Late Call (Volume 1) (15 page)

I’m not going to like this. Or at least, I’m not going to want to like it.

“Go on.”

He crosses the room and pulls a shirt on, pausing before he buttons it and glancing at me. I keep my expression blank. Damn.

“You’re now to act as if you’re my girlfriend at all times. Even if we’re alone.”

I knew it.
I click my tongue. “Is that right?”

“Yes. I don’t think you’re believable enough as my girlfriend while we’re in public. You need more practice.”

“Funny.” I put my plate on the nightstand with my mug. “You didn’t seem to think I needed practice before, and especially not when you were dragging me out of the room to fuck me last night.”

I stand and wrap the sheet around my body. I hate that he gets to me so easily.

I know what he’s doing. He’s playing a fucking game with me, and I should have seen it coming. I should have known the second he got his way and fucked me that everything would change.

Because that’s how it works, isn’t it? Sex is the game changer. It’s always been the game changer, and right now, it’s just changed the game into something I don’t want to play at all.

“Dayton, I believe this is where you agree to what I’m asking.”

“Oh, you’re asking now?” I hug the sheet to me. “Should I feel special?”

He rubs a hand down his face. “Stop being unreasonable.”

“Unreasonable? You wanna know what’s unreasonable, Aaron? Unreasonable is hiring your call girl ex to pretend to be your girlfriend for six weeks then fucking her and suddenly deciding she has to act as your girlfriend
all
the fucking time!” I put my hands on my hips. The sheet falls to my waist, exposing my breasts, and he draws in a sharp breath.

Almost immediately, the charge in the air changes from annoyance to sexual. It’s strong and it’s compelling, and as he takes a step closer, I move back one. No, no. Any closer and I’ll do something I’ll regret later.

“You’re right. It is unreasonable.”

“I’d believe you more if you said it to me instead of my tits.”

He fights a smile and looks at me. “It’s unreasonable and I don’t care.”

Ex-fucking-cuse me?

His long stride covers the kitchen in seconds and he drops his palms on the island in front of me. His eyes are hard, the lusty determination there making me swallow.

“I didn’t ask you for an answer, Dayton. It was a rhetorical question. I
am
changing the agreement. You
will
act like my girlfriend at all times. You’ll act that way until you drop your call girl-client bullshit.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’ll act like it until you believe it.” He pushes off the island and grabs his tie, knotting it and sliding it into place. I grit my teeth and watch as he grabs a jacket and briefcase from the sofa.

He doesn’t look at me until the elevator doors open. When he does, his stare hits me with such an intensity that I almost step back.

“I’ve never been reasonable where you’re concerned, Dayton, and I’m not about to start now. Understand that. And the next time you say ‘fuck you’ to me, that’s exactly what you’ll be doing.”

He steps into the elevator and the doors close with a swish. I grab a clean mug from the side and throw it across the room. It collides with the door and smashes, white china falling over the carpet.

Fucking self-entitled, controlling, demanding fucking bastard.

I think I might move.

My love of water has always kept me in Seattle. The Bay has kept me grounded close to a place full of happy memories from years gone by, but I’ve never really loved the weather.

I’m thinking Sydney has everything. It has water, a harbor, hot weather, and beaches. It’s like California and Seattle all rolled into one beautiful little package. Even if it does feel like I’m standing on the surface of the sun again.

A drop of sweat rolls down my back. Okay—maybe it’s a little
too
hot.

I pull out my cell, now armed with international messaging and calls, and send a picture of the harbor to Liv. She replies immediately with a picture of her raindrop-covered window and a great big Fuck you. I laugh, and when the device buzzes in my hand, I smile at the sight of her name.

“Let me call you back.” I hang up before she can argue and redial.

“What the hell?”

“International calls. I’m not paying your damn bill again.”

“Screw the bill. I’m wondering why you’re sending me a photo of fucking boats and not hot shirtless dudes surrounded by sand and sea.”

No one can say Liv’s priorities are skewed.

“Because I’m at the harbor and not the beach,” I reply. “How’s my house?”

“Your house is fine, but your plant died.”

“I don’t have a plant.”

“Yeah, you do. I think your aunt bought it when you moved in.”

“That was three years ago.”

“Well, no wonder it’s dead. I chucked it in the trash.”

I shrug. Me and plants don’t go well. Evidently. “Are you working today?”

“I’m always working. My agent is MIA again. I need to fire his fat ass.”

I nod in agreement although she can’t see and walk along the harbor, keeping my eyes on the softly bobbing boats. “Did you go on that shoot I organized?”

“Yes! I haven’t seen the finished pictures yet, but the originals looked good.”

“Of course they did. You’re gorgeous.” An idea flits through my mind. “Hey, is Darren really not getting you any work?”

“None. The last job was six weeks ago.”

I flinch. Ouch. She might work at a bar full time, but her wages only cover her bills—and that’s barely. The cash she gets from modeling is what keeps her going.

“Why don’t I speak to Aaron?”

