I need a delicious, feminine body to lose myself in, to bury my troubles in. Even if it’s just for a little while. And although I could probably find any number of willing partners, she’s the one I want. For many reasons, one of which, I’m sure, is the fact that she’s a spoiled little rich girl.
I know I could probably go there right now and have sex with her, but I’m enjoying this little game we’ve got going on that’s leading up to it. It’s another form of distraction, and I welcome it. I don’t mind getting all dressed up to continue playing just as long as she doesn’t start expecting more. I’ve already warned her about me. I hope she’s not fool enough to ignore that warning.
I tug at the snug collar of my crisp, white shirt. I’ve worn a tuxedo exactly one time in my life. My junior prom. I don’t remember it feeling nearly so constrictive. As I shrug my shoulders inside the perfectly cut material, I realize it’s not the suit that’s suffocating me; it’s life.
I’m not adjusting nearly as well as I’d imagined I would. I had this vision of landing back in real life as if no time had passed, as if nothing had happened and I was the same guy I was when I left. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is called denial. Ain’t she a bitch?
I’m a few minutes early when I reach Marissa’s door. I try the knob, but it’s locked.
At least she’s got some kind of brain!
I could use the key on Cash’s set, but I don’t. I ring the bell instead.
It takes her a couple of minutes to answer. I guess beauty like hers takes time. And when she flips the lock and appears in the open doorway, I realize it’s worth every second.
Damn, she’s gorgeous.
Marissa’s tall, lean body is wrapped in a black dress that was made to hug her. From where the strap sits on only one shoulder to where the material loosens just past her knees and falls to the floor, it fits her like a second skin. Every sleek curve is perfectly delineated, and the strappy heels she’s wearing make her legs look that much longer.
Her blond hair looks like a platinum wave gushing over her one bare shoulder, and her skin glows like liquid gold. But it’s those damn eyes that get me. Vivid blue orbs that look both innocent and seductive all at the same time. And she’s always watching me with them. Curiously. Intently. I can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking, what she’s imagining. If she’s remembering . . .
I know it’s probably just my conscience playing tricks again. After what I’ve done. Surely she can’t know. But still, I wonder.
“You look stunning,” I say in a moment of honesty.
Her lips part in an even more stunning smile. “Thank you. And you look very handsome. As always.”
I’ll admit I cleaned up a little. But not much. I could’ve gone all out and cut my hair and shaved my face. But I didn’t. And I won’t. I’m still too much of a bastard to do anything drastic like that just to pretend to be Cash (when he’s pretending to be me). Nobody’s that important. Including her. But I did comb my hair back neatly and tuck it behind my ears. And I trimmed my goatee and shaved around it. I’m sure I still look like someone who should never be allowed into a high-society function, tuxedo or not. But they can all kiss my ass. I’m going anyway.
My motives aren’t totally selfish, I guess. By doing this, by going with her, I’ll be proving a point to Marissa about how strong she is. Or isn’t. Taking someone like me to an event like this will push her further one way or the other. Which way is hard to tell.
I refuse to think about any other reasons, deep-seated ones, that might have played a role in my attendance tonight. I can’t afford to let myself feel anything for a damn woman. And that’s that.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
TWELVE
Marissa
How twins can look so much alike yet so different is beyond me. Maybe it’s just his personality that makes him seem so different, but to me, Nash is nothing like Cash. Not at all. I always thought Cash (when I thought he was Nash) was good looking, but he doesn’t hold a candle to the real Nash. He’s breathtaking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sexier man. And even in his tuxedo you can see that he belongs in a black leather jacket, perched on the back of a motorcycle. It’s who he is, right down to his bones.
Dangerous.
“Let me get my things and we can go,” I say quickly, turning to head back to my room. My fingers are shaking anxiously when I throw a lipstick, my keys, a compact, and my debit card into a black sequined clutch and snap it shut.
I pause in front of the mirror and take a deep breath. Why do I feel like I’m walking into an inferno? A moth drawn inexplicably to the brutal flame?
