The Broken One (The One Series Book 1) Page 14

  “Well, we all know what happens to employees who don’t follow the rules,” he says, like he’s explaining himself to a child. “Now, I believe I’ve made myself clear, so it seems you have a choice to make. The next move you make will determine whether you’re fired or promoted when I leave this room. Which do you prefer?” His voice is sinister as he closes the little gap there was between us.

  “Which one does this get me, Keisler?” I ask him as my knee finds his groin. He crumples to the ground and cries out in pain. Raising my phone to capture his face, I ask, “I’ve got this whole conversation on video. Do you have any final words for the camera before I show it to Robert and the rest of the Board?”

  He grabs for the phone, but I step back toward the door. It opens at my touch, granting me immediate access to the more public space of the long hallway outside the room.

  “I’ll ruin you for this,” he begins, but I hit the send button on my phone and wave my hand.

  “It’s done. I’ve already sent the video. Now get the fuck out of my room before I really lose it. If you think getting kneed in the balls is bad, you really don’t want to make me mad enough to explore the darker areas of my imagination.”

  When the door closes behind Keisler, I slide the locks in place and fall into a chair in the sitting area. My blood is racing, and my head is in a frenzy. I feel so angry about the women who’ve dealt with Keisler before me that I don’t know how to calm down. There is no mask that can stifle this, control this, flip this switch.

  My hands pull a pillow from the couch, and I try not to think of all the bare asses that have touched it as I scream into it. I scream until there is no air left in my body and I’m left with the need to shower. After a few moments, I peel off my clothes and stand like a statue under the hotel shower until the water freezes the white-hot tips off the anger I fear will never go away.

  Chapter 24

  A light tapping on my door brings me out of my head, and glancing at the clock, I see it’s midnight. I know the face I’ll see when I open the door, but I double-check the peephole, just in case. What I’m not prepared for is the slightly glassy look in Booker’s eyes.

  “Are you drunk?” I ask as he walks into my room.

  “A little. Once you insisted, Tyler wouldn’t take no for an answer,” he tells me, plopping into a chair in the living area.

  “I see. Did you have fun?”

  “A little,” he repeats with a grin.

  “Sitcoms or serial killers?” I ask him, handing him the remote. “Surprise me.”

  This clearly isn’t the time to talk to him about what just happened with Keisler. Instead, I move to my tote to grab some aspirin, then step into the bathroom to fill a glass with water.

  “What’s this for?” Booker asks when I hand him the pills and the glass.

  “To prevent a hangover,” I tell him, and I move to kneel by his feet. I unlace his shoes and pull them off gently. I’m not sure what makes me do it, it’s something I watched my mother do when my father got home for years. It is one of the sweetest gestures I’ve ever seen from one human to the other, and I guess I want Booker to know I care.

  I feel his fingers trace the script up my spine as I’m kneeling and he asks, “I’ve been wanting to ask you what this says since the burger place.”

  So, he did see…

  “I knew who I was this morning, but I’ve changed a few times since then,” I tell him, ignoring the weight of this exposure.

  “Who is it?”

  “Alice.”

  “Makes sense…”

  When his shoes are off, I move back to my spot on the bed, and Booker follows me, taking the aspirin despite his next words. “I’m not drunk, just relaxed,” he tells me, taking off his shirt and sitting on the edge of the bed. Then he observes, “You’re not wearing pants.”

  “I was sleeping,” I lie without looking away from the television.

  “Why did you answer?”

  “I was expecting you,” I tell him.

  He lies back and reaches out his hand, and I slide mine into it, settling into the pillows next to him.

  “What’s Before?” he asks, pulling me closer to his side.

  “Before the accident,” I tell him.

  “Was Before bad?”

  “I just prefer After. It’s easier to have one story.”

  “No one ever has just one story, it’s another control issue,” he sighs.