“About me?”

“Why not? Stone Advertising is modeling too. I bet he could find you a job or two.”

“Great. And Darren will get his cut for doing jack shit.”

“No he won’t. You’ve been around long enough to negotiate a deal. I bet Monique would even do it. I know it’s a different kind of thing, but she knows her stuff, Liv.”

“So fire Darren and then what? Be agentless? No one would touch me.”

“No, do one job for Stone and you’ll be able to get an agent. A decent one.”

“That’s a big risk, Dayton. A big-fucking-ass risk.”

I sigh. “Think about it, okay?”

“Mmph. Okay. I have to go to work now. Talk soon?”

“Yeah. Bye.”

That conversation didn’t last nearly as long as I’d hoped. I leave the harbor and walk into the city. My glasses cover my downcast eyes, and I yearn for a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt with pockets I could shove my hands in.

What am I doing?

If I had any sense, even an ounce of it, I’d run to the hotel. I’d run and I’d pack and I’d jump on the next plane back to the US. I’d run from the situation that’s gradually building around me. The one I knew could happen. The one I promised myself wouldn’t. The one that changes everything.

The building that houses Stone Advertising comes into my peripheral, and I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. People mill around me, sidestepping to avoid me and running across the road. Flagging cabs. Laughing with friends. Normal things.

I stare at the tall building. Aaron’s in there somewhere, probably in a meeting or sitting at stupid long table and watching as hair-flicking, eyelash-batting, chest-pushing, gorgeous girls parade in front of him and present him with a fat portfolio of them wearing barely anything.

Something that feels an awful lot like jealously curls in my stomach, and I walk down the street. I wrap my arms around my waist and walk until I find a tiny, tucked-away restaurant.

The low lighting is counteracted by the rich laughter of the staff when I walk in. Three guys and two girls—too many for this empty place—are all laughing like they’ll never laugh again. One of the girls is bent at the waist, holding her stomach as her giggles peal out of her.

The eldest guy shushes them and looks at me. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

“You can.” I smile. “I’m looking for a place to hide that has good food. Know anywhere?”

“As it happens, I do!” He steps forward and bows exaggeratedly. “Follow me.”

He leads me to a table in the back corner. The bench is covered in bright cushions, the table adorned with an equally bright cloth. He hands me a menu, and I open it.

“What do you recommend?”

“I own the place. I recommend everything.” He winks. “Would you like a drink?”

“Do you have white wine?”

“Do I have white wine? Of course I have white wine.” He rolls his eyes in a decidedly campy way.

“Well, could I have a glass, please?”

“You can have a bottle, darling. Hold it right there.” He scuttles away and returns moments later, a glass in one hand and a bottle in the other. “Here. Try this.”

I take the glass from him and smell it. Fruity. Sweet. Not my usual taste, but okay… “Oh my god!” I stare at him. “That’s incredible. How can something that smells so sweet be a medium dry?”

He leans forward and crooks his finger. “Don’t ask me, honey. I just sell it. But it goes wonderful with our mussels. The fish mussels, not the babies you see hiding beneath my shirt.”

I laugh as he pats his thin arm. “Then I’ll have the mussels.”

“Yes!” He fist pumps the air and turns, pointing a finger at the other staff. “I told you!”

I raise my eyebrows, his infectious happiness making me smile.

“I’m sorry. We had a bet over who could sell the mussels first.”

“You set me up!” I gasp.

“I’m sorry!” He takes my hand. “Gosh. Have whatever you want. Here. You can even have me. My bum is peachy.” He wiggles his hips.

I think I found my new favorite place.

“I want the mussels,” I reply, patting his arm. “Really.”

“Done. Ella, tell Barry we need a mussel dish. And not his muscles—he can keep those.” He slides in opposite me and leans in. “Believe me, there’s nothing nice about those overcooked muscles of his.”

I smile.

“So. Who are you hiding from?”

“Tom!” A girl—Ella—appears from the kitchen and scolds him. “You can’t ask people personal stuff like that!”

Tom rolls his eyes. “Oh gosh, El. If she doesn’t want to tell me, she won’t. Talking helps, girl.”

She turns soft brown eyes on me. “Just tell him to piss off. He has no boundaries.”

“It’s okay.” I run my thumb along my glass. “I’m hiding from my boyfriend.”

“Oh no,” Tom sighs dramatically. “It’s always the men, isn’t it? I’d tell you to be gay like me but I realize that contradicts my last comment.”

Ella sits too. “Tom, if she was gay like you, she’d be into women.”

“Like you.”

“Precisely.”

So I’m sitting in a restaurant in Sydney, Australia, telling a gay man and a lesbian how I’m hiding from my boyfriend who isn’t really my boyfriend.

There’s something I never thought I’d say.

Tom knocks on the table. “You tell us everything.”

“Do you make it a habit to have this conversation with everyone that walks through the door?” I ask with a wry smile.

“Of course I do. Why ask questions if you don’t want to find anything out?”

