Wicked Angel Read online

  And now he showers her with devotion, expensive vacations, jewels, and extravagant parties as is par for the course for a new husband who is crazy about his wife. Not that she wants any of those extravagances. She’d be happy living in a small house in the burbs with her man, but she lets him have his fun.

  Well, maybe not a small house. They’re trying to get pregnant, and they’ve been doing so since their honeymoon in Paris last year. They’re not going overboard like timing ovulation cycles or anything. I know enough from my bestie that their sex life is robust, and there’s a frequent deposit of Walsh’s swimmers made in the hopes of getting her pregnant. But past that, they’re being laid back about it, figuring it will happen when it happens.

  Once, I used to yearn for the same thing, but it’s pretty much a non-factor these days. I’ve had such a string of bad relationships I’ve given up hope of a good man existing. I mean, sure… there’s Walsh, but he’s like one in a million. He and Jorie were fated.

  I have no one to blame but myself for my bad choices. I pick the same kind of man every damn time. The type who seems confident when things start out, but, before I know it, I’ve given my heart to someone who is lazy, shiftless, and totally dependent upon me to take care of him both financially and emotionally. I don’t know if I have a neon sign flashing above my head or what, but I am the furthest thing from a sugar mama imaginable. I also have no desire to be a grown ass man’s mother. Nothing attractive about that.

  And it’s not like I’m rolling in the money. I’m a struggling business owner and while running my own salon is the height of success for me, it sucks on my soul most of the time with the stress. It’s not just about the freedom and the art of styling hair, but about managing employees, rent, bills, supplies, vendors, and customer satisfaction. I work my fingers to the bone, and I don’t make much more than I did when I worked in someone else’s salon.

  Still, there’s satisfaction in the accomplishment of keeping the doors open and I don’t have to answer to anyone.

  At least I have that.

  I grab a glass of champagne off a passing tray before walking around the perimeter of the ballroom. I’m here for Jorie, but I don’t know anyone other than her brother, Micah. He’s currently wrapped up in a discussion with several businessmen and while he’d welcome me into the conversation, it looks like a snooze fest to me.

  Jorie’s attached to Walsh’s hip, where she should be, and he’s busy taking her all around the room and showing her off.

  As he should.

  But she’s my bestie and she’s worried about me. She glances around frequently to search for me, worried I’m not enjoying myself.

  Which I’m not.

  Not only do I not know anyone, but I’m also way out of my element. I can guarantee I’m the only hair stylist in this ballroom. Through my hard work and sheer determination, I consider myself middle class, yet I bet I’m the only middle-class person here. This ballroom holds the one-percenters. The people who have six-car garages to hold all their fancy foreign vehicles and jewels on their fingers that cost more than my yearly salary.

  But I’m here for Jorie, as I remind myself for the third time tonight. I’ll finish this champagne, nosh on some chilled lobster, join in a celebratory piece of cake, and then I’m out of here. Jorie will understand.

  “Don’t you even think about leaving early,” Jorie says as she approaches from behind, grabbing onto my arm. She steers me to the outer edge of the crowd, over to a small nook where there’s a stand with a linen-covered tray to collect empty plates and glasses. “I know that expression.”

  “I don’t know anyone here,” I whine dramatically. “And you know fancy parties and rich people aren’t my thing.”

  “You screw rich people at The Wicked Horse all the time,” she counters with a cocked eyebrow. “So don’t even go there.”

  Which is true, but the only reason I have the luxury is because Jorie bought me a special membership to The Wicked Horse for my birthday last year. It allows me entry twice a month, normally a five-hundred-a-visit value. Prior to my gifted membership, I scraped and scrimped the fee, sometimes giving up a new handbag or pretty dress to get my rocks off a handful of times a year. It was way easier than dating.

  Even though she’s rich as sin since she married Walsh, I tried to decline the membership because it had to be insanely expensive. But she assured me Jerico Jameson gave her a special deal on the price, and she’d be terribly offended if I didn’t take it.

  Ultimately, what convinced me to accept her gift were the stars in Jorie’s eyes. Given she’d found love in The Wicked Horse, she didn’t see why I couldn’t do the same. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I wasn’t interested in it, so I was overly gracious and grateful when I assured her that I loved the gift.

  And I did, and still do.

  Especially after my encounter last weekend with a faceless man who made my body do things I hadn’t known it was capable of doing. How I wish I knew what he looked like. How I wish he would contact me again through the app, because I’d never make the move. To do so would imply I need something from him, and I’m never falling back into that trap again. Yes, my pride is keeping me at bay, but if he did reach out to me, I wouldn’t say no to another hookup with him.

  I’d jump at the chance.

  “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” she asks with a knowing expression. I flush hot—not because she knows me so well, but because the reminder of that amazing evening has me longing for it again.

  At lunch Monday, I had filled Jorie in about our time together in the exclusive Apartments. While I didn’t give her a play-by-play description, I’d told her enough that she was fanning herself, taking long sips of her iced water, and muttering she and Walsh needed to make a return trip to the club soon.

