ARROGANT PLAYBOY (17 page)

“What’s the point?” He storms
toward the door. I lurch forward, half-wanting to chase after him but knowing I
should let him go. My feet plant, and I watch as he stops. His fists clench and
release as he grips the doorway.

I hold my breath, waiting for
him to speak.

But he says nothing.

And in an instant, he’s gone.

BECKHAM

I hold the old man’s hand for
hours.

I’ve never held another man’s
hand in my life, but I refuse to let go. I watch him sleep. Sit with him. Tell
him goodbye in case it’s my last chance. When the nurse checks on him and
leaves, I tell him about Sadie. The whole story. I leave nothing out.

I close my eyes after that,
bracing myself for advice that never comes. I’m not sure I’ve ever needed his
advice more than I do now.

Visiting hours end at eight,
and I head back to Golden Oak, immediately greeted with the sound of pitiful
baby cries echoing off the vast mansion walls. Sprinting up the winding stairs,
I follow the noise to Odessa’s room.

“What’s going on? Is she okay?”
My heart hammers.

Odessa turns around, Sadie
screaming in her arms. A half-finished bottle rests in her hand, and Odessa
wears an apologetic wince.

“I thought I could get her to
stop fussing,” she says. “And Elizabeth needed a break.”

I rush to Sadie, taking her
from Odessa’s arms. Lifting her to my shoulder, I adjust the blanket and rub my
hand in circles across her tiny back. Despite my best efforts, the crying won’t
subside.

“Does she need a doctor?” My
stomach twists at the thought.

Odessa bites her lip and shakes
her head, reaching for Sadie’s back. How she can stay so calm in all of this is
beyond me. “She’s not warm. Her temp is normal. I checked an hour ago.”

I walk around Odessa’s room,
holding Sadie close and shushing her. Funny how the most unnatural thing that
could ever happen to me suddenly feels organic.

“My niece, Aubrey,” she says.
“She had colic, and my sister would take late night drives to help calm her
down. The fresh air helped I think. And the car noise.”

I grab Sadie’s diaper bag and
slip it over my shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Downstairs Odessa buckles the
baby into her car seat, and I grab a set of keys from the cabinet by the
garage. Ten minutes later, we pull onto the desolate road that surrounds my
brother’s estate. Glancing up, I see every star in the sky. Most people would
consider that a beautiful thing to see.

Not me.

It reminds me too much of home.

My first home.

The Zion Ranch.

New York at night is alive.
Vibrant. Lit. Buzzing with life.

The dark and quiet of the Zion
Ranch at night was the devil’s playground. He danced between the shadows and
lurked among his innocent victims. His bidding was done under the shade of black
night and a starry sky. During the day he’d hide in plain sight, parading
around with his security and a handful of his young brides and jutting his hand
out so whosoever wanted to kiss it had easy access. The devil I knew had a
name: Mathias Moon. Everyone else called him The Prophet.

The crunch of gravel beneath
the car as I turn onto another dark road brings a soft rumble. Sadie’s cries
soften, morphing into whimpers.

“The vibration’s calming her
down already,” Odessa says, twisting back to check on her. “She’s wearing out.”

My knuckles clench around the
wheel, turning white even in the dark.

I hate that Uncle Leo is dying
and there’s nothing I can do about it.

I hate what Eva did. I hate her
for bringing an innocent baby into a fucked up situation. I hate the flood of
warmth that wraps into tightness in my chest every time I think of Sadie, and I
hate the dread that nauseates me at the thought of someone taking her away.

I hate that Odessa’s still
being kind to me after what I said earlier.

Most of all, I hate the part of
me that wants to run from it all. Push it all away. Shove it in a box, close
the lid, and sink it to the bottom of the ocean with a cinderblock.

The headlights illuminate a
green sign telling us Claxon is sixty-eight miles ahead. I never realized
Golden Oak was that close to the Zion Ranch.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said I
had fifty-five brothers and sisters.” My statement fills the quiet space
between us. Her emerald gaze carefully washes over me. “I grew up on a FLDS
compound north of Claxon. It’s not too far from here actually.”

Odessa says nothing, but I
suppose there’s nothing to say.