  “Everyone chooses their stories. I think we decide which ones are relevant as we go. People throw away the ones that no longer serve them. And for the ones they don’t like and can’t get rid of, they change the narrative.”

  “Maybe, but yours are still relevant,” he says, twirling my hair between his fingers.

  “My Before mom was great. I really loved her. My Before dad beat the hell out of her, and he left around the time she died. I haven’t seen him since. I don’t care about that, but it sucked when she died.”

  “He never came back?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Was that hard?”

  “No. For a while I just wished it was him that died. But then I got Josh and After Mom and Dad. I stopped wishing he died, because our home was peaceful, fun. Normal. The day I realized I didn’t want my life to go back was tough. I felt like a traitor for a little while. Anyways, he’s probably died by now; he was old and smoked and drank all the time.”

  I look up at him to see what he’s thinking. His voice is thick when he asks, “Did he hurt you, too?” He’s looking at my arms and legs as if he might find evidence.

  “My scars aren’t visible,” I tell him, gently cupping his face to draw his eyes back up to mine.

  “Maybe not physically, and maybe not to others,” he says, pulling back to look into my eyes. “But I know they’re there.”

  He places a soft kiss on my lips. “Can I sleep here tonight?”

  I instinctively reach for Alexis, then tuck her away. Booker wants Caspian, just Caspian, and that’s what I’m going to give him. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Lifting himself up, he gives me a chaste kiss on the lips, then pushes off the bed. “Let me grab a few things from my room.”

  When he returns, he sets a box on the bench at the end of the bed and kneels beside it. I watch every move, eager to find out what he has in mind.

  I let out a delighted shriek when he grabs both of my ankles and pulls me down the bed toward him, then quickly snap one hand over my mouth to muffle the sound. He laughs softly and asks, “Is this okay?” I nod and sit up to pull my tank top over my head. When my its discarded, I begin to work the buttons on Booker’s shirt, and our eyes lock as I slowly open each one. By the time I reach the last one, the electric anticipation between us is almost unbearable.

  I drag his face to mine and lay back, enjoying the heat of his lips and the pressure of his body on mine. As Booker deepens the kiss, his right hand slides down my side, grazing my hip so softly it gives me goosebumps. It ends its decent by scooping under my thigh to pull my leg up around his waist. I slide my fingertips into the waistband of his pants and pull him toward me as I rock my hips up to meet him.

  His mouth dips to my neck and his left hand releases my bra. He slides it off gently, then sits back on his knees.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask, flushing under his gaze.

  “The opposite. Everything’s perfect,” he says. “I just want to look at you.”

  Two can play at this game, so I reach up to undo his belt, then take a moment to stare up at his naked chest and opened pants. He’s got a firm body, but without the flashy muscles that I’m not particularly fond of. All the strength without the nonsense.

  I’m the first to break. “Off, all of it,” I order, pointing to his pants, and he obeys. Seeing him deepens the need in me, and I prop up on my elbow and grab his hand to pull him down to me. This time, our kiss is filled with urgency. He moves down to kiss and nibble the newly exposed flesh of my breasts. My appreciation is m
ade audible by the sigh I release, and he continues his journey down my stomach, his hands sliding down my sides to my hips.

  He rests his forehead right above the apex of my thighs and takes a breath in, and I’m both nervous and excited by it. I lift my hips just enough for him to slide my panties down, and he does it slowly, sitting back to watch the lace material slide down the lengths of my thighs, over my knees, and down my calves. By the time he’s finished, my hands are knotted in the hotel sheets, and I’m aching with impatience.

  Booker’s smile tells me he knows what he’s doing, and I force myself to remain quiet and let him lead. He discards my panties on the floor and leans back down to me, planting a kiss on each knee before gently pushing them open with his hands, then kissing the inside of each thigh. He drags his tongue over the large mandala tattoo that covers my hip and plants a kiss in the middle of it before moving back to my inner thighs.

