DEBT (24 page)

"For?" I asked, feeling a swirling in my belly. It had been about a week since he put a hand on me during 'business hours'. He always seemed to keep our sexual activities separate from what I did during the day for him. I couldn't quite say if it was something I hated or maybe appreciated. It helped me keep things in prospective, but a part of me was always hoping for more.

"We're going to Mandy's tonight."

"Why are you bringing me to work?" I asked, shaking my head.

"I'm not bringing you to work. I am bringing you to a restaurant and casino I just so happen to own."

"I really don't think..."

"Gotta get over your hangups about casinos. They're not the awful places you have experienced them to be. So come with me, let me show you a side of it that doesn't involve your father and his issues."

"Why?"

"Why the fuck not?"

"Byron, I just don't..."

"For me?" he asked and I felt myself stiffen. That was a very un-Byron-like thing to say. It was almost as if he maybe had picked up on my more-than-sexual feelings toward him. And then decided to exploit them.

"For you?" I repeated, my tone cautious.

"You're going to make me eat alone?"

"You eat alone almost every night," I insisted.

"Humor me."

"I don't think..."

"Don't think. You're always weighing shit and debating shit. You're missing out on everything. Just agree. And trust me."

"Trust you?" I asked, shaking my head the smallest bit.

"Babe, if you can trust me to tie you to my bed spread-fucking-eagle and walk the fuck away and trust me to come back before someone finds you," he said, referencing what he had done the night before, "then you can trust me to take you to dinner."

"It's a different kind of trust. You know how I feel about gambling..."

"And if at any point tonight you are uncomfortable, I'll take you home. All I am asking is you take a chance."

Maybe it was the way he said 'home' like he meant it, like his home was my home too. But I felt my defenses that were, admittedly already rather weak, crumble. "Okay," I said, leaning back into him slightly.

"You sound so excited," he drawled. "Way to boost a man's ego."

"The last thing your ego needs is any kind of boosting."

"Babe, every time you scream my name out when I am inside you, that's all the ego boost I need," he told me, voice close to my ear, before he stepped away and left the room.

I got dressed feeling both excited and nervous. The dress he picked out was the color of champagne, the perfect golden beige. The hem fell longer than the blue dress he had gotten me, almost meeting my knee, but it made up for it with a sight more cleavage. I slipped into the nude shoes I wore to the party and tied my hair up in a clip which I thought made me look a little more sophisticated.

I grabbed my wallet and made my way down the stairs to find Byron waiting in the foyer, watching the steps for me. As soon as I rounded the bend, he gave me a small smile that didn't slip until my feet hit the landing. He moved closer, reaching behind me and pulling my hair out of its clip.

"What's with you and my hair?" I asked, shaking my head as he settled it around my shoulders.

He completely ignored my question and trailed a finger down my cheek, neck, chest, bodice. "Perfect."

I wasn't sure what, exactly, he was referring to, but my chest warmed. "Yeah, it fits..." I started, only to be interrupted.

"I wasn't talking about the dress," he said and the warmth intensified until it burned through me. "Let's go," he said suddenly, snapping me to attention as he turned from me and went to the front door. He held it open for me and let me pass, but didn't put his hand on my lower back like I had come to expect.

Outside, Byron's car was idling and Matt was standing outside the front doors. I know he noticed just as I noticed that Byron rushed off ahead of me, going down the steps without helping me down. Matt stepped in, taking my hand, leaning down, and saying in a sexy whisper, "I'd take a bite, honey."

"Hands off, Matt," Byron barked, standing beside the passenger door he was holding open.

"Didn't want her to ruin her pretty face falling down the steps in those heels," Matt declared unapologetically and I had to fight to keep from smiling. And, to my surprise, Byron didn't raise to the bait.

"Thanks, Matt," I said as he released me and I ducked inside the car. I barely had time to swing my legs in before Byron slammed the door.

The entire ride to Mandy's was in tense silence. Tense because Byron was in one of his moods and I was not about to get into a fight with him about it. So I stared out the side window and Byron focused on driving. My door was opened by the valet who offered a hand to help me out, but was promptly shouldered out of the way by Byron who must have run across the front of the car to get there that fast. I looked at his palm for a long minute before he barked out quietly, "Take my fucking hand, Prue."

I did, trying to ignore the sparks that seemed to ignite at the casual touch. He helped me out and led me toward the doors where he was greeted and I was given smiles. His hand stayed wrapped in mine and I swallowed hard."Is this proving some kind of point?" I asked, squeezing his palm slightly. When he didn't answer, I went on, "Matt was just offering some manners."

"Matt was laying the groundwork for getting up your skirt. If you think anything different, you're not as smart as I've given you credit for."

"Listen," I said, trying to pull out of his hold, but his hand was a vice on mine. Then suddenly, my body was jerked to the side as Byron opened a door and ushered me inside a room that was some sort of storage closet, brown boxes stacked on metal shelves in a space just big enough to throw your arms out in.

"I told you how I felt about this Matt shit."

"There is no 'Matt shit'," I said, shaking my head. He moved to open his mouth, but I beat him to it. "Look, you're always asking or demanding me to trust you, why the hell don't you trust me?"

"Because," he started, then shook his head and looked away, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

"Because why?" I demanded, moving my head into his line of vision again.

He released his breath on a sigh. "Because if you are vested in me in any way, even just exclusive sex, babe, you're incredibly foolish. And it's hard to trust someone like that."

"I'm...
foolish?
" I sputtered, yanking my hand hard enough to get out of his hold.

"You're taking this personally. It's not personal."

"It
is
personal. I might be a lot of things, Byron, but I am not, and have never been, foolish."