“Dane’s my half-brother,” I
continue. “Different mothers. Same father. We were born somewhere in the
middle. Last I knew there were fifty-six of us. I’m sure there are more now.”

“Were you close?”

I huff. “As close as you can be
when there’s an entire village of people sharing your last name. So…no.”

“What about Dane? Were you
close with him?”

I shake my head. “Not until we
were exiled.”

“Exiled? Like kicked out of the
community?”

“Yes. The elders like to
control the population, ensuring there’s an overabundance of women at their
disposal.”

She shifts her body toward me,
folding her arms. “Horrific. And your father allowed this?”

“Our father gave us his last
name and nothing else. He wasn’t even our father. Not biologically.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Prophet called them ‘seed
bearers.’ Twelve worthy-blooded men hand selected by Mathias Moon to propagate
the community.”

“Wait, what do you mean?”

“If a woman wanted to have a
child,” I say. “She had to get permission from Mathias first. He’d send a
seed-bearer to her home during her fertile peak. Husbands had to hold their
hands and watch.”

“I’m going to be sick.”
Odessa’s hand flies to her face, her words muffled through trembling fingers.

“It’s normal to them. They’re
taught to believe it is. They know nothing else.” I exhale, my hands sliding
down the wheel. I haven’t spoken about Zion Ranch in almost a decade. Talking
about it brings a lightness I never anticipated.

“How old were you when they…?”

“Fifteen.” The pit of my
stomach twists hard, the way it always does when memories of that day flood my
mind. “Dane was sixteen. A group of us boys were carted a few miles outside the
property line like a box full of puppies and set loose. A sack lunch. Twenty bucks.
Not so much as a
good luck
.”

“Must’ve been terrifying for
you.”

“It was the best fucking thing
that ever happened to me.” Back then I’d rather have been homeless than spend
another night with those sick bastards.

From the corner of my eye, I
see her wipe a tear on the back of her hand.

“Don’t feel sorry for me,
Odessa,” I huff. “Please. Fuck. Don’t.”

“It’s shitty what happened to
you. Nobody deserves that. Certainly not an innocent child.”

“I’d say I came out ahead in
the deal, wouldn’t you? Jesus, Odessa.” On what planet does a homeless kid with
an eighth grade FLDS education grow up to be a billionaire playboy with the
entire city of Manhattan for a playground?

“Do you miss your mother?” Her
hand flies to her chest, her eyes laced with sadness despite my specific
instructions not to feel sorry for me. I’m positive the mother she’s picturing
in her head is nothing like the one I knew.

“Nope.” I don’t miss a beat.
“Hardly knew her. Barely remember what she looked like.”

The memory of her face fades in
and out of my memory. Every year that goes by makes it harder to remember if
her eyes were blue or gray. She was going gray at the temples. I recall that
much. And she always smelled like baked bread.

My father, at least the one who
headed the fifty-plus children and eight wives who shared his name, was another
story. Desperate for approval and acceptance from The Prophet, he auctioned off
his daughters like cattle and handed over his spare sons with a crooked smile
on his wrinkled face and not so much as a second thought.

I was born into evil, my
adolescent future mapped out without my knowledge and before I had a chance.
Beckham Ford Townsend came into this world unwanted, unloved. Beckham King was
born the day I set foot in Manhattan.

I made two promises to myself
back then: never rely on anyone and never fall in love.

I broke them both the day I met
Sophie Glass.
  

Walking away from that
relationship broken, bruised, and barely breathing only deepened and renewed my
commitment to myself. Uncle Leo once drunkenly declared only fools make
promises and under whispered breath he added,
“But only men keep them.”

I renewed my promise the day I
walked in on Sophie getting plowed by some D-list actor snorting a line of coke
off her tits. Our fairytale love story was reduced to nothing but tabloid
fodder and erroneous speculation after that.

“We should head back.” I bring
the car to a crawl and turn around in a nearby field.

Odessa nods, silently soaking
in all the things I never should’ve told her.

ODESSA

I watch from the doorway as
Beckham lowers a sleeping Sadie into her bassinet. The ache in the back of my
throat prevents everything I want to say from coming out all at once.

He’s broken.

Broken open.

