Entitled: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Boys For Life Book 1) (12 page)

“I feel you, fish friend. I’m by myself, too,” I say.

I loosen my tie and turn on the television in my bedroom. The local evening news is on and I turn it up before slipping into a pair of pajama pants and a T-shirt.

I had kind of given up on the local news, opting for the cable networks that focus more on finance and the stock market, but Ayron never missed the local evening news if she could help it.

I turn the volume up as a breaking news story alert flashes across the scene.

“The entire 3300 block of Kingsley Avenue has been evacuated due to an apartment fire. Emergency vehicles are on the scene,” the reporter states in a serious tone. “There have been three confirmed fatalities. No names have been released.”

I dial the number that I had for Ayron and it goes straight to voicemail. I had never bothered to get any other number for her since she always answered the phone that I had given her.

My stomach knots.

I’ve got to find Ayron.

Chapter 17-Ayron
 

Agnes’ hospice room smells sterile, but it doesn’t matter to me. I have been here since I returned from New York to find that she had suffered a small stroke. She doesn’t do much of anything but sleep now. She’s tired, I can tell. When she speaks, it is slow and takes a lot of effort. I don’t say much to her, just sit with her, lay near her in the bed and watch reruns of ‘I Love Lucy’—it’s her favorite show.

“Smile,” she utters slowly through her new crackly voice.

I shake my head.

“I don’t have a reason to smile.” I shrug.

“Young. Living,” she struggles.

“Yeah, but I’m alone,” I respond wearily. Somewhere along the line, I had become all right with being by myself, satisfied with only Monique and Ms. Agnes as companions. My time with Devlin changed that.

“I really messed up,” I admit to Ms. Agnes.

I look over at her clock, just to do something, and notice that it is time for the local evening news. I had to force Devlin to watch it.

“Love wins.” She gives a half-cocked grin.

I pat her shoulder. I wish that I could believe that. I learned my lesson with Devlin and Lance: love does not conquer it all.

A breaking news segment flashes onto the screen.

“Look at that fire, Ms. Agnes,” I tell the woman. Blazing waves and smoke plume out of an elegant building.

“Yours.” Agnes points, her face twisting into a grimace.

My heart drops when I see the townhouse building where everything that I own is housed, going up in flames.

“Oh no,” I stand, my heart pounding. “No. No. No. I have to go, Ms. Agnes. That’s my building.”

I kiss her cheek.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I curve my pointer finger and thumb to make the letter ‘u’ and place it over my heart.

Agnes slowly does the same. This is our signal for I love you, something we recently added, since her speaking has been difficult.

***

When it rains, it pours.

I hit the steering wheel in frustration. Cars are not moving, especially not mine, and the freeway feels like a parking lot. Clenching the steering wheel, I attempt to switch lanes and then honk my horn to try and ease my way into what seems to be the faster stretch.

Why is this happening? Everything is crashing all around me. I feel like I am trying to doggie paddle through the Atlantic Ocean.

“Asshole,” I yell out of the window, feeling a spike of anger as I am finally able to break into the gridlock and move forward some.

I sigh. I have to keep it together, stay the wall, or I may fall to pieces.

My cell phone rings and I answer the call using my hands-free device.

“Are you all right?” Monique’s frantic voice booms from my speaker.

“No. I’m answering the phone from hell,” I respond sarcastically in a clipped tone.

“Don’t be mad at me because your well went dry,” she chides. “I’m trying to make sure that you’re still alive.”

“Thanks,” I sigh. “I'm fine—I mean, I'm not fine. I was with Ms. Agnes, but I'm driving home now.” I pause, realizing I may not even
have
a home to return to. But it was so kind of Monique to call. "I didn’t mean to lash out. At least someone cares.”

“You should be honored that I do,” she jokes. “But I’m not the only one checking to make sure that you are all right.”

“Who else would care?” I ask, mentally listing all of the people I know who would know to call Mo to check on me.