  “I’m not thinking about him,” I say out of the side of my mouth, eyes scanning the crowd I’m clearly never going to be a part of. But then I add, “Much.”

  So many rich people. Beautiful women. Handsome men.

  The men here are like everywhere and of no real interest to me. I’ve found economic status has nothing to do with male character. It might make them appear to have healthier egos, but I’ve found rich and poor men alike are equally adept at using me.

  My gaze moves casually around, admiring the women’s dresses more than anything.

  “Wow,” Jorie murmurs as she sidles in closer to me. “You’ve got someone’s attention.”

  “Who?” I ask, my head slowly swiveling to take in the people, but then my eyes slam to a stop on a man who is staring with an expression that’s difficult to describe. His eyes are hard, almost cold. Jaw locked tight. And yet, he clearly looks surprised to see me, which is weird because he’s a stranger to me.

  “Do you know him?” Jorie asks, apparently noticing the mixture of emotions that seem to war on his face.

  “Not at all. Do you?”

  Jorie snorts. “I don’t know half the people here. I can go find Walsh and ask.”

  I turn to face her, mainly to give the man my disregard. I don’t know him, he’s not important, and I don’t feel like fending off someone’s advances. Even though he’s incredibly gorgeous.

  “Oh, man,” Jorie whispers as her eyebrows rise high. She gives a nod in the direction of where the man was standing, just over my shoulder. “Here he comes.”

  My body locks, and I give her an imploring look. “Don’t you dare leave me.”

  “I’m out of here,” she says with a devilish grin. “He’s totally hot, and he’s clearly interested in you.”

  “No, Jorie,” I snap, grabbing onto her wrist. I give her a warning glare. “I’ll never forgive you.”

  “You’ll thank me later, I’m sure,” she quips before gently pulling herself free from my grasp because I’d never make her stay. It’s her birthday after all.

  Jorie slips away, and I turn around with a resigned sigh.

  I’m shocked as I take in the man walking toward me. As
he gets closer, he gets infinitely better looking. Dark hair worn just long enough to be styled in a mussy, just-got-out-of-bed way that’s totally hip and fashionable. Sculpted cheekbones, full lips, and a narrow nose that makes him appear aristocratic. He’s sporting a very trim, short beard, and his eyes are dark brown and brooding.

  What’s most shocking is the man is tall, well built, and yet walks with a slight limp while steadying himself on a cane. Intrigue fills me at his youthful age and in-shape physique, the cane only adding a flair of mystery.

  When he reaches me, he lets his gaze travel very slowly and almost possessively down my body. It’s a move that would normally offend me, yet, somehow, I feel like he has the right to do it.

  Weird.

  His eyes slide just as slowly upward until they stop and lock on mine.

  “You,” he murmurs in wonder, and… is that anger?

  I blink in confusion. “Me what?”

  “I didn’t think you could look any better than when you were naked and covered in hot wax, but I’m apparently wrong about that.”

  A jolt of awareness goes through me as I realize who is standing in front of me, and I feel incredibly off balance. His words on their face would be considered seductive and praiseworthy, but the distinct tone of disapproval in his voice would imply he can’t stand the sight of me.

  Choosing to focus on his tone instead, I give him a return glare. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  He seems startled by the vehemence turned on him, taking an unsure step back. He’s clearly not an unintelligent man. I can tell by the expression on his face he realizes his mistake right away.

  “What I should have said,” he says in a gentler tone, “is you look incredibly beautiful tonight. My apologies… I’m not the greatest at giving compliments.”

  God, he’s really kind of weird. His words are right—what any woman would want to hear—but he delivers them so awkwardly it’s clear conversing with me is painful. This is so at odds with the confident way in which he handled me at The Wicked Horse last weekend. And there’s no doubt this is the man who rocked my world with hot wax, a vibrator, and a very skillful cock. I recognize his voice just from the first two words he had said to me that night.

  “Not there.”

  We stare at each other a moment, and I can see him struggling to try to find something to say. It’s not a shyness, but more like an antipathy to carry on small talk. I try to help him out.

  “So how do you know Walsh?” I ask.

  “Golfing buddy,” he replies, then looks around at the crowd. “I normally hate coming to these things, but I promised him I would.”

  “He wanted to make this a huge celebration for Jorie,” I explain before taking a sip of champagne.

  “You are friends with her?” he asks as he centers the cane directly before him and rests his hands on top of the ornate T-shaped knob.

  “Best friends,” I reply with a slight bob of my head. “Grew up together.”

  He nods and scans the crowd, seemingly at a loss for anything to say. So I ask, “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a neurosurgeon,” he replies as he shifts his attention to me.

  I blink in surprise because that’s impressive. “Wow.”

  And maybe that’s why he’s a little awkward in conversation. Aren’t the brilliant types usually that way?

  And yet, he doesn’t look away again. The expression on his face is contemplative, as if he’s trying to figure out the mystery of me. But I’m just me, so it can’t be that. I’m pretty much a ‘what you see is what you get’ person.

  He says nothing, and I don’t know what else to say either. I’m out of ideas, so I start to figure out how to exit from this conversation, clearly realizing our chemistry revolves solely around sex. Which is fine. We don’t need to talk.

