Mind F*ck (11 page)

And not with me stuck in Texas in a maximum security prison where every other inmate besides myself was serving twenty-five or more to life.

Travis was about to marry Scarlett. They’d been together for a little over a year when he decided to move out to LA and help head up his father’s new firm.

Only my sister wasn’t welcomed. In fact, Travis told her it was over. That he didn’t love her anymore, and he didn’t know why, but that that was that. And then he left.

All I know about whatever life my sister had between the time Travis left for LA and a year later when I received the phone call from my father, informing me she passed away, is that it was spent chasing something. Drugs. Alcohol. Men, and more drugs.

A month after she was buried, my father sent me a letter my sister had written before committing suicide.

It was the hardest fucking letter I ever had to read.

I hated that letter the first time I read it, and I’ll hate it the last time I read it, but don’t expect me to stop reading it. It was the last thing my sister did before taking her own life because of my sins.

My sins.

Even when my eyes aren’t tracing the actual dips and divots she made on the paper with the pen, I can still see her perfect penmanship in black scrolled across the bright white paper.

I can see it like it’s right in front of me.

I read her words behind my closed eyelids as if they were seared into the frontal lobe of my brain.

Dearest Rhett, please… don’t blame yourself for this. This is not your fault. This is my fault. I wish I was strong enough to go and see you one last time. I have so many things to say, but I’m afraid they’ll sadly go unsaid.

You were right. I should have listened to you, but I didn’t. And I’m so sorry. For everything, Rhett, I’m sorry.

Mom dying was harder on me than I realized, and you went off and were doing your own thing. I don’t know what exactly happened when you lived with Dad in New York, I don’t know the details because I wasn’t privy to that part of your life.

I wish you had told me…

I wish when you came back to Pittsburg, you would’ve opened up and told me. I wish you would’ve come back the brother I remembered. But you didn’t, you were all business. Working fulltime and going to school at night. And that was when you weren’t tutoring for your series seven. You were so busy all the time, and then when mom died, you were just gone.

I’m sorry I went to New York after she died. I did get your letter. I know you wanted me to stay in Pittsburg, and I know now I should have listened to you. I know that now, Rhett.

I know you’re innocent, too. And it’s not because I’m a good sister that I know that, or because I always had faith in you.

No, it’s because I’m shitty person. Who didn’t believe you when you said you were innocent. And then what did I do? I moved to the place that used you, chewed you up, and spit you out, and I fell in love with the son of the man who did the deed.

Travis made me so happy. So, so happy, Rhett.

I thought he was my forever.

But after
he’d purposefully made all my dreams come true, he strategically shattered them, each and every one.

How can I be lost without someone who never really loved me? How could I turn my back on someone who really did?

Rhett, I’m sorry…

I just didn’t know who was lying to me until it was too late.

And I can’t live with myself anymore because of it.

I just can’t.

I love you, big brother. Always—Scarlett.

My phone buzzing pulls me from my run along thoughts, and I glance up, wondering how long I’ve been lost in thought.

When I spot the time on the guy’s phone sitting next to me at the bar in the airport, I sit up in my seat and pull my phone out to double check.

Nine pm.

My flight landed an hour ago, and I still haven’t heard from Travis’s guy.

Or associate—is that what he called him?

What the fuck ever.

I’m sure I probably should’ve called my father when I was informed that my appeal went through and I was granted parole. And I’m sure he’s going to be upset when he finds out that I was released, and I didn’t let him or his lawyers know. But what he’s really going to be pissed off about, at least at first, is that my first action as a free man is revenge.

I’m going to settle a fucking score, I just hope the Jackson’s don’t see my intentions until I’m ready for them to.

I’ve got less contacts than I have fingers on one hand at this point, so trust is a fucking no go. All I have is the element of deception and surprise.

Well, that and the fact that I just lived the last seven years of my life in Hell, and I really don’t have a single goddamn thing to lose, at least not anymore.

When I notice the text message in my notification bar, I slide my phone screen open and read a text from an unknown number:

This is Drake. I work for Mr. Jackson’s associate, Liam Dean. I understand we’re to pick you up at the airport. I wanted to let you know Mr. Dean and I have just arrived at gate 7 and we look forward to meeting you soon. Text back if needed.

About time.

I toss back the remaining spritzer water and melted ice chips, slide my phone into the breast pocket of the suit Travis Jackson had FedEx’d to me for when I was released along with a note sincerely apologizing for my loss and promises that my sister was in a
better place
, and stand before making my way towards gate seven.

And as far as I’m concerned: Travis Jackson fully brought this shit upon himself.

For the most part, I try and follow my ma’s advice by not judging a book by its cover. It’s shallow and ignorant. However, sometimes in life, you come across people who truly do
not
deserve the common politeness. And one of those people, without  shadow of doubt, is Travis’s New York associate, Liam Dean.

I did my homework, briefly, but I did do it. And I know all I need—I know he looks good on paper—but obviously better in person. I also see now why he’s the
face
of Jackson’s Agency.

Who’s been the man at the meetings? Hiring, and firing. Liam Dean. Who’s the man in front of the camera every time it’s rolling and Jackson’s is being discussed? You guessed it, Liam fucking Dean. He’s their face.

Summer Jackson may be stunning, as was her mother. But those Jackson boys are not. They are some ugly son-of-a-bitches. I’m not lying.

When I square off with Liam Dean and extend my hand to introduce myself, I nod, acknowledging both that Liam Dean is a rather good choice, and that he’s currently speaking to me.

“I’m Liam, you must be Rhett?” He chuckles and I hate the motherfucker instantly.

