I stayed longer than I should have. Unlike the studio I’d lived in near Clifton University, the water didn’t turn cold after seven minutes and twenty-three seconds, telling me it was time to leave.
It remained blissfully hot. A luxury sauna. I rubbed at my neck, cursing when I felt how pruned my fingers were since I hadn’t even begun to wash. My body swayed under the pouring water, eyes closed. I hummed the melody of Jeremy Zucker’s “you were good to me.”
My eyes popped open. I reached for my shampoo, but my eyes met Nash’s.
I froze.
Couldn’t think.
Couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t move.
Nash wore a suit that hugged his body, his hair the same mess and his eyes the same shade of irritation. For a fleeting second, I wondered what he looked like out of the suit. I’d seen him naked once, but I’d been too preoccupied by the fact that I’d slept with the wrong brother to pay attention.
The woven fabric of his suit taunted me, hiding something I’d probably never see again.
You don’t want to see him naked, Emery.
Lie.
I did, but in the way you’d stare at a car wreck as you drive by—with morbid fascination at witnessing something destructive.
Dangerous.
Deadly.
The dark scowl on Nash’s face never left. He pressed his phone to his ear—a new phone, I noted with some satisfaction.
If I could break you, too, I would.
His lips moved at a rapid pace I couldn’t keep up with. I heard nothing beyond my heartbeat and the water. My palm darted to the switch. I turned it so only the middle strip of the shower head remained on. I could hear him better that way.
He knew, because he narrowed his eyes on me, never once dipping below my face to my body. If our situations were reversed, I never would have had the willpower. Or maybe I really disgusted him, and he didn’t need willpower to resist looking at me. He simply didn’t want to.
“Don’t call security, Delilah.” Whitened fingers gripped the phone, tight enough it should have cracked from the pressure. “No one broke in. False alarm.” His clipped tone pierced me. He bit out, “Yeah, I’m fucking sure.”
I stood in silence, at a loss at what to say for once in my life. I wanted to wrap my arms around my body and cover myself. Instead, I lifted my chin and stood proudly, daring him to stare at me.
The tight peaks of my nipples pointed directly at him. I kept myself bare, completely shaved. A mistake, I now realized, as I felt the rainwater trickle down my body, past my folds, caressing my clit.
My breathing grew shallow in the silence, the water feeling suddenly warmer. Too hot. I fumbled with the latch, telling myself I needed to keep my cool if I ever expected to live this down.
My fingers twisted the knob in the wrong direction. I jumped out of the water’s trajectory when it scalded my skin, suddenly closer to Nash, like a caged animal on display.
Not a tiger.
A kitten, running from hot water.
He finally ended the call. When he opened his mouth, I braced myself for his words, wishing I could step back into the safety of the water without getting burnt.
“Get the fuck out. You’re not worth the orange jumpsuit, Jailbait.” Slipping his phone into his pocket, he added, “Don’t forget to wash behind your ears.”
Anger whipped at my chest. Resentment chewed its way up my throat. I wanted to shout my age for the millionth time, but it would fall on deaf ears. He’d humiliated me time after time.
In Reed’s bed.
In the elevator.
In front of my coworkers.
But I knew I affected him, because I refused to believe he affected me this much without at least some reciprocity.
So, fine. If he wanted to make my life miserable, I could dish back what he served. I needed this job, but he needed his reputation.
And I was bad for it.
So, so bad for it.
Ticked.
Everything about me was ticked.
My jaw.
The vein in my neck.
The vein on my temple.
The vein on my fucking cock.
Emery’s hand shot out, reaching blindly for the temperature control. She twisted it and stepped back. Water cascaded down her face, dripping past the curves of her eyelashes, over her lips, and lower.
I refused to pay attention to her body, even though she filled the room with her presence. Everything about her was too much.
Too destructive.
Too toxic.
Too reckless.
“Such a simpleton,” I lied, burning at the way those discordant eyes speared me.
Hot mist boiled the room, sheathing my clothes and whatever skin it could latch onto. I leaned back against the sink, letting the counter carry my weight as I stripped my suit jacket off, tossed it on the steam-coated tile, and took my time rolling up my silky button-down sleeves.
My neck felt choked, but I kept my collar buttoned, unwilling to strip anymore with a twenty-two-year-old girl naked in front of me. Especially when I noticed the distinct red bottle with the blue label and prowling wolf behind her.
She used my old body wash. Same brand. Same scent. A thief, stealing my essence for reasons that evaded me.
That’s why I recognized her scent in the elevator.
She rubbed me all over her body.
“I pity you, Miss Rhodes.” I emphasized her last name, taking pleasure in the way she reacted to it. Like I’d delivered a lashing onto her back. “Incapable of comprehending basic words. So dull. So desperate. You remind me of your mother.”
They were polar opposites, actually.
Virginia Winthrop’s societal contributions included encouraging anorexia in the Eastridge youth, slut-shaming housewives who got the dick she wanted but would never receive, and drinking enough champagne daily to render an overweight elephant unconscious.
Meanwhile, Emery made a sport of defying her mother, fighting against the Virginia 2.0 mold like her sanity depended on it. At the end of the day, however, she’d known about Gideon’s embezzlement and did nothing.
Thousands lost their jobs and savings. Angus Bedford died. Dad died. Maybe Emery was like Virginia after all.
“Take that back!” Defiance slammed into Emery’s posture as she shouted, sloping her chin upward and body forward. I had no doubt she would have lunged at me if thin glass and four feet of space didn’t separate us.
“It’s cute that you think you have any control over me.”
I stepped up to the shower until we stood nose-to-chest, the fine layer of glass and my diminishing thread of sanity the only things separating us. I dipped my fingers into my pocket and pulled out her wallet. My wallet.
The picture of Reed caught my eyes first. Sliding it out of the insert, I licked it exactly where her face sat and slammed the photo onto the shower door. The wetness bound the picture to the glass.
She flinched as it rattled, looking like she’d taken a punch in the gut. I allowed her three seconds to stare at it, memorize it, savor it one last time before I tore the Polaroid in half. A yelp traveled up her throat, and she lost the defiant edge to her face.
Good.
I wasn’t here to be friends with her.
I wasn’t even here to acknowledge her.
How desperate for attention was she that she needed to break into my penthouse and strip in my shower?
Two halves of the photograph fluttered to the floor, Reed on one half and Emery on the other. As far as I was concerned, I’d done her a favor.