BASTARD: A Stepbrother Romance (These Wicked Games Book 1) Page 5

  Cade turns the phone’s screen off.

  “Leaving town?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  Rosenthal shakes his head. “No, no problem.”

  “I’ll show you out.”

  “We can find our way,” Johnson says.

  Cade ignores this and heads to the door, not stopping to see if they’re following him.

  They stand there for a second, then shake their heads and move toward the door. So do I.

  “Thanks for your time,” Johnson says while Rosenthal gets in the elevator.

  “Sure,” Cade replies flatly.

  He waits until they’re gone, then, when the indicator reaches L, he hits the button to bring it back up. He turns to look inside, pushes past me, and grabs a leather bench.

  “Taking a long time,” I say.

  Cade just grunts.

  A minute later the elevator dings and the doors open, and he goes to place the bench between them. He’s forced to stop by the tray being pushed out.

  “Pardon me,” the man doing the pushing says.

  “What’s this?” Cade asks.

  “This is,” he looks down at a piece of paper, and proceeds to recite everything I ordered.

  My face burns. God, I’m such a glutton.

  Cade turns to me. “Did you order this?”

  I nod sheepishly. “Sorry, I—”

  “It’s fine.”

  He digs in his pocket and comes out with two bills. “Sorry, I only have hundreds.”

  The man puts up his hand. “Not necessary, Mr Dorn.”

  Cade smiles. “Maybe not.” He holds out both bills to the man. “I use credit cards anyway.”

  “I apologize, the food goes on the room’s tab.”

  Cade nods. “This is for you.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly take it.”

  “Okay,” Cade says, and stuffs the money into the man’s coat pocket. “There. Now, would you mind bringing this inside for us?”

  “Not at all.”

  The man sets up the food in the kitchen, then leaves, thanking Cade again.

  As soon as he gets in the elevator, Cade waits by the door.

  “I think you can hit it now,” I say.

  “Maybe.” But he doesn’t hit it until the indicator reads L.

  Then he stands there, the bench at his feet.

  “What’s going on?”

  The doors open, and he slides the bench between them. “Precautions.”

  “They were here about me.”

  He nods and pushes me back into the room, locking the door behind us. “Yes. That’s what concerns me.” He fixes his gaze on me. “How did Cynthia know we were here?”

  “Cynthia? Not, ‘Mom’?”

  “I haven’t thought of her as Mom in a long time.” He spins me and places his hand on my lower back. I get chills, and a throbbing heat begins between my legs. “Come on. I need to pack. And you obviously need to eat.”

  Chapter 16

  While I’m eating as fast as I can, Martin calls and lets Cade know there’s a bunch of reporters downstairs on the street, most likely waiting for him. Either that, or the famous teen singer who is staying one floor below us.

  Cade acts like he knows her, but I don’t question how.

  I don’t know I want to know. Cade is beautiful, and rich, and famous enough for other famous people to recognize him as kin. Or at least richer than they are.

  Cade only has a single suitcase, which he wears on his back instead of rolling.

  I have nothing, but the clothes on my back and the food in my stomach.

  Which right now is feeling like a pretty heavy burden.

  I regret every bite as I climb the suite’s stairs to the second-floor bedroom. “Why can’t we take the normal elevator?” I whine.

  He looks back at me, and grabs my hand, pulling me up.

  I grunt.

  “Come on little bird.”

  We get by the throng without being noticed, thanks to the Martin’s warning and the rental SUV’s tinted windows, and head toward LAX.

  “I can’t believe we’re flying,” I comment.

  “Why?” Cade asks.

  “It’s in the same state. It’s only like an eight hour drive.”

  “How much do you think I make, Mags?”

  My face goes red, and I mumble something.

