foolish, mark my words, women can’t be trusted, your heart can only be yours.

I down the rest of my whiskey and head to the kitchen counter to pour another two fingers, falling to the couch and staring back at the city lights.

I could lose myself in caramel skin, dark curls, and a smile sent from hell, but the reminder is still there as clear as day.

As humans, we take, it’s how we’re designed.

Despite the way I get an aching through my whole body when I smell the muskiness of her perfume, the flipping in my chest when she smiles at me like she’s ready to play, and the chills down my spine when her husky voice calls me names, at the end of the day the Garcia heiress is leagues above.

Her avoidance and reluctance should have been reminders on their own; I have no worth, nothing to offer, and when the sun sets and the moon is at its highest, we are, in the end, all still unequivocally alone in this world.

The cold, dead heart in the center of my chest will never be enough.

Just, eternally worthless.