Author: J. Saman
Category: Contemporary
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/j-saman/page,72,558335-start_again_series_a_billionaire_romance_box_set.html
The bar is one of those outdoor types with a large patio eating area, navy umbrellas over each of the tables and a bar pressed against the glass expanse of the building. It’s fun and loud, I note, as the three of us plant ourselves at a table.
“Where’s Luke?” I ask as I peruse a menu.
“Out with Ivy,” Claire says, and I look up at her. She’s leaning back in her seat, her eyes scanning the scene around her. “She finally agreed to go out on a date with him. Didn’t you notice the asshole was smiling like he got his dick sucked for breakfast today?”
“Jesus Christ, Claire,” Ryan says with no edge in his voice, not even bothering to raise his eyes from his own menu. “I’d rather not think about Luke getting his dick sucked.”
“And Ivy is?”
“The woman he’s been obsessed with for over a year now.”
I nod, having no idea who this woman is. “Okay. Then good for him, I guess. Anyway, what’s good here? I’m fucking hungry.”
“Everything is good here,” Kate says with a smile, standing next to me. “Am I late?” she asks, landing a kiss on the corner of Ryan’s mouth and dropping into the seat next to him. Her blonde hair is piled on top of her head, and she’s wearing maternity scrubs with Minnie Mouse on them.
“No, love,” Ryan says, his eyes taking her in as he places his hand adoringly over her baby bump. “You’re right on time. We were just telling Kyle that Luke and Ivy are out on a date. And then Claire said something vulgar. Now you’re caught up.”
Kate laughs, leaning across the table in Claire’s direction. “I cannot believe Ivy gave in to him so easily,” she says with wide eyes and big smiles. “I ran into her at the hospital today, and she was all grade-school girl excited about it. She also told me some other shit, but I’ll tell you about that later.”
“Whatever,” Claire says crossing her arms over her chest and inadvertently pushing up her breasts in a far too tantalizing way. “Those two are all drama. But I’m happy for them. If anything, it will make them both way more tolerable to be around. Their misery was really starting to get to me.”
“Nothing gets to you. You’re like the I-don’t-give-a-shit poster child,” Kate says, and I’m curious just how true that is. It certainly seems that way, but I’m not entirely sold. Especially when Claire’s eyes dip to the table before looking up at me first, and then Ryan, checking for our reaction to this bit of information. It’s subtle. Her movements calculated. But I catch it nonetheless. Reading body language correctly can mean the difference between destroying someone on the stand and getting your ass handed to you.
And in case you missed it, I don’t get my ass handed to me. Ever.
Ryan is appropriately stoic, staring at his menu for the second time, though I’d bet money he’s going to get a bourbon on the rocks and a cheeseburger. I doubt he even needed to look at the menu.
“How are you feeling?” Ryan asks Kate, changing the subject away from Claire.
“Good,” Kate says. “Tired. Hungry. Thirsty.” Then she leans in and whispers, not half as quietly as she thinks, “Horny.”
“Not in front of the kids, Katie Duck,” Claire says, waving her finger back and forth between me and her.
“Sorry,” Kate laughs. “I can’t help it. Pregnancy hormones are a bitch. And I’ve got them times two.”
“In that case, maybe we should take our dinner to go,” Ryan says completely serious, staring intently into her eyes as a lot of unspoken things pass between them.
“Not until you buy me dinner and a drink, Ryan,” Claire says. “I was promised food and alcohol, and I intend to cash in on both.”
“Claire?” a male voice says off to the right of her, and instantly, she tenses, her eyes flying up in that direction, only to calm when she sees it’s some random guy.
“Um. Yeah?” she laughs, clearly unsure who this guy is.
He’s about average height and build, with a broad smile and dark eyes that are openly feasting on her. “Jamie,” he says, pointing to his chest like a stupid caveman. “We hung out one night about six months ago.”