  “Just my investment income, not counting how much I make for my company, or its own valuation, just my personal portfolio, averaged about one thousand dollars an hour for every hour of every day last year. That means that if I’m not enjoying myself, or doing something good, I need to be paid at least that much to do it, just to beat the income from my portfolio, which is a negligible percent of my net worth. Spending an extra seven hours in transit would thus cost me, at the absolute minimum, seven grand. A first class ticket from here to SF is about a grand after taxes, so that means I’m saving six thousand dollars.” He glances at me. “Does that seem like a good deal to you, or a lavish expense?”

  I shake my head. “Seems reasonable.”

  “Of course, now I have to pay for your ticket. That throws the whole thing off.”

  I punch his shoulder. “Asshole.”

  “Scab.”

  I laugh. “You haven’t called me that in years.”

  “Well, don’t get used to it.”

  I laugh again. “I’ll try to contain my disappointment.”

  “Good. I don’t want you harshing on my mellow.”

  “Oh my god!” I cry. “I forgot about Adam! You were always calling him a scab.”

  “I used to think it meant something other than what it does.”

  “How is he?”

  “Mellow as ever.”

  “Is he still in SF?”

  Cade nods. “He’s our resident artist.”

  “No.”

  “Yeah.” He shrugs. “Abstract fits surprisingly well in our office. And I figured he needed food and a roof, and he wasn’t going to make that happen on his own. So instead of giving him money, I gave him a job.” He shakes his head. “He’s turned out to be really good at it.”

  “I can’t wait to see him.”

  Cade looks at me, squinting. “Didn’t you used to have a crush on him?”

  My mouth opens and my eyebrows shoot up. “Adam?” I laugh. “No. Why would you think that?”

  “Just things I heard. You had some older guy you liked.”

  “Who said that?”

  “I’m not naming names, but, Alexis.”

  “God, no, she was talking about you, dummy!” I realize what I’m saying too late, and a surge of adrenaline courses through me. I feel dirty and wrong, but at the same time, there’s something erotic at having it be out in the open like that.

  Cade stares at me for so long I fear we might crash. But I don’t want him to look away. I like how it makes me feel exposed, how it seems to sear into me, burn through my clothes and lay me naked and bare before him.

  A horn honks, and he looks back at the road, quickly swerving to avoid a head-on collision.

  He glances in his rearview. “I think that was a cop.”

  But I don’t want to talk about what may or may not have been a cop, I want to talk about this. So I do something, try to change something. “I used to think about you a lot.”

  “Oh.”

  “When I was alone in bed.”

  Cade says nothing.

  “I used to imagine you coming into my room, crawling into bed with me…” I trail off, wishing I could say what I want to say: that I fantasized about him taking me, fucking me. But the truth is, at that age, I just wanted him to hold me. About the most illicit thing I wanted him to do was… “Kissing me.”

  Cade’s hand goes to my thigh, squeezes. “Don’t.”

  I look over at him, but before I can speak, I see the outline in his pants. His cock his hard, the erection obvious against his thigh.

  “Why?” Such a simple word, yet so much defiance in it. So much boldness.r />
  He shakes his head. “We can’t do this.”

  I reach over, shocking myself, and place my small fingers against his large shaft.

  He gasps, and his eyes briefly close. “Fuck,” he breathes. His grip on my thigh tightens, and begins sliding up. And up. It stops just short, and I want to press myself into him, but don’t dare, for fear of screwing this up. His hand is so close that he must be able to feel my heat.

  My heat for him. My desire. My burning, aching need.

  Then he lets go of me, and grabs my hand, pulling it away from his cock. “Keep your hands on your side.”

  I stare at him, but he doesn’t look at me.

  I open my mouth, but the tears begin, and I can’t speak without my words being choked. So I just look out my window, and watch the city rush by as the tears roll down my cheeks.

  Chapter 17

  At the airport, someone is waiting to take the car back to Hertz. She also hands each of us a ticket. I grab my bag with my laptop and quickly head to the terminal.

  “Mags!” Cade calls. “Wait up.”

  I ignore him, picking up my pace.

  “Stop! You don’t understand!”

