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He isn’t yours to fix.
24
Trent
* * *
This whole situation is fucking stupid.
This woman drives me completely insane.
The worst part about it?
This is all my fault.
I forced her to stay at my place.
To volunteer at the one place I feel most like myself.
If anyone is to blame, it’s me. All me and my dumb fucking ideas.
Now I can’t decide whether I want to bash my head against a wall from her questions or stroke my cock from the way she looks at me.
Both, I decide.
What the ever-living fuck is wrong with me?
Like clockwork, I hear the bell-like sound of Payton’s laughter. It reaches my office and is enough to force me out of my chair and into the hall. I round the corner to the living room and spot her immediately. She’s on the floor, knees on the hardwood, ass in the air.
This is not the first time I’ve wanted to sink my teeth into it.
Or flip her skirt up and sink into her.
Payton Hart is more dangerous than every weapon in the secret arsenal behind my closet.
She is a pain in the ass.
She asks too many questions.
She interferes in my life.
She always wants to talk about something.
She makes a mockery of the term peace and quiet.
And she’s a goddamn distraction because it takes me too long to realize it isn’t Payton laughing. It’s Gail. Militant, came-with-recommendations-from-Pentagon-officials Gail. Gail, whose closest proximity to humor is the fact that she has a humerus bone.
Payton broke Gail.
There is no other explanation.
Gail doesn’t laugh.
She doesn’t even smile.
But she’s doing both right now, and I don’t know how to process it. I think I’m shocked still for the first time.
I watch from my perch at the corner as Payton straightens and launches into an animated discussion about her adventure making the new cleaning solution she’s using. Gail follows the story, even when Payton cracks a dumb joke, and they both sink into a fit of laughter, clutching their stomachs.
What. The. Fuck.
It’s time to accept the fact that I didn’t think this through. Because the alternative—that I did think this through and Payton Hart managed to crack through my barriers, my plans, and my perfectly contained life—is downright frightening.
Living with me? A horrible idea.
Volunteering where I do? A worse one.
And let’s not forget that she is always around me. That’s the final straw of all the idiotic fucking things I have done. Instead of finding things to hate about Payton now, I’m finding things to like about the woman.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
The fact that Henry spoke to her doesn’t bode well. I don’t like that Margret likes her, too. She broke Gail. The only way this could be any worse would be if my mother liked her. No way in hell that’ll happen. I’ll keep them as far apart as possible.
I creep back into the shadows and make my way down to the garage, forcing the image of Gail and Payton laughing from my head. Including the fact that I didn’t exactly hate the sight. Not even close.
But this all takes a back seat to Henry.
I want to drag myself into the street and kick my own ass. I see Henry almost every day. I didn’t realize he missed his son. Guess I have a mental block when it comes to father-son relationships, but if what she says is true, then it is imperative I find him. Henry’s getting old. There’s no way around death.
However, I don’t want Payton involved.
I don’t want her help.
I hop into my car and take off without warming up the engine. Needing to get as far away from her as possible. As fast as I can.
Baker told me having Payton live with me was a stupid idea, and I brushed him off.
When I first met her, I was sure she would be a spoiled brat. She was supposed to be a money-grubbing gold digger like her damn sister.
Instead, she’s anything but that. She seems to live off nothing. Other than the train tickets and cab fare, she asks for absolutely nothing.
I don’t even know how to handle it. I need Jaxson’s help to find out what skeletons lie in her closet. He should’ve found something on her by now.
I’ve got nothing, too.
Not a single damn thing.
Zilch.
Speaking of Jax, he’s exactly who I need to talk to again.
This time, I’ll make him help me.
Unannounced, I roll up to the meatpacking district, to his warehouse.
He will be here. He is always here.
Not many people know about this location. Only a select few. I consider myself lucky. After I park my car halfway up the block, I get out and walk the rest of the way.
Protocol.
There is no point in announcing myself or even ringing the bell, not that he has one. The door is opening as soon as my feet touch the concrete tiles. His state-of-the-art surveillance system is doing the job, opening like magic. It blends with the street, understated, to give the illusion of nothing beyond a run-down building, but inside tells another story.