“Oh,” she says, looking over to Kate with wide eyes and a smirk that says, I have no idea who this guy is. She turns back to him with that fake smile again. “Nice to see you again, Jamie.”
Yeah, she has no idea who this douchebag is.
“Yeah, so,” his eyes bounce around the table, landing on mine for beat before going back to Claire. “Do you want to get a drink with me sometime?”
And instantly, I want to tell him to fuck off. I don’t even know where that instinct comes from, but it’s there. Rearing its ugly head. Making me slightly insane with the way he looks at her, having no doubt spent a night with her.
I also cannot stand the way she doesn’t know him. The fact that she allowed this man not only into her bed, but into her body, and has no recollection of him, is eating at me. I know Claire dates a lot. I know she probably sleeps around a lot more than she tells me.
But I hate it.
I fucking do.
I hate the idea of this asswipe touching her. Or any asswipe for that matter. Maybe it’s all the bullshit from this morning, but goddammit, all I want to do right now is protect her. Keep her safe. Keep her close to me.
None of that is an option.
Especially when she angles her body in his direction, a flirtatious smile on her beautiful red lips and says, “What are you doing right now?”
15
Claire
* * *
Jamie’s calloused hands run up my neck until they tangle into my hair, pulling me closer to his mouth. We kiss. It’s a bit messy as we’re sloppily moving through his house. And now that I’m looking around through the corners of my eyes, I remember this place. And I remember why I didn’t stick around.
Frat boy central. And not in a hot, filled with sexy, god-like men way. More in a, we’re too old for this shit, but we do it anyway, way. They have nasty mismatched furniture in various shades of brown and dark blue. Their floor is sticky and dirty to the point I’m afraid to take off my shoes.
They even have a kegerator.
Who the fuck besides college kids has something like that? I mean, can’t you just buy beer at the store like the rest of us? Do you actually drink enough to necessitate a kegerator? And if you do, what does that say?
Nothing good, but I am in no place to judge.
“Oh my god,” Jamie moans into my mouth, his spit actually hitting my uvula and making me gag for a half-second. “You’re so fucking hot. I know I haven’t seen you in a while, but I’ve absolutely thought about you. You rocked my freaking world last time.”
Now I remember Jamie. He talks. A lot. Like nonstop.
It’s unbelievably annoying. And he screws like a grade-school jackrabbit with zero finesse or consideration for his partner’s enjoyment.
He moves us across the living room, groping greedily at my breasts. It’s quite possibly one of the most unpleasant sensations I’ve experienced. In fact, it makes me think of what a mammogram must feel like. I’m a hot second away from asking him if he found any lumps.
The door to his room opens, and he walks us into it, his mouth only moving away from mine as he speaks, which seems to be every couple of seconds. His sentences are short and direct, and not at all sexy.
“I want to put my dick everywhere you’ll let me.”
See what I mean? Who says something like that? It’s gross. Though, I guess I do appreciate the fact that he’ll check with me before he sticks his dick somewhere I might not want it.
“I swear, you gave me the best orgasm of my life.”
I cannot tell him the same thing. Not even close. In fact, now that I’m thinking about it, I remember faking to get him not only to shut up but to stop.
And while I’ve perfected the art of escapism and he’s a willing, warm, and able body, I can’t focus. I can’t get into it. It’s not even his constant blabbering, though admittedly, that’s not helping. It’s not even th
e fact that I know he won’t come close to rocking my world the way he says I did his.
It’s the fact that every time I close my eyes, I see the pair of hazel eyes that stared at me as I left the bar. And even now, with my eyes closed, I’m still trying to discern exactly what that look meant. I can’t seem to figure it out. Was he angry? Apathetic? Disgusted? I honestly cannot say. But I find myself keeping my eyes closed just so I can see those swirling hues of green and brown instead of looking at Jamie.
That thought has me pulling back before I can even think about my actions.
“What’s wrong?” Jamie asks, panting for his life, a smile on his adorable boyish face.