  I understand, all right. I’m not good enough for him. Not sexy enough, not thin enough, not blonde enough. And I’m short, too. Oh yeah, and I’m his stepsister.

  Why the fuck did I ever think he’d go for me?

  I feel someone grip my arm. Damn my short legs.

  I’m ready to spin on him, but suddenly people with cameras and microphones appear, seeming to materialize from within the crowd and rushing us like a swarm of ants.

  “Shit,” I hear him mutter. He lets go of me.

  I watch the people oozing toward us, and turn to him. “Who—” I stop when I find the space behind me empty. I look around, but don’t see him anywhere.

  “Ms Claire!” people call out.

  One woman, running—instead of the fast walking most of the others are doing—to be the first to get to me, shoves a mic into my face. “Ms Saint Claire, how does it feel to finally be free?”

  What the fuck? I think. How did they know that?

  Another one reaches me, he also was running. “Maggie, do you know about your brother’s history? Is it true that he took you against your will?”

  Before I can even think to answer, another person, just an anonymous member of the blob of reporters now, says, “How does it feel to be kidnapped by a billionaire?”

  “Is it true Elliot Hayes and your brother are in a war over the direction of Ada Corp?”

  “Shut up!” I scream, and push my way through them. They pursue, asking questions. Calling me. Calling my name. “Maggie! Maggie! Ms Saint Claire!” Some—those who apparently haven’t done their research—even shout, “Claire!”

  I just keep going, with no clue where I’m headed, just knowing I have to get away. I feel like they’ll crush me. I feel trapped.

  “Get away!” I scream, and still trying to push through them. My laptop bag catches on one of the huge video cameras, and I crash to the floor, bringing the camera and the man holding it down with me.

  It lands on my calf and deadens it. I crawl out from under the press and try to stand, my injured leg buckling.

  Some of the blob try to catch me, some even manage to succeed.

  I see a break in the crowd, and push through, limping along, my laptop banging into my lower back.

  I round a bend and look back. No one yet. Maybe they’ve given up.

  Up ahead is a bathroom. I dash into it and lock myself in a stall. I lean against the door. A wave a nausea hits me and I lurch forward, barely making it into the toilet. I throw up all the expensive food. Food that cost Cade two hundred dollars in tip alone, and feel like a wasteful glutton.

  I wipe my mouth and just breathe for a minute, my heart thudding, my ears ringing.

  I open the door and have a camera and mic shoved into my face. Two women and a camera man are there.

  The women are talking, the camera man has the camera pointed generally at me, but is looking at the bathroom entrance.

  “Fuck off!” I scream in answer to their questions. Maybe my language will be so vile they can’t broadcast it. Or they’ll just bleep it.

  I shove past the skinny bitches with their false-concern-laced questions and out the door.

  “Move, idiot!” I hear one of them shout, and hear the camera man say, “Ow.”

  The blob is congregated in one area, looking around. Probably for me.

  I try to get my bearings. Which way did I come in? Cade might be waiting for me at the car, or at least where the car was. I wonder if the woman drove off, or if Cade—

  Someone slams into my back, nearly knocking me down.

  “Sorry.” A hand grabs my shoulder, preventing me from falling.

  It’s the cameraman. The false faces are right behind him.

  “Thanks,” I say, and run.

  Someone must have spotted me, because I hear my name being called.

  But the exit—an exit, which at least feels familiar; like the one I came in through—is in sight, and I run toward it for all I’m worth.

  Several police officers enter through the doors I’m aiming for, appearing to be looking for someone. I run toward them. Hopefully they can spare a little time to save me.

  When they see me, they start shouting, “Back! Give her space,” and putting their arms up to stop the blob from consuming me.

  Well that was nice of them.

  I run behind them in hopes of getting the heck out of here while the blob is distracted.

  And stop dead. “Dad?”

  He wraps his arms around me. “I heard what happened. I was so worried.”