  When his mouth finally finds me, I groan with relief, and my hands move for his hair. His lips are soft and tender, and the teasing is building my ache. I need him, but I will not beg. Instead, I grab his arms to pull him toward me, but he doesn’t budge. His only response is to look up at me and grin.

  “Ughhh,” I let out a moan that reveals both my pleasure and my impatience.

  Booker laughs, “Be patient, baby. I’ve waited for this too long, and I’m going to take my time.”

  I’m both delighted and frustrated as I push his face back down to me and press my head back into the sheets, relinquishing control.

  I’m still wringing myself out when Booker lays on the bed next to me, his own self-satisfied smile spread across those beautiful lips. Although Booker’s skilled tongue brought me to my peak, there’s still an ache that hasn’t quite been dulled. I glance down and am rewarded with the sight of his arousal, which encourages my next move. Rolling onto my right side, I lean over and kiss his salty lips.

  They meet mine eagerly, and I slide my left leg over his waist to straddle him. I pull away from our kiss to give him a sly smile, hovering slightly above him.

  “Are you ready?” I ask.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” he smiles back, using my own words against me once again. He reaches down to position himself below me, and I place my hands on his chest as I lower myself to receive him. The ache between my thighs eases slightly with the pressure of him, and I sigh my relief. Book raises to a sitting position and pulls my lips to his as I begin to rock against him slowly. He paces the kiss with the rhythm of my hips, slow and tender. His right hand traces the curve of my back, and his left slides up to my neck, his thumb grazing over my lower lip when he pulls back from the kiss slightly.

  I open my eyes to find him staring at me intensely, and it ignites every nerve ending that wasn’t already on fire.I pull his lips back to mine and part my lips, welcoming his tongue.It enters me and explores my mouth, teasing me just slightly, increasing my need. The cadence of my hips increases with the intensity of his kiss until it’s so frenzied I cannot keep up.

  Booker pulls me down to his chest and rolls so that I am beneath him, supporting my backside to keep us united through the maneuver. Once in position, he withdraws slowly, and I try to stop him with a whimper. Then, finally, he’s lowering himself back down, then up, then down, plunging deeper into my passage with each stroke, building my pleasure and need. My head rolls back onto the pillow as he drives into me, and my hands brace against his shoulders.

  “More?” he asks with a devilish smile.

  My brain is beyond words, so I dig my nails in and nod. He acquiesces, and the rhythm builds until I’m not sure I can handle anymore. His hands link with mine, and he pulls them together over my head, holding both wrists together with his left hand. Booker’s right hand slides under me, pulling my hips to a new angle, and it’s here I know I’ll find my release. All of the electricity is reaching the end of each tiny threaded nerve in my body, and I allow the explosion to takeover, every muscle at the mercy of this orgasm.

  I’m vaguely aware of Booker’s release before he collapses next to me.

  “Wow, Book. Wow,” is all I can manage.

  “Wow yourself.”

  After a few moments of catching our breath, I force my muscles to obey me again and move to the bathroom to clean up. In the mirror, I see a different kind of flush in my cheeks. One I could get used to seeing on this face. I wonder what an in-love Caspian could look like. What she could feel like. I wonder what color I’d paint her lips. The thought makes me laugh. Perhaps some things will not change when the masks are gone. I wonder, again, where they end and where I begin. I wonder how many lines are blurred, and what to call this bloom in my chest.

  “What are you thinking?” Booker asks from the doorway.

  “I’m wondering how you always sneak up so silently,” I tease, poking him in the ribs.

  I slide past him and move back to the bed, seeing that Booker has already flipped the TV from the crime dramas I usually watch to the sitcoms we had on last night. I could get used to having to fight someone for the remote.

  “Will you stay the weekend with me?” Booker asks when he returns to the bed.

  “In Vegas or Tucson?”

  “Here. In Vegas. I feel like we’re making progress. I want to stay in this bubble for a few more days. I want to know you. To really know you.”