I’ll concede that point.

“So why are you hiding?”

I bring my glass to my lips. “Because he’s an asshole.”

Ella nods sympathetically. “There’s a reason I’m not into them.”

“Nothing wrong with arseholes,” Tom counters.

“Enough.” Ella points at him. “What’s your name?”

“Dayton.”

“Tell me everything.”

And I do. Even as my mussels arrive—which they help me eat, leading to another order, a plate of fries, and a second bottle of wine—I talk. I tell them how we met in Paris and agreed to leave it behind. I tell them how we ‘met randomly one night when he was in the city’ and he ‘convinced me to come with him’ around the world. How he drives me crazy and makes me happy and blows my body up with every feeling imaginable all of the time.

And I tell them how I’m so very, very scared of what it all means.

“You must care, right?” Ella licks her fingers. “I mean, how often do you agree to go on a trip around the world with your ex-boyfriend?”

“That’s right,” Alana, the other girl, agrees. “And it’s written all over your face. You love him.”

Jared, one of the guys, throws a fry at her. “You can’t just tell people who they love, Alana!”

She throws him an evil look, and Ella leans into me. “They’re in love denial.”

I nod. “Ah. He kind of has a point though.”

“Just don’t tell her that.”

I nod again.

“So, darling, what are you going to do?” Tom asks, cutting through Jared’s and Alana’s sniping.

“I’d like to know that myself.”

My head snaps up. Aaron’s standing in the doorway, his sleeves rolled up and his tie and jacket discarded.

I sigh into my glass. “Of course he’d find me.”

“Is that Aaron Stone? Stone Advertising?” Ella whispers. “We’ve been trying to get them to work with us for ages.”

Tom whistles before I can answer. “Is it hot in here or is the heat wave playing havoc with my hormones?”

I close my eyes and swallow my laugh.

“Dayton? Are you going to answer the question?” His voice cuts through me like a knife.

Ella nudges me and I look at her. “Yes, it is.”

“Holy shit, girl. I don’t even like men but he might just turn me.”

Aaron’s jaw visibly clenches. “Not that question.”

“Oh, what am I going to do?” I look at my glass. “I’m going to sit here with my new friends, drink wine, and bitch about what complete and utter dickheads straight men are.”

Jared and the other guy, Ollie, cry a protest. Alana throws fries at them.

“Or you’re gonna get off your pretty little ass, get in the car waiting outside, and come back to the hotel with me.”

“I think I’ll go with my option, thanks.”

“I wasn’t asking you, Dayton.”

“You were telling me, right?” I finish my wine and stand, staring him down. “Because you get to do that. You get to tell me to do whatever the hell you want without considering how I might feel about it, don’t you?”

“You’ve had too much to drink.” His voice is controlled but his eyes betray his shock at my words.

“The only person who decides that is me. I still have that, or are you telling me that too?” I grab my purse and look at everyone around the table. “I’m sorry. It was great to meet you guys, but my asshole says it’s time to leave.”

I dig my hand into my purse for some cash, but Aaron throws some bills down before I can.

“I can pay for my own dinner.”

“And you’re not going to.” He takes my upper arm in a strong grip and nods to everyone. “I’m sorry about this. That should cover the bill. Have a great night.”

I’m pulled, open mouthed, out of the restaurant and into a waiting black car. I snap my jaw shut when he slides in next to me with a slam of the door.

“Back to the hotel, Martin.”

I fold my arms over my chest, my head feeling a little fuzzy. Maybe a bottle of wine to myself wasn’t the smartest idea I’ve ever had, but I’ll blame Aaron for that. He makes me need to lose myself.

And not in a good way.

Tension bounces between us on the drive back to the hotel, and when we arrive, he all but carries me into the elevator that will take us up to our suite. Still, he doesn’t say a word, but the ticking in his jaw tells me just how pissed off he is.

I kick off my shoes inside the suite and chuck my purse onto one of the sofas. No words leave him as I walk into the bathroom and strip off my clothes.

Who the fuck does he think he is? Coming in there and dragging me away like that? What gives him the right to do that?

Oh, that’s right. He owns me because he spends his endless amounts of cash on my time. I forgot about the part where I’m supposed to appreciate that gesture.

I scrub my hair and body under the hot spray of the shower, and once I’m clean, I get out, still angry. I’m so angry I can barely fucking think straight.

I towel dry my hair and let it fall around my shoulders and onto the fluffy hotel robe I’m wearing. Argh!

Aaron’s sitting on one of the sofas when I leave the bedroom, leaning forward. A beer bottle spins between his fingers, and the wine glass clinks against the side when I set it down.

“I don’t think you need any more.”

I pour a glass, ignoring his comment, and set the bottle back in the fridge.
Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

I’m being childish and there isn’t a single part of me that gives a fuck.

Control is how I live my life, how my days unravel, how I keep sane. I control every single aspect of my life, aside from client preferences. But I’m still free to go where I wish, see who I wish, do whatever the frigging hell I want.