  My hands hang limp at my sides as he squeezes me. I don’t know what to do, how to feel. He’s never so nice to me. What changed…

  But as I think, and listen to the police try to corral the media, it clicks. We’re probably being filmed, and he’s probably trying to be seen as the loving, caring father.

  I want to pull away from him, but who else do I have?

  Not Cade.

  Slowly, I lift my arms, and hug him back.

  Chapter 18

  He, along with two of the officers, lead me outside. Cade’s SUV is gone. In its place is Dad’s Subaru wagon.

  I’m not surprised Cade’s gone. But I still hoped he wouldn’t be. That he’d waited. That he hadn’t left me again.

  But it’s the same as before. Cade’s gone, and I’m left behind with Cynthia and my dad.

  I rush to the passenger door and open it. But before I can get in, I see someone’s legs occupying the seat.

  “Hi sweetie,” Cynthia says.

  “Get in the back,” Dad says, before getting in the driver’s seat.

  I’m too shocked to do anything else but obey.

  But as soon as I hear the door slam shut, I can’t help but think I’ve made a huge mistake.

  I’m going right back where I don’t want to be. Where I dread being—a fact I’ve never fully understood until just now.

  Because before, I had no way out. I was stuck, and there was nothing I could do about it. But now, now I have Cade.

  Or, I did.

  I have to go back. I grab the handle, but as I’m about to pull, the blob pours out of the airport, looks around, then rushes our car, ignoring the two officers standing in their way. If only we had tinted windows.

  “Get us out of here, Stephen!” Cynthia shouts at my dad.

  He does, and any hope of jumping out is blown away as we speed out of the loading zone and onto the street. If only I was an action star instead of a teenage girl—I could jump out, roll along the asphalt and magically not get struck by oncoming or overtaking vehicles, get up running, and run straight into Cade’s arms, who would be waiting for me as the blob’s shouts and questions were drowned out by the slowly rising triumphant soundtrack that would crescendo as I leapt into my lover’s arms, our lips meeting as the camera zoomed in tight on our
faces, to the cheers and weeping of everyone in the theater.

  But that’s fantasy. Cade isn’t waiting for me. He left me. Again. Just like I knew he would.

  And as much as I hate my dad and Cynthia, at least they’re here for me. At least they’ve never left.

  Still, I can’t bring myself to say thanks.

  No one talks on the ride home, and the drive just gets more and more awkward, like somehow the moment to speak has passed. Like, if one of us had said something within, say, the first minute of me getting in, we could have talked. But now, that would just be weird.

  And so we remain silent.

  It’s only as we approach our house that it becomes implicitly acceptable to speak.

  I lean forward and dig through the center console.

  “What are you doing?” Cynthia asks.

  “Nothing.”

  I find what I’m looking for, and stick a piece in my mouth to mask the vile taste.

  “I could have gotten it for you.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Well, we’re home,” she says. She turns back in her seat to look at me. “How are you, dear?” If her sincerity was any faker it would be accompanied by sheet-metal thunder.

  I shrug. “I’m fine.”

  She shakes her head. “Those reporters. No respect.”

  “How’d you know about them?”

  Her eyebrows raise slightly and her mouth opens in an O. “Well, I— I saw them coming out.” She shakes her head again. “Waving those mics. Like sharks. Vultures, really.”

  “No, I mean how’d you know to be at the airport?”

  Cynthia touches my knee. “We’re here for you sweetie, whenever you need us.”

  That’s a stretch. But I hold my tongue.

  Dad parks the car. He looks at his wife. “I know he’s your son,” he turns to me, “but I don’t want you seeing that boy anymore.”

  Hardly a boy, I think to myself.

  Cynthia nods. “I agree. It breaks my heart to have to say this of my own son, but he’s trouble.”

  Remembering what Officer Johnson told me, I ask, “What’s that mean?”

  “He’s a bad influence,” Dad says. “You remember what happened with Elliot.”

  “Elliot? What happened with Elliot?” Elliot is the guy my brother started his companies with. They were inseparable as teenagers, and as far as I know, still are.