Suzy
Oh. My. God.
There is no way I can begin to describe this torment. No way whatsoever.
It was an innocent, casual invitation from Gemma, and I fell for it hooked, line, and sunk to the pits of hell.
Come over and hang out with me, Gemma appealed. I’m bored. Brad is busy wrapping up last minute work stuff, and we’re all packed. I’ve got nothing to do. If I go out, he’ll just send Carlson with me, and I don’t want to hang out with him.
Within minutes of my capitulation there was an Uber outside of my apartment waiting to take me to the lavish estate.
And now I’m on the luxurious sofa with Bull the beagle lounging at my feet, gaping in shock and incredulity at Gemma, jiggling with enthusiasm to her own off-tune karaoke-rendition of some long-lost Britney Spears tune. A hair tossing, body wiggling, arms swaying performance worthy of any wannabes.
In between piping the lyrics with all her heart she’s doubling over laughing uproariously as though it’s the funniest thing.
I am truly disturbed.
When she suggested whipping out the machine, I thought she was teasing me. Who would voluntarily get up and make a fool of herself? Granted, it was just me and her, but still…
Actually, I’m thinking it should just be her.
Halfway into her happily belting Hit Me Baby One More Time, Mr. Hawkes walked in with Carlson, frowning in puzzlement. On the one hand, I was beyond glad Mr. Hawkes was here to put a stop to this sad dementedness, but the last thing I wanted was to see Carlson, not after what happened yesterday. I hadn’t seen him since that afternoon. It might be he was avoiding me, or I was eluding him. Perhaps both.
Correction: the last thing I wanted was to take part, any part, in a sing-a-long.
I’m not drunk enough for this shit.
And neither is Gemma, which doesn’t explain why she’s currently twirling around with the mic like the spacious entertainment room is her stage while happily serenading her fiancé.
Badly.
The icing on the cake?
After shaking his head, an amused Mr. Hawkes makes his way over to the aspiring soloist. My hope shoots to the ceiling my suffering would end right then.
But no.
At his approach, all Gemma has to do is start shifting her hips. Poor Mr. Hawkes is done for. Everyone knows he won’t deny his Gemmy anything. That’s the only explanation, because he throws up his hands in abandon and begins dancing to her off-key, was-that-a-note-or-did-she-step-on-a-nail?, giggly vocals while proudly sporting a sappy grin.
What Gemma lacks in talent, she makes up for in eagerness and delusion, that’s for certain. Evidently the dog isn’t impressed. With what I swear is a canine grimace, Bull lumbers off to who knows where.
Take me with you!
As the song torturously comes to an end, I chance a glance at Carlson left standing by the wet bar. His glazed, what-the-fuck look says it all.
He must feel my disbelieving eyes on him. His entire head turns to me, the glassy, kill-me-now expression stuck in place.
Just like that the laughter rumbles from deep in my belly and erupts, a mighty geyser saturating the room. My slack body falls back against the sofa with the incredible force of it. That only gets Gemma roaring. I’m rolling all over the cushions with uncontrollable glee while she’s wildly clinging onto her fiancé for balance.
“Baby, that was great!” gushes Mr. Hawkes.
My sides are about to burst from laughing so hard.
A booming throat clearing. “Yeah… that was… yeah.” Rich blue eyes flash my way, a touch desperate and a little shellshocked, before quickly neutralizing to their usual somberness for Mr. Hawkes. “Well… we’re done here, right?”
“No, you can’t go yet,” argues Gemma, who manages to peel that out in between gusts of snickers. “We’re just getting started. Here.” She offers the mic to Carlson. “You’re up.”
Carlson leaps back like she’s aiming a loaded gun at him. “Hell no. No way. No how.”
The titters turn into a pout. “Oh, come on. Don’t be such a buzzkill.”
“I say we cue up Beyonce for him,” Mr. Hawkes joins in. “I’ll get a fan and aim it at his head to get his hair blowing.”
That gets both of them cracking up in the middle of the room.
“Real funny.” Carlson does the headshake-eyeroll thing. “We’re obviously done with business. I’m out.”
“You can’t go.” Gemma stomps her foot. “We’re not done yet.”
“Who’s we? I don’t know about you, but this shit isn’t right.”
“Suzy.” Gemma slants a look at me. “Would you tell him?”
I wipe the tears of mirth from my eyes. “Tell him what?”
“That we’re doing Like a Virgin.”
Carlson’s blue eyes pop out. “Like a what?”
“You know, Madonna?” An exaggerated sigh from Gemma. “It’s a classic. It’s not karaoke until someone does Like a Virgin.”
Positively appalled, he grants her a firm look. “Don’t look at me.”
“How about It’s Raining Men?”
Mr. Hawkes howls.
Carlson is shaking his head. “You’ve gone and lost your mind, lady. All those dicks in your face got to you.”
Oh. Shit.
Before I can gasp in shock at Carlson’s disgusted complaint, Mr. Hawkes’s laughter collapses on an abrupt and painful demise. “What the fuck are you talking about, Carlson?”
Gemma winces.
“Hey, bro, I’m just saying.” Carlson tosses out a dismissive hand. “I mean, you knew she was at that place.”
“What place?” roars Mr. Hawkes.
Good God. The CEO’s head looks ready to blow right off his red, veiny neck. Only Carlson doesn’t look one bit concerned.
Gingerly, I get to my feet. “Lure Thunder,” I answer as calmly as I can fake for Carlson. “And it was me. Gemma was already too far gone to pay any attention.”