But he’s the strongest man I’ve
ever known.

Every part of me wants to tell
him. He deserves to hear it. I doubt anyone’s ever told him how magnificent he
is. Underneath the playboy façade and the emotionally frivolous lifestyle,
there’s more to him than I ever could’ve imagined.

“You’re staring.” He’s facing
me now, his dark brows pinched. Everything about him is hard and painful. I
wish I could absorb it all.

“You’re a natural with her,” I
say, approaching him as if I’m coming up on a venomous snake that could strike
at any moment. A ragged breath drags across my lips, and without thinking, I
reach to brush his dark hair from his temple. “You’re not who I thought you
were at all.”

My whispered words linger
between us, resting on the bed of tension we’ve created. Beckham is still, his
gaze fixed on me as his chest rises and falls.

“I should go to bed.” My hand
falls from his face as my gaze falls to his mouth, a dangerous spot to land.
Turning softly, I pad out of the room and head next door. With the quick twist
of the plated doorknob, I’m safe in the confines of my sprawling suite.

I wash up, slipping into pajamas
and crawling under the silky blankets. My body begs for sleep, but my mind
won’t give up the fight.

A sliver of light illuminates
my door. I sit up, eyes adjusting to make out the form of a man in the doorway.
He closes the door before taking determined strides to the bed where he crawls
under the covers with me.

He’s shirtless, blanketing me with
his masculine scent and body heat.

I ask no questions.

He offers no explanations.

The familiar warmth of
Beckham’s lips pressing into my flesh ignites a burn between my thighs my
fatigued body fully embraces. My body comes alive in the seconds that exist
between his kisses.

Running his hand along the
inside of my thigh, his fingertips trace over the outside of my mound. I’m
stirred instantly, aching to feel the way his fingers search inside me, priming
me.

Burning kisses send a swirl to
my belly as he climbs on top of me, moving down toward my hips. Pulling my
pajama bottoms and panties with one smooth tug, Beckham’s tongue wastes no time
finding my clit in the dark.

He devours me. Lick after lick,
stroke after stroke, suck after suck. Two fingers slip inside, curling up with
each insertion as his tongue circles my nub.

It’s not enough.

I want more.

I
need
more.

Beckham rises on his knees, the
outline of his fully erect cock grazing my thigh. He tugs his pants down, and I
sit up, gripping his hardness and wrapping my lips around it. His hotness fills
my mouth, my tongue raking the underside and swirling around the tip with each
oral stroke.

Maybe it’s my imagination, but
Beckham’s never been so big and this hard before. And I’ve never needed anyone
this desperately.

He sweeps my hair into his
hand, pulling my head back and off his cock after only a few minutes. Even in
the darkness of the room, I see the glint in his eye. I lean back into the
pillows as he retrieves a condom from his waistband and tears the packet
between his lips, spitting out a piece of gold foil that flitters to the bed.

The second he’s covered, he
grabs my hips, fingers digging deep into my flesh, and pulls me toward him. The
sensation of his sheathed cock resting above but not in me sends a stirring
sensation through my body. My nails dig into his arms, silently begging.

His right hand grips his cock
at the base, directing it toward my slick entrance and pushing it deep inside
me. My thighs widen, relaxing, accepting every inch of him. With every plunge
our bodies and minds make a silent agreement never to attach meaning to this, never
to speak of this.

It doesn’t have to mean
anything, not tonight, not ever.

Beckham fucks me harder, each
plunge faster and deeper than the one before. Our skin sticks together, our
scents mingling.

“Harder,” I whisper.

He needs it.

I need it.

“More…” My fingers get lost in
his hair, tugging, pulling, ripping.

My nails drag down his back
until they arrive at the curve above his perfect ass. Gripping his hips as he
dives into me, I push him deeper.

This…

This is what I’ve been missing
my whole life.

A closeness more than words and
empty promises and store-bought, clichéd proposals could ever deliver.

“Don’t stop…” I plead as his
lips silence mine.

Never
stop.

The rhythmic bucking of his
hips take us somewhere only we belong, and when it’s all over, he rolls off me.
I close my eyes for a moment, just to catch my breath.

 
When I wake the next morning I’m cold.
And alone.