I have no illusions about him. I can’t blame it on any lack of understanding. I know Nash is just that—brutal. But I can’t stay away. Despite the danger, I don’t even want to. It doesn’t make any sense, and I’m not going to try to make it. I’m just gonna run with it. For once in my life, I’m jumping.
Closing my eyes against my troubling thoughts, I make my way back out to Nash. Back out to the flame.
* * *
I think the valet is actually afraid to take the tip Nash hands him. His eyes flit nervously to me, to Nash, and then quickly away before he reaches hesitantly for the folded bill. With a shy nod, he stuffs it in his pocket, hops in the car, and drives very slowly to the parking lot. I hide my smile behind my hand. I bet he makes sure the car is in perfect condition when he brings it back.
Nash joins me at the curb and offers me his arm, a gesture that shows me he knows how to comport himself in company like the people he’s getting ready to meet. And that he’s not going to be totally obtuse.
“Shall we?”
His brow is raised in mockery. I smile and tip my head at him, slipping my hand under his elbow.
My stomach jumps around anxiously. Part of it is the close proximity to Nash. But that’s nothing new. If he’s anywhere around, my focus is almost entirely centered on him. The other part of it is something that has nothing to do with Nash or his effect on me.
I acknowledge with more than a little disappointment that it’s worry, worry that he will do or say something to make a fool of himself. Or me. Or, worse, Daddy.
I remind myself that the new me shouldn’t even care about that. Olivia wouldn’t give something so superficial a second thought. And neither should I.
But old habits die hard. And mine have been in the grave for only a few hours. I don’t want any parts of that woman to be resurrected. I desperately want the old me to stay dead.
Putting on my most confident smile, I glance at Nash, walking cockily at my side, and we make our way toward the lectern to sign in.
The first person to spot us when we walk into the main room is Millicent Strobe, quite possibly one of the most vapid “friends” I have. Evidently she was in the process of exiting one conversation and moving to another, one with a couple situated more in my direction. She rudely abandons them, however, and changes course for, you guessed it, me.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she says in her sugary– sweet way. Her smile is too wide and her eyes too curious as she looks at Nash. She leans in for air kisses to both my cheeks. “A kitty and her chew toy.” She laughs her tinkling, fake laugh and lays her red-nailed hand on Nash’s arm. “Kidding.”
Only she wasn’t. Kidding, that is. The look she gives Nash, from the top of his head to the tip of his toes, is full of disdain.
“Who’s this? Nash’s career-criminal brother?” She laughs her fake laugh again, and I feel the blood rush to my cheeks. I shouldn’t have worried about Nash embarrassing anybody; I should’ve worried about the people I already knew embarrassing us.
“As a matter of fact . . .” Nash says quietly from my side. At first I think I misunderstood him, but when I glance up at him, I see that his expression is stoic, serious. He’s willfully provoking her.
“Now he’s kidding, Leese,” I interject lightly, laughing as well and using the pet name her close friends have used for years. “This is, um, Cash, Nash’s brother.”
My heart is a jackhammer inside my chest, determined to beat ruthlessly through the wall of my ribs. We didn’t discuss what we’d tell people. I assumed we’d still go with him being Cash, but . . . not like this.
“Yes. Nash. I remember him well. The question is: Do you? Why would you leave him at home on a night like tonight?” Left unspoken is what she really means—and bring this guy instead.
My father never bothered to hide his fondness for Nash and his desire to make him part of the Townsend empire. We live a very public life in some ways, which means that most everyone knows we broke up, too. The thing is, not one of them probably expected me to disregard my father’s wishes. They would expect me to appear here with Nash on my arm by whatever means. Because no one defies a man with my father’s kind of influence.
No one.