“I told you that you should have at least given that poor man your phone number.”

“Devlin called?” I question—surprised, angry, and interested all at once. “That ‘poor man’ left my ass naked in a strange state in the middle of the night. Forget him.”

Monique grunts into the phone.

“I’ve had worse. How did you expect him to react?” She replays the same question that she had asked me after I told her my sordid tale a few days ago. “You know that you would have been pissed, Ayron, and probably would have done worse. At least he made sure that you got home.”

“Why did he call you? What did he have to say?” I ask, deciding not to rehash that conversation again.

“I thought you wanted to forget him?” she meteases.
 

***

Before Monique flew to London for a tech convention last night, she had been trying to get me to call Devlin and apologize. If he had wanted an apology, he would have stuck around to talk like a grown man and not run off to pout. He made his decision. It hurt my feelings, but I’m going to have to deal with it.

“I know that this international call is spiking up your bill—are you going to tell me or not?”

“Oh, these calls are totally on the company’s dime. It will be itemized and reimbursed,” she laughs. “Since your scared ass wouldn’t turn in your own damn statement, or talk to Daddy Masters about rejecting the payment, the secretary Gloria had my number on file. He must have gotten the number from her.”

“What did he have to say for himself?”

“First, he had to bring me up to speed on the fire. Then he asked if you were all right since I wouldn’t just give him your number,” she tells me.

“Thank you for having my back,” I say.

“Oh, don’t get it twisted, I’m going to give him your number. I needed to know that you were all right first,” she sounds off in her normal sassy tone.

“You really shouldn’t,” I protest.

“But I am,” she responds. “Keep me updated through text.”

***

Traffic finally relents enough for me to make it near my home. Smoke clouds the air and I let out a cough. Emergency crews still have the area blocked off, even though the fire is now completely out. I park nearly three blocks away and push past news crews and bystanders to get a closer look. There are four homes connected together in a row, and two rows of four on the block. All eight structures look damaged.

Damn. I can see clearly through the roofs of several of the townhomes.

“Ayron.” My name floats through the air, and I am confused.

Am I imagining things? Did someone call my name? Did he call my name? There is a lot of noise. People are milling about talking, panicked people are pacing around the barricades.

“Ayron.” I hear it again and look up to see Devlin moving toward me with purpose.

His masculine body is housed in yoga pants and a T-shirt, but he looks sexy. I see he has a goatee now that is neatly trimmed, and his face looks delectable. Damn, I miss that man, his rough faced kisses, and strong, roaming hands.

I have to close my eyes because he looks so good. Seeing him hurts.

I don’t move when he reaches me, and I don’t back away when he wraps his arms around me. I fall into them and fall apart.

Tears rise up from a place somewhere in my soul. Those same tears leak through my eyes for my loss of love, Ms. Agnes rotting away in hospice, and all the memories of my granny possibly crisped due to a fire. It is all too heavy to hold alone and I lean into his open arms.

“I’m taking you home,” he says, leading me to his car.

***

Inside the sweet-smelling car of Devlin Masters, I rest on the buttery leather seats and keep my eyes closed. After our greeting on the street, I find that I can’t look at him; the image of his wounded face in New York keeps resurfacing. As we race out of the city, I feel his gaze on me, and it makes me feel even worse. Why does he care? Why is he being so nice to me, coming to my rescue when I had lied to him? I don’t know what to do with this feeling. I’ve been a good girl all of my life. The smart, astute, responsible person determined to make my grandmother proud. She wouldn’t be proud of what I did to Devlin.

I sigh and the tears just keep falling. No whimpers, no sound, just hot, fat tears pooling on my shirt.

My legs feel heavy as I swing them away from the car. Devlin had opened my door.

“I’m sorry,” I sniffle while biting my lip and watching the ground.

He lifts me to my feet with solid hands and pulls me closer to his welcoming body.

Locked in his arms, I inhale the spicy-sweet smell of him.

“You don’t have to do this. I’m a horrible person. You can just drop me off—” I start.

