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Again.
Something is wrong with me. This girl has me all types of wrong. What does it say about me that, when she’s around, I act like an idiot who can’t control his dick?
The distraction I sought? Didn’t work. I needed something harder than liquor, which is not in the cards. Or I can just fuck her, use her as a distraction, and move on with my life.
This thought only makes me angrier. The possibility of double-dipping with my fucking father is disgusting. I shouldn’t harden at the sight of her. If she had an affair with my dad, I am going to reanimate him from the dead and murder him, then I’m going to murder her, too.
I am about to turn around, avoid a double homicide, and walk out the door when she moves, and a scream ricochets through the room.
“Do you mind?” I yawn, pretending she doesn’t bother me. “I don’t want the whole house to wake up.”
“Why are you here?”
“It is, in fact, my house and my kitchen, last I checked. What are you doing here is the better question.”
“I was hungry.”
“Okay . . .”
“I didn’t eat dinner.”
“Why not?”
She doesn’t answer. A part of me wondered if she’s one of those closet eaters. I noticed she never eats when I am around.
“You do know. So just spit it out.”
“I was afraid eating your food would inspire you to add another stipulation.”
“So instead, you scurry into my kitchen at night, like a nocturnal rodent, and raid my fridge?” I don’t mention the fact that she’s already been caught, on multiple occasions, by my staff and the many hidden cameras, which she hasn’t seemed to notice. “Maybe Cinderella wasn’t too far off point for a nickname. But it’s not quite hitting the mark. Hmm . . . Maybe we should nickname you after the mouse.”
“Ass—”
“Asshole. I know. I know. You have now said this a million times.” I approach her, stepping beside her and ignoring it when her hip brushes against my thigh. Fuck me. “I suggest you crack open a thesaurus. Your language skills leave much to be desired. And while you’re at it, learn to act civilly. For someone who wants the money so bad, you really don’t know how to behave.”
“I don’t want the money that bad,” she lies.
It’s written all over her features.
She does.
She needs it.
19
Payton
* * *
Devil.
Anti-Christ.
Lucifer.
All better names that are much more fitting than Trent Aldridge.
He is evil personified.
Okay, maybe that’s dramatic, seeing as other than mess with my life, he hasn’t killed anyone, namely me, yet. Yet being the operative word.
Something whispers in my brain that he has nefarious plans for me. Actually, not something.
Him.
He literally says this to me.
Which is why I don’t trust him at all.
But there is something that doesn’t make sense. I understand his anger. His dad neglected him and paid attention to me. His dad left his family for mine.
I represent the source of his pain.
Yet something else is simmering beneath the surface. Something I’m too afraid to identify.
Oh, I’ve identified a lot. Who am I kidding?
I know he was sporting wood when he left my room after I so smartly undressed in front of him.
Finally got him to shut up. But damn if he didn’t turn the tables on me last night in the kitchen with nothing on but gray sweatpants. Those things should be outlawed.
Shit. I can’t be thinking of him like that now. Not when I need to get ready, but instead am hot and sticky and in need of a shower, desperately.
Damn it.
I march into the bathroom, swing the glass door open, and turn the shower on. The water cascades down on me, engulfing me in its heat.
It reminds me of the type of rain that one would dance in as a child.
It awakens my senses and helps get me ready for the day.
The water is peaceful, calming, and I wish I could stay here forever.
But unfortunately, I need to get out, and when I do, I’ll have to see him.
Those eyes.
They’ll mock me. Tease me. Glare at me with hate. Why do they have to be the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen? And why, when he stares, does my body go warm?
When he touches me, every nerve ending comes alive.
Can I hate someone and crave their contact at the same time?
My body heats, but not because of the water that batters down on me, but from the way he makes me feel.
Needy.
So fucking needy all the time.
What would it be like for a moment to put away the animosity. To pretend we weren’t enemies?
I reach my hand out, pouring the liquid soap onto my skin and scrubbing.
The suds of the soap trailing down between the valley of my breasts, making my nipples pebble.
Thoughts of Trent have my legs shaking with a pent-up emotion.