I hear the first syllable of Nash’s rebuttal. With my eyes on Millicent, I swallow hard, fix my smile in place, and dig my nails into Nash’s arm, a silent plea for him not to say whatever he’s thinking of saying. I hear the angry huff of his breath, but he doesn’t utter another sound, not a single word. I can practically feel the cool air emanating from him, though. He doesn’t like being muzzled.
“This was last-minute and Nash had something else planned. Technically, I’m not even supposed to be back in the country,” I say conspiratorially.
“Then why are you?”
“Some, um, some personal things came up that needed my attention.”
“Personal things, huh?” I know that look in her eye. It’s the same look a shark gets when it scents blood in the water.
Damn you, why didn’t you think of how to handle all this before you got here? I chastise myself, albeit far too late.
“Yes, you remember what those are, right? Before we were suddenly expected to live our life in public?”
“When was that? When we were two years old?”
“Exactly.” I laugh again, feeling more and more uncomfortable by the minute.
Millicent grew up in a privileged family, much as I did, with certain . . . expectations. She knows exactly what I mean. The problem is, she hasn’t realized that it’s a crappy way to live. Mainly because she hasn’t been shown how awful of a life it is, what awful people it’s made us. But I have. I have no excuse to act like that anymore, to act like her.
“As daughters of some of the most influential men and women in this state, we have certain responsibilities and . . . appearances to uphold. Or have you forgotten that as well?”
Is she really going to do this? Could I ever have called someone like this a friend?
It horrifies me to think that things were even worse than I’d suspected.
“I could never disgrace my family,” she adds scathingly.
I can’t decide if she’s insinuating that arriving with this Nash, as Cash, is disgracing my family or if it’s just my oversensitivity. Am I making more of the undertones than what she’s intending? I’ve known Millicent most of my adult life. I can’t imagine her being this person. Maybe I’m projecting. Maybe my guilty conscience is making me see things that aren’t really there.
But then another part of me speaks up, asking if I am, in fact, being incredibly disrespectful and inconsiderate of my family by showing up like this with “Cash.” I knew Daddy wanted me to bring Nash, but I also knew he would undoubtedly rather I come alone than with someone whose . . . questionable nature might bring him shame.
It’s ridiculous that it would even be a consideration, but it’s just part of the world in which we live. Isn’t it?
My heart pumps with guilt, but over what? Daddy? Nash? That I’m actually having to think about what’s right here?
But then something else kicks in. Something foreign. And scary. But something welcome. And right.
I give Millicent my sweetest smile. “Well, I hardly think disgracing people who don’t even have the common decency to be polite is something I’ll lose sleep over.” Her mouth drops open in shock. Before she can recover enough to reply, I lean in and whisper, “Be careful that you don’t fall off that pedestal, Millicent. A tumble like that could break bones.”
I straighten, shoot her another syrupy smile, and then promptly turn my back on her.
My brief moment of triumph over my former self is quickly dashed when my eyes collide with my father’s. He’s standing on the other side of the room, watching me, quiet fury on his face.
Impulsively, I raise my chin, a statement in and of itself. And Daddy will know exactly what it means.
Slowly, he shakes his head. One sharp gesture that speaks as loudly as mine did. And I feel it like tremors of an earthquake all the way down to my soul.
For a few terrifying seconds, I feel like crumbling. Crumbling under the pressure of who I was, of what’s expected of me and what I’ve done tonight. But before I can, Nash steps in to save me from myself.
Fingers touch my elbow.
“How ’bout a drink to wash down all that bitterness?” he asks.
I have to make an effort to swallow my huge sigh of relief. When I look up at him to accept his kind offer, I see the faint light of respect in his eyes. Or do I? Could it be that I’m imagining it? Maybe because I want so badly to see it? I can’t be sure. Either way, it feels good. It feels good to finally have the respect, no matter how minute, of someone who thought so little of me. Of someone who knew what kind of person I was.
Was.
Maybe that’s why he’s saving me. Because that’s what he’s doing by offering me this escape route. He’s saving me. Even though it seems he’s not the saving type, he stepped up to do it. Twice now.