Kade's Game (2 page)

I choose a car quickly, lower the top, and flick on the blaring music before backing out of the garage.  Just as I exit, Raya is walking out, looking apprehensive.  With my sunglasses on, she can't tell I've cut my eyes to the side to look at her.  Her dark hair looks like silk.  I've never noticed how soft it seems.  And those lips...  Nope. 
Don't get distracted, Kade
.

"Get the hell in," I snap, still not turning my head to let her know I can see her.  "I don't have all damn day."

The second she's tucked inside, the games begin.  Slamming it in reverse, I squeal out, and enjoy the way she plops against the door when I jerk it right and throw it in first gear.  She scrambles to fasten the seatbelt, and fumbles with it several times before it fastens, while I continue shifting gears, propelling us down the street at a scary rate—scary for her, that is.

When she squeaks in terror, I can't help but let a sadistic grin slide up.  This is going to be too easy.  She'll be begging to take my offer.  Now that I've got her attention, it's time.  I'll offer her a renting option first and build up from there.  The art of negotiation
—always start with the lowest bid.

After muting the music and slowing down, I very calmly say, "Move out and I'll pay your rent anywhere you want to go."

"What?" she asks, sounding genuinely confused.

It's possible that she's still reeling from her terrifying ride with me.  There will be more to come if she turns me down.

"I said move out and I'll pay your rent.  You can pick any place you want.  I don't want to be your bitch, and my father is loving this shit.  Get your stuff out of my house, and I'll pay your rent somewhere else.  I have my own money."

"Then why let your dad pay for all your shit?" she asks acidly, making my jaw clench, but I keep my composure.

Instead of cursing or spewing something offensive, I laugh, though I admit it's a humorless laugh.

"Because I'm not supposed to touch that money.  It's part of my trust, but I became eligible to use it when I turned twenty-one.  My grandfather has requested I keep it locked up until I finish college.  I respect him, so if he asks me not to do something, I try to oblige.  In this case, I think he'd agree it was worth touching my trust."

She looks affronted.  Crap.  I just want her out of my home.  Is that so much to ask?

"I can't do that," she mumbles, turning her head to the side and pretending to watch the world we're passing by.

That makes no damn sense.  What's the endgame here?

"Why?  It's basically the same deal my father made you."

"Your father worried you'd do this, so he made me a deal I couldn't refuse when I rode with him to your house."

Motherfucker.  That pompous bastard is always one step ahead.  Why can't he just let me live my life?

"What was it?" I ask, trying not to rip my steering wheel out of its place.  I can still counter offer.  Albeit he has a shit-ton more money than I do, but I can at least make an attempt.

"He said if I stayed until the start of next semester, he'd buy me a home after I graduate college, too.  Wherever I choose. It's not exactly something I can afford to pass up.  Not all of us have a trust."

That's it?  By then I'll be running the vineyard and I'll have plenty enough money to buy her a damn house of her choosing.  Two houses?  That's the big deal he made with her?  Perfect.  Too easy.

"Well, hell.  I'll buy you a home after you graduate.  There.  Problem solved."

Finally.

"I already gave him my word.  To some people, that means something.  You had three days to try and make this right.  You didn't want to, and now your father has been too nice to me to screw him over."

She
can't
be serious right now.

"Make it right?" I ask in disbelief.  "
I
didn't bulldoze your house.  The frat boys, who I didn't even invite, did it.  Why the hell am I being tortured?  Because my family has the most money, that's why.  You see dollar signs, Cherry.  That's it."

Classic.  Poor girl suckers rich idiot out of money.  And I thought my father was supposed to be a brilliant man.

"My name isn't Cherry.  It's Raya.  And no, that's not it.  You're an inconsiderate son of a bitch who has never once given a damn about anyone other than yourself and what
you
want to do."

Yeah.  I hate her.  No doubt about it at this point.  She doesn't know a thing about me.  I don't have to defend myself or explain myself to her or anyone.

"Tell me how you really feel.  Don't hold back on my account, even though you don't know the first damn thing about me," I say, lacing the words with as much sarcasm as possible.

Did she really just roll her eyes at me?

"I know all I need to."

Without arguing with her last tart remark, I turn into the parking lot of one of my father's store
s.  I don't even offer her a parting glance as I head in, ready to get this shit over with so I can come up with a new way to force her out.

"Kade," a woman whose name I don't know says, acting as though we're all friends.  Not a surprise that everyone who works for Paul Colton knows what his son looks like.  I hate shopping in these stores.

I nod in passing while pulling my shades off, and head straight to the small lobby area where there are plenty of magazines for the bored husbands and boyfriends who get dragged along for torturous shopping trips.

Snatching up a magazine with a sexy body on the front, I plop down and hide my sulking.  I see Raya without looking up, but I pretend to be concentrated on this magazine on... what the hell?  Is this really a women's fitness magazine?  Shit.

"You must be Raya.  Mr. Colton called to tell me you might be stopping by.  I've got a wide selection already set up for you," the girl says, giving me a warning that the devil is about to be in Prada for real.

"I think I can add a few more things that will go well with these," the woman says, and I'll be damned if she doesn't grope Raya's fucking tits, which in turn earns a loud squeal from the sheltered girl.

I hate my zipper right now.  It's not nice.  Not nice at all.

"Sorry," the woman chuckles while moving her hands away.

When Miss Groper walks away, I can't help myself.  I decide to taunt Raya, even though I do everything possible to hide the traitor that has grown hard in my pants.

"Not used to being felt up, Raya?" I ask while flipping the page on my magazine.  I groan inwardly, but remain stoic on the outside.  Tampon ad?  Really?  I don't need this shit right now.  Gross. "With a shining personality like yours, I would've assumed no one could resist," I add, still sounding cool and unaffected.

