Page 51 of Wicked

Istare at the queen-sized bed. Of course Shephard booked us a room with a single bed. I toss my backpack on the overstuffed chair in the room and pull back my long hair into a ponytail with a scrunchie from my pocket.

The lock clicks, and the door swings open. Shephard walks in with a garment bag in his hand. I narrow my eyes.

“What’s in there?”

“Your dress. Shower. Pretty yourself up. We’re going out.”

“I’m tired.”

“And I’m not wasting the opportunity to spoil you. Between your classes, work, the kids, and running and sparring with me, it’s go, go, go for you. Let me take you out. Show you off. You’re so beautiful, Harper.”

He’s laying it on thick, but Shephard’s right. The pace has been non-stop lately. What’s the harm in enjoying ourselves? We don’t have plans until tomorrow morning.

He places the garment bag on the hook on the back of the bathroom door.

“I need to make a phone call and stop by the front desk. Meet me in the lounge in an hour. The reservation is under your name.”

I glance at the time on my cell. That’ll put us at six-thirty. Shephard leaves, and I check my messages. Crickets from Ryker. I scroll down to his last message. It’s from this morning, two hours before his game started.

Ryker: Have a safe trip

Have a safe trip. The words are casual. What a friend texts another friend. But I know differently. There was heat in his eyes and the promise of sin and pleasure when his large hands cocooned my hips and his mouth brushed the corner of my mouth last night, after we saw the last kid leave with their parent.

I didn’t stay, giving Ryker the excuse I wanted to get a good night’s rest before the flight home. What I didn’t tell him was that Shephard was waiting at my place.

My finger goes to the corner Ryker kissed. A strip of flesh I never thought would have me hot all over as Ryker’s tongue darted out, teasing and tasting.

Come to my place afterward. Stay.

I’d like that, Ryker. I’ll stay the night with you.

Unable to stop smiling, I strip and shower. He had waited for me to drive off before he went inside his place. He’s a gentleman.

But I’ve seen a gentleman become the devil when he wanted something badly enough. My father murdering my mother. Sam and his friends violating my body in the name of possession and loyalty.

I quell the ball of anger growing in my core. Let it get too big, and I won’t be able to control my need for vengeance. That’s what Shephard wants. Why he brought me here. The reason he’s downstairs making a “phone call.” Everything Shephard does is for me.

He keeps me safe.

Gives me a reason to exist when I’d rather crawl into a ball of shame and self-hatred.

He helps me become stronger physically so that when the wicked comes for me, I can smash at it with my fists. And when my fists won’t cut it, he made certain I can run and run without collapsing from sheer exhaustion.

Shephard is my savior, but he isn’t the man of my dreams. He doesn’t make my heart sing like Ryker does. He doesn’t make me smile and want to tease and poke back like Ryker does. And his body near mine doesn’t elicit the same visceral response as when I’m in proximity to Ryker.

My heartbeat accelerates. My insides clench with longing. But how can I give in to Ryker when I know full well how he came to be in my messed-up life?

Next Saturday will be the fourth week, a month of Ryker in my life.

Will he make his move after we return the kids to their parents? Nail and bail. Hit and run. I plan on spending tomorrow night with him in his bed, but he won’t be winning the bet sooner rather than later.

Attempting to forget that Ryker accepted a bet to nail me so that he could screw a different girl, I pull the dress Shephard bought for me over my body.

The color is a bold red, and the material, satin. It clings to my body like a second skin, moving with me when I slip on the silver heels Shephard had thoughtfully placed by the door.

I get his unspoken message. He wants to show me off, and boy, will this dress do the trick. I bend over in front of the mirror. The satin clings to my ass. Bend over too far and I’ll be showing off more than my butt. Shit, the hem is short.

I straighten and check myself out in the mirror. The neckline is plunging. Not that it does me any good. I’m at the low end of a B-cup. I run my hands down my sides and tilt my head. A coat of mascara darkens and stretches out my lashes. Burgundy on my lips. I fluff my hair. The black strands fall over my shoulders and caress the spot below my shoulder blades.

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