| |
––––––––
THE BRUNETTE WAS MODEL-gorgeous. Lovely enough that for a split second, I thought she might be just the thing I needed to get my head back in the game. The thing that would help me keep my mind off Charlyse long enough for me to actually let her go. And by the way she swayed in front of me, her ample curves rippling in waves with her dance half-fooled me into thinking a gentleman’s club was where I wanted to be right then.
Tucking a hundred into her G-string when she lowered onto my lap, gyrating and rolling her hips wantonly for my pleasure, I tried to force myself to get into the moment. Every time I had the urge to push her off me, I forced myself to keep my hands on the armrest.
I just needed to give it time.
Charlyse was a whole lot of woman, and not someone I’d found easy to shake, but I was a man. I’d get my groove back. I could forget her if I reminded myself of that. If I woke up the version of myself that I actually recognized—the infamous playboy who’d fallen asleep somewhere in my psyche—I could probably get the old Tyler back. The one who was comfortable with one-night fucks and keeping every damn person at arm’s length for my own safety.
I tried to train my eyes on the stripper’s breasts and lose myself in her vanilla musk scent, but by the time the second song came on, I realized it was futile and I was wasting my time. I clamped my jaw shut, avoiding her gaze when recognition filled her hazel eyes.
“Everything all right, baby?”
Clearing my throat, I placed my hands on her hips. “Get up, sweetheart.”
“Are you sure? I—”
“Just. Please, get up.”
Pouting playfully, she tossed her long, dark hair to the side and rose up off me, even throwing her sex appeal into it as she arched her back, putting her ass in my face like a cat in heat. She was a knockout, without question, but my heart wasn’t in it.
She gave me a sultry smile. “You paid for fifteen minutes, baby.”
Rising from the chair, I snapped out of my depressing thoughts, looking at her like I’d already half-forgotten she was there. “Keep it,” I said, getting annoyed, more at myself than her.
She pushed out her plump bottom lip. “Was it something I did?”
I had already begun to walk away and I stopped and turned around to look at her. “Not something you did, no.”
Before she could ask me anything else, I got the hell out of there. I had a bottle waiting at home with my name written all over it.
I’d drink it alone.
ODDLY ENOUGH, I WOKE the next morning without a trace of a hangover, not that I’d drunk all that much the night before. And even though the night didn’t play out exactly as planned, the day itself was weightless in a way the previous few days hadn’t been. It almost made me think the emotional storm I’d been fighting against was finally passing.
I seized that opportunity immediately. Trudging to the bathroom, I started up the shower and looked at myself in the quickly-fogging mirror. I had noticeable bags under my eyes, which seemed to add ten years. My normally bright blue eyes looked more like a dull gray, and I was way overdue for a haircut. When my gaze moved down to my chest and stomach, I groaned. I have got to hit the gym. I was getting too thin. I made a mental note to have Zara order me some powdered weight gain stuff.
As the hot water pounded me from the six different showerheads positioned around the standalone shower, my mind, of course, drifted to her. Her big, playful hazel-green eyes, the dimples in her cheeks, her full breasts, the flat of her stomach between those curvy, luscious hips... and of course, now I was rock hard.
Goddammit. I was meant to be moving past her. I just had a hot-as-fuck stripper practically dry humping me last night and this fucker wouldn’t even so much as flinch. Thirty seconds of thinking about Charlyse’s body and it was straining so painfully hard, I would have to take care of this before I hit the track.
AFTER A FEW LAPS AROUND, I parked the Bugatti, and then hit the corporate gym. After some cardio and weights, I rinsed off in the showers. I then made my way back to my office, renewed by the endorphins. I smiled as I remembered the feel of a steering wheel between my fingers, of being in control of the wild ride instead of being flung along to play the role of life’s bitch. It reminded me that I was the one in command of my destiny, and that I only needed to focus my attention ahead of me. I could forget the past. Even learn from it. My father, once again, had taught me that.
When I finally swept into my office, I flicked on my espresso machine and grabbed the box of donuts Zara had had the forethought to bring in for me. She was always doing sweet things like that. They were the sorts of things that made me feel like I was a little bit less alone than I actually was. Sure, she was on the payroll, but she wasn’t being paid to go the extra-extra mile.
Humming to myself, I grabbed the mail out of the bin, tossing the sales circulars into the wastebasket by my desk as I leaned against it. I brought a glazed cake donut to my lips and took a bite.
Racer’s Weekly was next in the stack, and I began to thumb through it with mild interest after setting the bills and invoices to the side. I hadn’t had a chance to check their coverage of Kristoff’s Thursday interview. Hopefully, there would be more good news in that. If Kristoff managed to charm them, I’d have won faithful supporters and maybe even some more sponsors, and that was invaluable.
Cracking it open, I flipped through the pages, ignoring the ads and preliminary racing stats. Flicking quickly through the event pages, my eyes thought they saw a woman who looked exactly like Charlyse several seconds too late. I shouldn’t flip back. It wouldn’t be her. Why would it be? The photos of us from both the Grand Prix party and the Vegas event had been in last week’s issue, which had been quickly thrown into the trash when I’d seen it. That had been a stab to the heart, as the issue was released the day after she’d taken off from my hotel room. I had briefly thought about calling a friend I had, who would get any address and phone number in the world, and having him get me Charlyse’s, but then thought better of it. She had never given me her number, as it hadn’t been necessary. At this point it would probably just come off as creepy if I called or texted out of the blue.
Looking back at the magazine, I was frozen... wondering. Nah, I didn’t need to flip back; I was finally getting my feet back under me. I’d fucked up, but I’d learn to live with it. It probably wasn’t her anyway, and I didn’t need to see a woman who looked like her.
Continuing to flick through in search of the interview, I gritted my teeth against the curiosity flaring in my gut. Then with a sigh, I gave in to it, swiped the pages back to the first event page, and worked my way back through.
I found what I’d glanced over. The woman in the picture was Charlyse.
But she wasn’t alone. She was with that annoying Thor caricature. The one who’d come with her to the pre-season party. Bile rising to my throat, I read what was written underneath, and my blood heated. I was angry at the snarky caption, but then my chest hurt to see her kissing someone else. I slammed the magazine shut and tossed it onto the desk.
Clenching my fists, I did some deep breaths before I trashed my own office in a fit of ire. Honestly, I didn’t give a fuck that I didn’t have the right to be angry. I was. But I didn’t have to stay angry.
I stared out the window of my office, which overlooked the city via an entire wall of glass. I thought long and hard about what I was going to do. I just wasn’t getting over her, so what did that tell me?
Then a thought hit me. I’d overheard some gossip Zara and her secretary were chatting about last week. Charlyse’s old man had planned to throw an anniversary party for his shop tonight, and we’d received an invitation.
I could go to that party and confront her. Set her straight on playing me for a fool. Had she been with Thor all along? I was quickly suspecting that was the deal. She had told me she wasn’t, but maybe they had broken up when she decided to come with me to Vegas on a whim. It all made sense now. She ran away with me to get away from him, and at the first sign of me letting her go—or maybe he’d begged for her back—she ran again. But she’s not going to run away anymore. She’ll be confronted until the truth spills from her perfectly plump pink lips.
Slamming my fist into the desk, I struggled to keep my head. I needed to keep my cool. I’d let go of her, after all. It had been my choice. A stupid choice based on ego and fear. But I could undo it. I could go to that party and undo it.
She was mine. Not Lookalike-Thor’s. Mine.