  “Would you like to go to The Wicked Horse with me?” he asks out of the blue, and I’m taken aback by the almost clinical way in which he states his question. If he were trying to seduce me, he’d do it with softer words or perhaps a caress on my arm.

  Instead, it sounds like a boring business transaction.

  Still, I want this man again. Never tried to deny that.

  Every molecule in my body vibrates, screaming “Yes”. I knew I’d jump at the chance to be with him again if the opportunity presented itself, but I find myself regretfully shaking my head. “I can’t. My membership only allows me to go twice a month, and I’ve already used up my allotted days for January. But we could… um… go to your place instead?”

  “We can’t,” he replies flatly, and it arouses my suspicions.

  “Why? Are you married?”

  “No,” he replies staunchly before he grimaces. “It’s just that I’m a private person, and I keep sex at the club.”

  I can understand his reasoning. It’s my motto, too, and I want to kick myself for even suggesting going to his place. It seems desperate. Besides, it goes against all the rules I’d put upon myself so I don’t fall into a trap again. It’s the same exact reason I keep sex strictly limited to the club.

  To keep men at arm’s length.

  Will I never learn?

  “But if you’d allow me,” he says almost stiffly as if he doesn’t quite trust the words coming out of his mouth. “I’ll gladly pay your evening fee to get in tonight.”

  I locate Jorie standing next to Walsh, and her eyes lock with mine. They’re full of questions, but she would never begrudge me if I walked out of here right now on this man’s arm.

  But with a small sigh of regret, I turn my attention back. “I can’t leave until Jorie has her cake.”

  The man glances over to Jorie and Walsh before bouncing to me. He inclines his head in a way that conveys his disappointment. “Maybe some other time then.”

  Damn. I had hoped he’d stay for a while until it was appropriate for me to leave, but, clearly, I was just an easy and available conquest in his path. Sounds like he’ll head to the club and easily find someone else.

  So be it. I don’t beg.

  “Have a good night,” I murmur with a smile, hoping it masks my regret.

  After a nod, he heads toward the exit.

  I watch him move with an elegant grace despite the slight limp and use of the cane. When he’s out of sight, I finish my glass of champagne and take another from a roving waiter.

  CHAPTER 5

  Benjamin

  My house is dark when I walk in. I should do a better job of leaving lights on at night for safety reasons, but it’s just not high on my priority list of worries.

  I flip on the foyer light, which provides illumination over the spacious living room that leads into the kitchen, then place my cane into an umbrella rack by the door. At one point in my life, it used to just hold umbrellas.

  I don’t usually bother with my cane in the house. It’s not for balance but rather to help take some weight off my recovering leg. I’m able to traverse my house by holding onto walls or counters to help accommodate if necessary.

  Moving through the living room, I ignore how ghostly it looks with the furniture shrouded and the built-in shelves empty of knickknacks, mementos, and pictures. When I came home from my lengthy hospital stay following the accident, I had every intention of selling this house. It wasn’t my home anymore.

  Not without April and Cassidy.

  I hired someone to come in and pack away everything. I couldn’t bear to look at their smiling faces in the photos April had liberally placed all around our house. Couldn’t bring myself to sit on the couch where she would curl up with Cassidy to read her books before bedtime while I would sit in my recliner, perusing some medical journal. I couldn’t stand any of it, so I covered it all up and tried to ignore it every time I walked in the door.

  My leg is hurting tonight but with no one to see me, I don’t try to hide my limp. I hobble into the kitchen, not hungry, but knowing I should eat just for the sake of nutrition. Food tastes bland and lackluster, and I never crave it for enjoyment.


  Opening the fridge, I peruse the contents. Mustard, mayonnaise, ketchup in the door along with some pickles. Leftover containers of Chinese food that are probably over a week old. A few protein drinks and some moldy bacon.

  Closing the refrigerator, I pull open the freezer drawer underneath. A handful of frozen dinners that don’t entice.

  Back into the fridge I go, snagging two protein shakes. I uncap them both and as I stand with one hand resting on the granite countertop of the kitchen island, I drink them one right after another. Guzzling without tasting because I couldn’t even if I tried. I toss the empty containers in the trash, then move through the shadowed house.

  I don’t bother looking into Cassidy’s room. The door has remained closed since I returned home from the hospital, and I don’t have the guts to even peek inside. I ignore the double doors at the end of the hall that provide entrance into the master suite.

  If I were to go in there, like everywhere else, drop cloths would cover the furniture. I even had them remove the mattress because it smelled like April, and I didn’t want the reminder should I have to go in there for some reason.

  Instead, I head into the guest room I’d taken over. The furniture and decor in here had not meant anything to me. There wasn’t even one family photo in here to be dealt with. Just a comfy bed with a neutral-colored comforter. It’s where my parents stayed when they came to visit from Michigan or where April’s twin sister, Angela, slept when she passed through Vegas on occasion. I’d added a small desk near the window that overlooks the front yard, then equipped it with a laptop I can do work on late at night. I don’t sleep as much as I used to so my paperwork has never looked better.