“Look at me,” Devlin demands, his voice softer and kinder than I deserve.

When I look up at him, his congenial caramel eyes sparkle.

Sadness and longing fill me. He had been mine, in my grasp, and I had fucked it all up.

“I’m just glad that you are all right,” he says. “Come hang out with me until we understand what’s going on with your place.”

His use of the word “we” makes me tremble, but I move along with him.

***

Entering his home, I see his beautiful fish tank and stop. There are plenty of fish there, but the Angelfish stick out; they are the prettiest, the most unique. Devlin moves through the home without worry and rattles on about dinner, but I am stuck. The memory of his serene face when he called me his Angelfish flashes before me and the tears begin again.

Devlin reappears. I guess he finally realized that I wasn’t behind him.

“I’m going to fix some dinner,” he says, like everything is normal and he hasn’t just picked me up from a burning building.

“Um,” I utter, my eyes glued to the fish tank that suddenly looks a little emptier. “I just need to—” I bite my lip and I twist my hands and fingers between each other.

I can’t get the words out. I need to tell him that I can take care of myself, that I don’t need his friendship or pity. I don’t deserve it.

I look over at the fish tank again and realize why it looks emptier.

“What happened to Sarabi?” I ask, running my right thumb-nail underneath each nail on my left hand. “Where’s Mufasa?”

He steps closer to me with narrowed eyes. Surprise flickers and dies there.

“I found Sarabi at the top of the tank. Mufasa hasn’t moved from the cave since,” he explains to me.

The tears blur my eyes, and I can’t seem to feel my legs.

“Everybody is dying.” I heave in and out attempting to catch my breath. Everything around me feels like it is falling, giant boulders thumping against my chest.

Before I can fall, he surrounds me, supporting me in his strong arms. I can’t resist falling against him. He must think I’m crazy. How ironic, a crazy psychologist.

I have to pull myself together, even though I feel like I am unraveling like a ball of yarn.

I take deep breaths against the hardness of his chest before standing back on my own two legs.

His eyes are intense and full of worry. I hate that look. That “walk on egg shells as to not startle the crazy person” look that is stamped on his face.

I sigh before steadying myself as best I can.

“I grew up with my granny after my parents died. She worked hard as a housekeeper to make sure that I made something of myself. A doctor.”

I catch his eyes again and he seems patient.

I move my fingernail through my other fingers again, nervous.

He places a calming hand on top of mine.

“You don’t have to do this now,” he says, placing a kiss on my cheek.

That hurts. We had been so intimate. His lips had been on my pussy, and now I get the “church lady” grandma kiss on the cheek?

“I do,” I tell him, my frustration giving me some strength. “While I was working on my degrees, I helped her clean homes, and started working as a professional organizer. I trained under Dr. Tirash to finish my doctorate and certification. I started my own practice in a community center a few years ago, merging both of the things that I enjoy. It took everything that I had, including all of the money my grandmother left me when she passed, to keep it open.”

At the mention of my grandmother, I feel weepy again.

“Talk to me,” he says, forcing me to look at him. “I want to know about you.”

This gives me hope. He releases my face but continues staring.

“I didn’t charge much, nothing more than the people could afford. Last month, the city decided to close the center. To move anywhere else would cost three times more, and then—” I swallow hard trying to push back the tears. They seep out anyway and fall against his shirt this time.

He caresses away a tear and pulls me impossibly closer to him with a comforting arm around my waist. Devlin kisses my mouth this time.

“I can’t stand to see you cry,” he whispers against my cheek. “You have to talk to me so that I can fix it.”

“You can’t fix it,” I sniffle. “Ms. Agnes loved me when no one did. She took care of me when my grandmother passed. She’s been my assistant--and my rock.” I fight the urge to pull at my thumbs. “She got sick, and I needed money for her surgery. I had to save her,” I explain. “I want to save her, and then Dr. Tirash told me about you and your dad.”