"It's not about you, can't you see that? It's about me. I know what kind of man I am, Prue. And I'm not one you should trust. I'm certainly not the one any sane woman would choose over a guy like Matt. So I have to believe that you're foolish and therefore untrustworthy or just..."

"Just what?" I asked, anger a coiled snake in my belly, just wanting him to flinch so I could strike.

"Just getting your rocks off before you smarten up and tell me to fuck off."

"Well, let's just save time then, shall we? Fuck off, Byron," I snapped, my voice raised, almost hysterical, as I pushed past him and reached for the door handle. But his body came up behind me fast, crushing me against the door, his head ducked into my ear.

"This is getting blown out of proportion," he said, his voice annoyingly calm while I felt like I was crawling out of my skin.

"Right. Because I am so
foolish.
"

"Stop, babe, just stop," he said and his voice was doing that soft thing that turned my insides liquid. "I wasn't trying to piss you off. I was trying to explain where I stand here."

"And where do you stand, Byron?" I asked, my voice still snippy.

"I don't like seeing you melt for another man."

"I didn't
melt
for Matt."

"You were close. And Matt might be loyal to me, but he'd have taken advantage of that in a second. You either genuinely don't see it or you like that it pisses me off."

"I like that it pisses you off," I admitted, squeezing my eyes tight against the admission.

"Why?"

"Because it's proof that I'm more than an itch."

"Jesus fucking Christ, we're back to this again? Prue, you're not an itch. You're obviously not a one-night stand. You barely even qualify as a fling anymore. I don't know what the fuck you
are,
but you're not those things. So just stop bringing that shit up." I rested the side of my forehead against the door and took a deep breath. "What, babe?"

"I hate this," I admitted.

There was a long pause, his strong body still pressed into mine. "Then let's change it," he suggested, his hand going around my front and sliding up my thigh, hiking my skirt up inch by inch.

"That won't fix anything," I objected, already feeling my breasts swell and my muscles clench in anticipation.

"No, but it will feel good," he agreed, his hand sliding into my panties and stroking up my slit until he found the throbbing bud of my clit and started working it. "I'm not gonna fuck you here," he informed me, his finger moving down and pressing inside me as his thumb continued the sweet torment of my clit. "But I am going to make you come. And then we will go back out there and have a nice dinner and screw around at the tables. And then when I get you home," he paused, letting me get antsy for an explanation.

"And?" I asked, feeling his finger curve and start raking over my G-spot.

"And then I am going to introduce you to my flogger while I fuck you from behind until you scream loud enough for your throat to get raw."

With that promise, he gave me an orgasm in the supply closet then led me out into the lobby again where I pointedly avoided eye-contact with any of the employees who likely knew exactly what we were doing in the supply closet.

Mandy's restaurant was every bit as classy as the rest of the place with small, intimate dark wood tables with cream-colored flowers and candles as centerpieces and matching cloth napkins. The servers were in black and I could tell immediately that Byron liked to run a business where they were as unobtrusive as possible. They didn't seem encouraged to stand and small talk at the tables or be overly bubbly. They handled their jobs quietly and efficiently as to not break up table conversation.

We barely even paused at the hostess podium before we were led to a table in the far corner, away from the kitchen and the loudness of the bar. It was a curved booth and Byron slid in right next to me, our bodies touching from feet to shoulder as the specials were rambled off, Byron ordered wine, and we were left to look over the menu. We small talked as much as two people who didn't regularly engage in such actions could be expected to about the menu, the renovations, how Byron had worked not just in the offices, but the security devision, the floor as a dealer, and even both back and front of the house in the restaurant. His uncle believed that to run a successful business, you had to know the ins and outs of each department so when they came to you with problems, you could easily create solutions.

It was hard to imagine even a young Byron doing menial jobs like scraping plates or watching computer screens. I even told him so, making him chuckle slightly and admit he was 'shit at' all of them, but that it was good for him nonetheless.

"Alright. Tables?" he asked, scribbling his signature in a book without even looking then dropping several twenties for a tip into the fold before pushing it to the end of the table.

"Byron..."

"Just try. If you try and aren't into it, we can head out."

I took his hand to help me out of the booth and his squeezed mine a little and, well, I was a goner. "Okay."

"Okay."

See, when you grew up with a gambler for a father, you didn't sit around on weekends and play Don't Wake Daddy or Monopoly; you played blackjack, poker, gin rummy, and spades. So when Byron walked me up to the tables, I didn't need the explanation of how to play or even how to bet. Because when I was too young to understand money, we played for matchsticks, and once I could tell the difference between a dime and a nickle, we played for real money. Byron held out a handful of chips and I cautiously chose the smallest dollar amount and went over to the blackjack table. It was my father's biggest game and, therefore, the one that had the biggest pit of anxiety planting and growing in my belly.

"Breathe," Byron said, moving in beside me and putting a chip down as well. I lost the first round. So did Byron. When I tried to insist we move on, he shook his head and put another coin down for me, raising the stakes and making me feel like I was choking on my discomfort. He moved closer, putting a hand at my hip as my card turned over, giving me nineteen.

And just like that, I won.

And just like that, I understood.

I understood my father's obsession with that feeling, that rush, that want to have it again, even though you knew your chances were slim to none. As if sensing that feeling growing in me, Byron closed his hand around the chips and shook his head. "Moving on," he said and led me to the next table. Then the next. Then the next. I won some. I lost more. But, more importantly, the pit in my stomach shrank and withered away to nothing. And by the time Byron pulled me close and gently, but darkly declared, "I need to fuck you now," I was actually even having a good time.