The overwhelming smell of cheap cologne is emanating from his skin, enveloping me in a fog of bad decisions and misguided need. It’s not even need for him, just need to forget and escape. Avoidance has become my primary survival skill, and although that has regularly taken shape in the form of mindless, meaningless sex, I can’t seem to find my rhythm tonight.
It’s those eyes.
They’re haunting me.
Because the simple truth is that I’d rather look into those eyes than spend the next however long with Jamie, faking pleasure. Kyle brings me pleasure without even touching me. Without even thinking about it. And he’s only been here a few days.
That thought alone should have me grabbing Jamie by the neck and kissing him again.
But I can’t.
“I’m sorry,” I say, looking at him with a sheepish grin. “I, uh . . .” Crap. Should I even bother lying? “I forgot, I have—” Yeah, I’ve got nothing and find I’m laughing at myself, which is only making his dark eyes harden. “I need to go.”
“Why? We were having fun. I want to fuck you.”
I sigh. I get it. I led him on. But a girl can still say no, so that’s what I’m about to do. “Sorry there, honey pie, but I’m gonna have to go.”
“The hell you are,” he snaps, and this is the moment I hate. Granted, I don’t get here all that often. Usually, I get my rocks off and then run out in the middle of the night. But my head is a mess and a mass of hazel eyes.
Those eyes . . . They’re killing me right now.
How did he even worm his way in so fast?
“No,” I say sternly, taking a step back and extricating myself from his now firm grip. “I am. And if you touch me again, I’ll put your ass to the floor and your nuts in your throat.”
He doesn’t look all that impressed. Maybe it’s my size that makes me unassuming to potential assholes. He takes a step toward me with a grin that promises he’ll have me on my back under him in no time. My knee comes up, firmly striking his family jewels at just the right moment. It’s a direct hit, and he stumbles back, bending forward and grabbing his junk with a howl of pain.
“You fucking bitch,” he snarls. “You goddamn slut.”
I just shrug, turn around, and run as fast I can through the living room. One of his pathetic friends is sitting there, not even watching TV or reading a book. He’s just sitting on the chair that’s closest to Jamie’s room, which tells me he was trying to listen to a show. Oh holy fuck, that’s just . . . I don’t even know what to think of that.
I’m just glad I’m leaving.
The front door of the house shuts behind me, and the cold, dense fog instantly hits me. It’s the kind that stars in horror movies the world around. But I’m not all that concerned with what could possibly be lurking, waiting to spring.
I touch the door handle of my car, and it immediately unlocks, sensing the keys I have stashed in my purse. I start my car and blast the heat, pulling away from the curb and checking the time. 10:48. When the hell did it get so late?
My mind wanders back to earlier as I find my way through the empty streets away from the university, back toward my building, which is closer to downtown. I don’t normally go home with someone on a work night. In fact, I had been much better about not going home at all with someone I had just met. I was dating more and fucking less. And I sort of had plans for Kyle.
I was actually pretty proud of that.
Then my mom died.
I get to a stop light and pull my phone out of my bag reflexively. I don’t text and drive, but for some reason, I’m one of those jerks who obsessively checks their phone when they’re stopped at a light.
Texts.
Lots of them.
Kyle. And Kate. But mostly Kyle.
Kate just wanted to make sure I was safe. I’d text her our everything is cool password, but it’s late and I don’t want to wake my preggo friend.
Kyle also wanted to make sure I was safe. But his texts have an edge. An undercurrent. Something going on that I can’t quite place. Anger? Annoyance? Frustration? Fear? But it’s too late to call or text him, even though I sort of wish I could.
I feel guilty for almost sleeping with Jamie because of Kyle, and that’s just a weird reaction to have, right? Kyle and I are friends. Nothing more. So why am I smiling at the way he texted me? Why does it give me a giddy flutter in the pit of my stomach?
I text him back before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: I’m fine. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry about me. See you at work, babycakes.