I use my peripheral to watch her, keeping my spying discreet.  Her scowl is actually adorable, but I move my attention to the page as I flip it, praying it's not another equally disgusting ad.  Crap.  Yeast infection ointment? Oh God.  I'm never having sex again now.  Too much.  Way too much.

How I hold my smirk in place... I don't know.  All I want to do is gag right now.  Guys aren't supposed to see this... this... gross stuff.

"Raya?" the woman calls.  "You ready?"

The second she's out of the room, I toss the magazine down like it's on fire.  Then I glare at the cover with the sexy woman in a skimpy bikini.  She's just a damn Trojan Horse, and I fell for the trap.  That should be illegal.  At the very least, it's unethical.

I'll fill out a comment card before I leave.  If men sit out here, they should have proper reading material.

Leaning back, I put my hands behind my head and listen to the muffled sounds.  Fortunately, it's a little slow today, so listening is easier.  I can't make out what they're saying exactly, but the mention of swimsuits makes the traitor in my pants get even harder.

Hell no.  Hell to the fuck no.  I will strangle my dick if it continues to react to the evil little woman down the hall.  In an effort to hopefully walk off this rock in my pants, I move and start sifting through the weird assortment of dresses.  I hear one of the girls talking to my father on the phone, and I roll my eyes at her syrupy sweet voice.

Sarah Martin.  Should have known.  I forgot she works here.

When Sarah walks out from down the hall, I roll my eyes, listening to her giggle flirtatiously.  That's a pointless endeavor.  My dad's a dick, but he still loves my mother.  It's his most redeeming quality, so the young blonde needs to quit thinking she has a chance.

This is taking too long.  I need to make Raya hurry up.

Heading down to where she is, I hear a wheezed, "Help."

That's... creepy.

"Raya?" I ask, leaning closer to the door.

"Can't breathe," I hear in a strained whisper.

Holy Shit!

I push through the door, flinging it open fully, and try to figure out what I'm seeing.  Silky, dark hair has fallen around bare shoulders and is resting on one seriously tight corset
—not what I need right now.  But when I see how red Raya's face is, I can't help but burst out laughing.

Fortunately, the overwhelming humor kills some of the strain in my pants.

I walk behind her, push her hair over her shoulder, and ignore my cock when it responds to the slightest graze of my hand on her skin.  Then she has to go and shiver against my touch.  If this wasn't so funny, I'd probably be doing something really stupid right now.

"Don't move," I say through a snicker, and then I start unlacing the tangle of tight knots.

When I get it loosened, she coughs and heaves for more air, making my smile twitch.  This would be so much more amusing if she didn't look so good.

"Don't ever let Sarah lace you up.  She's got a nasty habit of making girls with curves pay."

Sarah is actually the only one here I know, and that's only because she stalked Tag for a while.  Crazy bitch.

But everything leaves my mind when I see a dark-colored mark below the corset and disappearing up behind it.  What the
…?

"Holy shit," she says in a cough, but I'm too busy loosening up the laces more, trying to see where this
ungodly bruise starts and ends. "It's not like I'm obese," she continues, sounding furious.

Seeing the way her body curves in just the right places makes me want to explore.  But after spotting the vicious bruise in front of me, my heart almost stops and kills every bit of my lust as guilt floods me.  No.  Dad said she had
no
serious injuries.  This can't be from the house.

"No," I mutter in response to her obese comment.  "Not even close."

My hands rest on her hips as I stare blankly at the proof of how severely wrong this all could have gone.

"Is this from the roof collapsing?" I finally ask, dreading the answer as I motion to the bruise.

"Is it another bruise?" she asks as I return my hand to her hip, staring intensely.

"It's a massive bruise," I say with a harsh breath, cursing the damn idiots that could have fucking killed her.

"Yeah.  I've got them all over me."

When my eyes come back up, I see them.  I missed them before, but there's a large one on her shoulder, several nasty ones up her spine, and I'm sure the rest of her body looks just as battered.

This really was my fault.  That was my place.  I knew the shit was getting out of control, and I did nothing.  I've never felt like a bigger dick in all my life, and that's saying a lot.

My chest heaves as more guilt attacks me with an onslaught of jabs.  She could have died.  If she had still been in her room, she would have died.  Shit.  And I'm being the biggest asshole in the world while she's homeless and scared.

She steps away from me, relieving me from staring at the proof of my stupidity.

"They said you didn't get hurt," I mutter, suddenly understanding the meaning of self loathing.

"I didn't suffer anything major," she says with a shrug.  "But when a roof collapses on you, it still tends to leave a mark.  Thanks for the help, but I need to get redressed."

I almost want to ask her how many other bruises are on her.  Like the royal prick I am, my eyes accidentally fall to her chest, and I curse myself when I can't look away from the slight bit of cleavage there.  I should be punched.  I almost get the girl killed, and now I'm trying to catch a peek.

She tightens her hold on the open corset, keeping all her most important things covered.

"How much longer will you be?" I ask, prying my eyes off her chest and bringing them back up to meet hers.

"I'm done.  I don't want this thing, and I don't really need the dresses.  I don't go anywhere that I would need to wear something like that.  Just the regular clothes for me."

She needs plenty of clothes.  Her shit has been itching her, and I'm sure it's painful to scratch with so many brutal bruises.

I cringe inwardly, hating myself even more for arguing about bringing her here now.

"And the swimsuits," I add, pointing to the rack.  My pool is massive.  I really don't need to think about her in a bikini.  Maybe she'll pick a grandma suit.