Page 24 of The Last Call
I pile the damp clothes in the corner and step onto the sloped tile designating the open shower. Welcoming the hot water streaming over me.
Masculine products line the shelves. Leaving me with no other option than to use his shampoo and body wash.
His.
Julius.
My mind still blown that I’m taking a shower in Julius Sabatini’s house, and now I’m going to smell like him. Confused as hell by the fact that I like the idea. That I enjoy the familiarity of his scent on my skin.
Because no one has ever made me feel so comfortable. He’s certifiable that’s for absolute certain. I guess I am too. For accepting this so easily. Somehow he makes it impossible to resist. Not just from his force. But from his generosity. I now have more money than I ever thought possible. I never have to work again. With nothing to do but let him spoil me. Crazy how this is even real. Crazier that I’m not freaking out.
Yet, there is one thing missing. Which I’m going to demand as soon as I finish. I lather my hair and scrub my body. Grateful for my waxing session a few days ago since I don’t have a razor.
A new toothbrush sits on the navy checked vanity next to an unopened box of toothpaste. My heart flip flops in my chest. Julius was in here while I was naked. And he didn’t accost me. Proving he’s not a complete asshole. Just an insane one.
Without access to any other clean clothes, my only option is to grab one of the black tee shirts hanging on the hooks in the walk in closet. Obviously expensive suits line the rest of the racks. Only a single shelf stacked with jeans and henleys. I guess he works even while on vacation.
I push back my shoulders before shoving down the door handle. Butterflies swirling in my stomach to confront him wearing only this improvised dress. I refuse to back down despite the fact I have no clothes or power. “Julius, I want you to…”
I talk to myself. The room is empty, and I’m lost without him. Uncertain where he is or why he’s gone. The instinct to run again pulses in my veins but reason cuts the thought short. Irrational to think I could make it very far barefoot and exhausted. But I’m sure as hell not going to sleep in his room, let alone his bed.
I tiptoe to the door and peek into the hallway. The corridor empty and silent. I can’t go back to the room that I think is his sister’s so I jog in the opposite direction to the next open door. Neat and orderly without any personal items, which I’m hoping—praying—also means unused. I climb into bed and pull the heavy blankets to my chin. Snuggling in like a child yet soothing nonetheless. The king size mattress is heaven, and I can’t help but burrow deeper. We can talk later. I’ll set the ground rules for the two of us going forward. If he wants my compliance with his grandmother, then there’s something he must do for me.
Iscroll through the messages on Phillip’s phone. My own device featuring the pictures of Syd thinking I’m going to let her get away with sneaking out of my bedroom and hiding in one of the guest rooms. Not like I won’t come and claim her again. After I tracked her sweet ass thousands of miles, I’m more than willing to walk a few feet.
But my captain’s urgent request prevented me from joining her in the shower. He fucking knows how much I hate interruptions. This time is no different.
“He’s freaking out.”
Yeah, I get that from the stream of panic attack texts filling up the screen. The rising, young boxer suddenly deciding he doesn’t want to lose the fight Saturday night. He can’t take the pressure, he says. Except he can. He fucking will. My cash in his account and the receipts from my bookies say different. When shit like this goes down, nothing can be solved except by having a real discussion. Fuck all of this technology. “Did you call him?”
Looking kind of sheepish with his brows dipped low, Phillip shrugs. Feigning a casualness neither of us buy.
“Yeah, but he didn’t answer.”
That I believe. Kid’s fucking crazed with fear to defy me and doesn’t want to own up to being a coward.
What I don’t like is that Phillip didn’t try harder. He knows I’m fucking distracted right now with the angel upstairs. I need to be able to rely on him to fix the bullshit. “So that’s it? You make one lame ass attempt to reach him and now it’s my problem?”
I’m too damned tired to have to tell him how the fuck to resolve this issue. “Fucking call him again. If he doesn’t answer, send someone over there. Remind him that he throws it or he dies. There’s no going back now.” I hold up the obvious evidence and shove the cell into Phillip’s face. “The proof of his guilt is right here.”
Not that I could really use the string of pleas and confessions without implicating myself. But Chance “Blonde Fury” Anderson doesn’t know that. All he needs to know is he works for me and does what he’s told. “Make him understand that this loss is only temporary. Just like we talked about. He’s talented and popular. He’ll train hard and have the comeback of his career. Losing this match will be the best thing he’s ever done for himself.”
“Yeah, I’ll tell him.” Phillip’s furious head bob doesn’t assuage me much. “I’ll make him understand.”
“You do that.” I slowly rise, smoothing down my jacket. Dismissing him with a sharp tone. Almost. “And, if you don’t, I will.”
With another violent nod, it’s clear Phillip understands the implication. If I have to do his job for him, then I don’t need him.
I do need her though. Once he races back to the patio with his phone in hand, fingers pounding the keypad, I jog back to her improvised hiding spot. Not even bothering to knock before I shove open the door and get the breath knocked out of me once again.
She sleeps.
Heavy, deep, and so incredibly beautiful curled tight under the white blankets. Dark hair splayed across the silk pillow case. Her nude cheeks pink from her warm bath. Tiny and fragile huddled in the middle of the huge mattress. Only better if she was snuggled on mine.
I get it though. She thinks she needs to prove her independence. Convince me she’s untamed and uncontrollable. Deep down we both know better. She’ll be happier with me. Because I know for damn sure I’m happier with her.
I’m too much of a bastard to resist and grab the corner of the cover. Slowly sliding down the comforter to reveal her delicate form swimming in my black tee shirt. God fucking damn. It almost hurts to look at her. Yet I can’t tear my eyes away. I’ve never enjoyed the image of a woman wearing my clothes more than this.