The light turns green, and I drive through the intersection, only another five blessed minutes from my building. At least I wasn’t stupid enough to give Jamie my number. Or my last name. Or really tell him anything about me. Not that I think he’ll come looking for me again.
The streets are vacant, so I fly home, and before I allow my thoughts to wander too dark or deep, I’m parking my car and hopping out. I bring my bag closer to my side, crossing my arms over my chest to ward off the chill in the air and jog a little to the back door of my building. I hit the button for the elevator, and before I know it, I’m walking into my empty apartment.
Stripping down, I make a beeline for my shower, needing to scrub the reminder of Jamie from my body. The way he pawed at me turns my stomach. I didn’t even get the mental reprieve I’ve been craving. Sex does that for me. Human, male contact does that for me.
Even if it’s always short-lived.
It’s really the low after the high that I hate. The natural way my brain instantly fills back up after it was empty. It’s the quiet ugly hours that really get to me.
But instead of my thoughts finding their usual path through my brain, I’m stuck, fixated on Kyle. I don’t know how to play this game with him and win. It’s why I pulled back after New York. After my mother died. He draws me in. I feel like one of those cartoon characters helplessly following the scent of something yummy when I’m near him.
I seek him out. I did so all weekend, didn’t I?
God, what he must think of me after tonight? I all but ditched him at the bar. But I couldn’t sit there with him a moment longer. He had been watching me from his office all fucking day and I just couldn’t take that curious penetrating stare of his.
Kyle Grant has a million questions for me, and I find myself wanting to answer every single one. Wanting to open up to him in a way I’ve never done with anyone before.
Nothing good will come of that, I remind myself.
It’s true. It’s just asking for a world of heartbreak, and I avoid that shit like the plague. So instead of dwelling on all the what-ifs and will-never-happens, I wash my body and shampoo and condition my hair. I concentrate on the mind-numbing routine and allow that to take over everything else.
I change into my Powerpuff Girls tee and boy shorts and crawl under my down comforter. My head hits my pillow, and I sigh out contentedly, listening to the heat hiss through the baseboard. I’m exhausted. But relieved. Relieved that at this very moment in time, I’m alive and healthy.
I open my eyes to pure darkness as the unwelcome scent of disorientation comes crawling up my nose, forcing my head from side to side until something familiar catches onto my foggy brain. I’m home in my bed. Right. I blink my eyes, looking toward my bedroom window, but it’s closed o
ff with my curtains. I reach over and grab my phone off my nightstand. Pressing the button, I see it’s four-thirty in the morning. Ugh!
I lie back down, but my eyes aren’t closing. My brain is already fluttering through all the crap I have to do today. My legs are moving under my covers like I’m making snow angels.
I’m awake.
Sitting up, I throw the blanket off my body, use the bathroom, and head straight for my music room, needing something beautiful to fill my soul. Needing something to give me permanence when I feel so ephemeral.
I sit at my keyboard, press the button to turn it on and place my headphones over my ears, so I don’t wake up all my neighbors. They’re a miserable lot when you bother them. I’ve had angry calls, and the police even showed up once because I had a few friends over and it was deemed we were making too much noise.
At first, I just run my fingers across the keys, wishing for the millionth time that I had the space for a real piano. I don’t, so I really need to get over it already. My mind clears, and I begin my typical warm-up piece.
Chopin’s Nocturne Opus 9 Number 2 in E-flat major.
The rhythmic simplicity of the left hand versus the complex freedom of the right is why I love playing it. But as I play, the song quickly morphs into my own variation. My own song. And then I’m singing a cluster of words as they fly through my head, without taking the time to analyze or write them down.
They’re just words.
And to be honest, I have no idea if they even make sense together.
But I hit the record button on the MacBook that’s next to my keyboard anyway, because you never know when something spontaneous will turn out to be great.
Music has always been my constant. The thing that held me together when nothing else did. It’s the one thing my mother did for me. She got me lessons, even if it was just to shut me up. Music was important to her too, though. She played the piano and cello. I get lost in the notes. In the music.