  A warmth fills me, and I wonder if this is what it’s like to keep people. I nod and admit, to Booker and to myself, “I want to know you, too.”

  Chapter 25

  Waking up with Booker is something I could see myself wanting to do for more than one day. We slept a little later than we meant to, so Booker heads downstairs first to start getting the meeting set up. It takes me a little longer to get ready, but there’s still plenty of time to prep for the day when I step into the elevator to meet him in the conference room.

  I’m staring at my phone when the doors open on the next floor down, and I instinctively step closer to the wall without looking up from my email. Another person steps into the elevator, and the smell of stale cigarettes and musky aftershave floods in with them as the doors close.

  I’m confused by the overwhelming wave of nausea that suddenly comes crashing through me. My hand finds the wall to steady myself, and I close my eyes to let it pass. Another deep inhale makes my head swim with memories. I breathe through my mouth and wait for the nausea and memories to pass.

  “Casino floor, please,” the familiar voice says, jolting me back to my current reality.

  When I open my eyes again, I turn slowly, already knowing what I will see. His face is staring at me, a few feet away.

  “Caspy?” His voice is raspier than I remember, no doubt from years of chain smoking.

  “No, I think you have the wrong person,” I say, trying to sound confused.

  “Caspy, I know it’s you,” he says, lifting his arms toward me.

  I put my hands up and back up a few steps. For a moment, the anger that I remember crosses his face, but it is quickly replaced by false concern.

  “Don’t you remember me?” He’s forcing a softness to his voice, as if I’m still six.

  The elevator has started to move, and I’m trapped in here with him, alone. “I remember enough,” I tell him, disgusted.

  “You don’t know what you’re saying, Caspy. You look like you’re doing well,” he says, sizing me up. “Real well. Spot your dad some gambling money?”

  “You’re not my dad,” I tell him. “I have a father, a good one. One who doesn’t hit my mother.”

  The anger returns to his face, a fury building. “That bitch has been lying about me.”

  A mix of confusion and anger flows through me, squashed by the realization that he doesn’t know. Their last fight was a week before she died. I called the cops that night, and he left before they got there.

  We spent so many nights at the hospital, and when we finally did go back home, he wasn’t there.

  Seeing this pitiful man now, through the eyes o
f a 26-year-old woman, I know he was never capable of creating an elaborate plan to kill my mother. He never cut her brake lines, he never fooled the police, he never got away with murder, only with the years of horror he put her through. He is a sad, pathetic man.

  If he had killed my mother, it wouldn’t have been through any well executed plan. It would have been in a rage-induced explosion of fists. This man didn’t take my mother from me, the universe did.

  When I don’t respond to whatever it is that he’s said, his fist shatters the glass on the elevator wall next to my face. Callous Caspian emerges to remind me of the two things I have always known are true:

  Everyone will leave you eventually, whether by choice, or not.

  It’s the people you lock yourself in with who do the most damage.

  The elevator doors open, and I see Booker’s face. His eyes widen as he takes in the scene before him: Me, braced against the wall of the elevator. Glass shattered all over the floor. An old man inches from my stone face.

  Booker’s voice booms above the pounding of my heart, “What the hell is going on here?”

  The man releases the iron grip I didn’t realize he’d taken on my arm, and he backs away as Booker moves toward him. I grab Booker’s arm and pull him out of the elevator with me.

  “Let’s just go,” I say forcefully.

  Booker looks away from the man and back to me. “What is this? What’s going on? Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’ll explain later, can we go?”

  “See you around, Caspy.” The ominous words hang in the air around me, and despite the years of practice, I shudder. He got on the elevator one floor below me. It won’t be hard to find me when he comes looking.

  Booker pulls his sleeve from my grasp and goes back for the elevator, reaching it just as the doors close.

  “Who the hell was that?” Booker demands, and when he looks back to me, his voice softens. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s get to the conference room.”