Carlson’s eyes are on me, but I don’t dare look at anyone besides Mr. Hawkes’s narrowed-gaze speculation, not by the way he’s purposefully dissecting my words and clearly weighing their accuracy.
“Brad.” Gemma is pulling him in, physically and mentally. “Did you forget for a minute that I love you?”
He’s still tense, but his voice drops several octaves. “I don’t like it, Gemmy. You’re not allowed at those places.”
“Allowed?”
I shoot an uneasy glance at Carlson. He catches my gaze and gestures with his head towards the door.
“Not allowed,” Mr. Hawkes corrects with emphasis. “No more, Gemmy. I forbid it.”
I don’t need to be told twice. Instantly I’m quietly scooting away. Carlson doesn’t even try to be discreet, not that the arguing couple has a mind for anyone but each other.
Gemma is huffing, arms braced on her chest in ready confrontation. “So you can have naked women dance all over you, but I can’t go to a strip club?”
I creep on tiptoes past the wet bar. Carlson’s mouth twitches, but he pauses to wait for me. Then we’re both making a break for it.
“That was one time! And it was a business meeting.” He’s pulling her close, and though he’s speaking to her only, the mic captures every sound and amplifies it to the room. “I told you that was the last time.” His nose is buried in her hair. “Carlson can vouch for me.”
“Yup,” Carlson tosses out just as we’re clearing the room. “On my life, Gemma. It never happened again.”
As soon as we’re several rooms away I’m sagging against the nearest wall. “What was that?” I breathe out.
Carlson shrugs, but there’s an amused glimmer in his eyes as he watches the wall uphold me. “They’re like that sometimes. It’s like foreplay for them or something. Nauseating, if you ask me. I just make myself scarce as soon as I get a whiff of it.”
I’m fighting back a smile, not because of what Carlson just revealed, but because I think that’s the most he’s ever said to me at one time. “Thanks for the tip.”
“You’re welcome.”
He’s staring at me.
I’m staring back at him.
I swear my heart is leaping out of my chest in an attempt to latch onto Carlson.
My gaze drops to his middle. It looks firm. Sturdy. Like he carries buckets of bricks around every day. “Now what?”
He doesn’t respond right away. Then, “Wannagetouttahere?”
Automatically my eyes lift. That’s when I catch the red tinge leisurely creeping up his thick neck.
“Yeah.” I think I got what he just mumbled if the heat flaming my cheeks means anything. “Okay.”
I don’t ask him where he plans to take me, because despite what happened at the office, I’m weak when it comes to this man.
I’m just pushing off the wall when Carlson is there, a huge palm held out to me. My tongue flicks out to moisten my suddenly dry lips, struggling back an attack of nerves.
As though it’s happening to someone else, I watch the gradual lift of a hand, so much smaller than his. Skin sliding over rougher flesh. Every groove, every rugged callous a calming balm to the throb for each time he cracked my heart open by turning away.
“Suzette.” He tugs me up, his grip firm and unbreakable. “Hold my hand.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. Not even close to being a question. Though his face is glowing crimson, the order was distinct.
“I am,” I whisper.
He shows me how wrong I was by adjusting his long fingers to intertwine with mine. “Hold my hand,” he says again.
Spaghetti fingers. That’s what I have, because I realize they’re just hanging off my limbs, dying a little.
I tighten them. Tighten them like he’s a part of me. “Are you afraid I’ll get lost if I don’t?”
“The only thing I’m afraid of is more karaoke.”
Hand solidly in his, he leads me through the vast estate to a kitchen that must’ve been designed by a master chef. Yanking open the custom fridge, he extracts a few bottles and cans, various packages and containers, a small wedge of cheese, a carton of yogurt but returns it to the shelf with a grumble after a quick scan of the label, bread, milk… is that glazed ham?... and bags of vegetables one by one and sets them on the gleaming counter.
“What are you doing?”
With me in tow, he snatches a gigantic tote bag from a cabinet. “Grocery shopping.”
“Grocery shopping?” If my voice is squeaking, that’s because he just made me an accomplice, and stealing from the CEO is not something I take lightly. “Carlson, this isn’t a grocery store. And you don’t live here.”
He merely grunts.
Everything is stuffed into the tote bag one handed. He hefts it to his big shoulder as though it weighs nothing and pulls me to the orderly butler’s pantry.
He nods at a box of gourmet crackers. “Grab that, would ya?”
“Carlson…”
“Relax. Hawkes knows I’m taking stuff. He and Gemma will be gone for a week. No point in letting food go to waste.”
“Crackers don’t expire that quickly,” I feel compelled to point out.
“How would I eat cheese with no crackers?” he reasons. “Just because I’m big doesn’t mean I’m barbaric.”
Can’t argue with that.
Crackers in hand, we make our way to the SUV. Carlson is shouldering the bulging tote with a ribboned box of truffles in one hand, me in the other, and a bag of chips dangling between his teeth. With a wag of his foot under the back bumper, the trunk gently releases and he efficiently stows the commandeered items away.
He doesn’t stop tugging me around like I’m a rolling luggage but takes me to the passenger side.
I have fond memories of this car.
The interior light spills out through the gaping door, but I’m not ready to duck in just yet. Turning to him, I plant my free hand on his rock-like chest to stall him. “Before we go on, I have to say something.” Close enough to share body heat, I have to tilt my head way back to meet his unreadable gaze. “I’m not afraid of you. Have never been afraid of you. Maybe that’s why I’m not wavering on my mad.”
“You’re not afraid, that’s why you’re duty-bound to unload your mad on me.”
I nearly smile. “I don’t like to bottle things up.”
“We’ve got all night. Feel free to unload away.”