Like it’s my fault Ma loved Gone With the Wind. It’s a name. His is Liam. It’s no better.

“I am.” My grip on his hand increases until I feel the bones grate. “Sorry for inconveniencing you this evening. I hope you and your wife had a nice flight in. Or was it your sister you flew in with today? I forgot what Travis told me earlier.” I drop his hand before grabbing my satchel and handing it to the driver.

Once my only belonging is stored away in the trunk, I slide into the back seat of the car and listen as he answers, “My wife, not my sister. I have no sisters. And the flight was nice, the time after, not so much. We’ll actually be leaving first thing tomorrow morning. Which hotel are you staying at again?”

After the driver closes the door behind Liam, he slides in the front seat and as he pulls away from the curb, Liam slides the divider up.

“The Ritz. Sorry to hear you’re cutting your trip short.”

When the bastard’s eyebrows shoot up, it pisses me off a bit more. And probably because I’ve spent the last seven years biting my tongue, I don’t anymore, “Is there a problem?” I spit out.

This guy’s vibes are freaking off. That or he’s insane.

“No—I, no,” he stutters.

Yeah, stutter, motherfucker.

“We’re staying at the same hotel, I just wasn’t expecting something to go easy today, that’s all.” He sighs and it makes me feel like an asshole a little bit.

But just a little bit. Not enough to cozy up to the bastard.

“Ah,” I mutter. “No Bueno.”

Neither he or I say much after, and when the black Lincoln Town Car pulls up along the curb outside The Ritz Carlton the fact that once I give my old celly’s wife the package that’s been stowed in my satchel since I picked up my shit from the PO Box office off Spur 591, and I’m compensated for it, I won’t have a reason to be in New Orleans anymore. I don’t think I was prepared for how fast this was going to go once my plane landed today. I thought I’d have a day or two to plan, at least.

We’re both out of the car and the driver hands me my satchel when I turn and shake Liam’s hand.

And I’m uncertain why, but the words fall out of my mouth, “Let me buy you a drink, man. You’ve had a shitty trip, and I just got out of the slammer.” I smirk. “It’s gotta be downhill from here, man. It’s gotta be.”

I’m humble enough to admit something when it’s true, even if it hurts. And as sad as it sounds, I’ll still say it: Yes, my lack of connection with other humans over the last seven years probably does have something to do with the anxiety clawing its way through my chest. The thought of what I’m going to do, or where I’m going to go, once I’ve given Sheila, my ex-celly’s wife, the written documents that will procure me five hundred thousand dollars to live off of until…is a little more than unsettling.

And I know, I know what I said about the Liam and the book cover and all that, but like I also said, right now, I’ve got less contacts than I have fingers on one hand at this point. And where trust is a fucking no go, I could really use
any
contacts I can muster to help with my fucking element of deception and surprise.

And the only person I see at this point in time, is Liam fucking Dean.

“Fine,” he tells me before walking through the hotel’s front double doors. Once we walk into the low-lit bar, he adds, “But only one. I’m ready for this trip to be over.”

It surprises me when I feel Liam come to bed only a little more than an hour after I.

I’m almost shocked, really.

At least until I remember we aren’t in our bedroom, much less our home back in New York. Of course, he’s home early. He doesn’t have his Manhattan penthouse to go to or any whores to entertain.

I lie there as quietly as I can, minding my breathing until I feel his side of the bed settle. And after the room is still for a few minutes, I feel myself relax.

Only to go rigid again the instant he speaks, “I know you aren’t asleep. Stop playing games, baby girl. I want you to listen.” His voice is stern and leaves no room for interpretation. “When we wake up in a few hours, we’ll get our things packed and take the first flight out. Unfortunately, I somehow procured another passenger tonight that’ll be traveling back with us to New York. His name is Rhett Bennett, the two of you will meet in the morning. You know how I expect you to act, so there shouldn’t be a problem. And hopefully after you and I are back within the gates of our estate, we won’t have the misfortune of having to deal with him again. Is everything I’ve said understood?”

It’s here— in case you were wondering—it’s here, in this moment that I realize whoever I loved, whoever I gave my heart and my life to, is no longer here. It’s here when I realize the boy I fell in love with, and the man I married and wanted to build a family with, is not—has not, and probably will never be here again.

And it’s here that I realize the only thing I’m left with in his wake is a monster.

Yet instead of following in my mother’s footsteps, instead of doing or even, fuck it—
saying
what I want, I do what I always do. I agree.

“Of course, it’s understood, Liam.”

Then I lean to his side of the bed, keeping my eyes pinned to his profile in the dark, and when my lips meet his, I briefly kiss him. As his large hands cup my neck before sliding up and cupping my face, my eyes involuntarily roll behind closed eyelids. Then…I kiss him with everything I have left in me.

I’d like to stop here for a moment, if you don’t mind and explain.

I haven’t felt my husband’s hands on my skin since the morning we took a bath after sipping coffee overlooking the trellis. I haven’t felt affection…since.

Other than a hand at the small of my back while he holds open a door, or a squeeze on my shoulder when I’m mentioned in conversation, or an infrequent brush of his lips across my forehead before a goodbye, our physical interactions have been morbidly inadequate.

That and I’m still mourning the loss of our daughter, so I hope you can understand my search for an outlet.

I think I’m allowed to admit that I have some fucking anger to get out.

And I feel no qualms using my husband to do it.

My lips kiss his three times, when I test the waters and lick. As his lips open and grant me access, I straddle his hips, sliding my night gown up my bare thighs. Our tongues begin waging a war, and it’s one that’s been building and gaining…for as long as I can remember, or at least it seems. And when I taste his kiss, I cannot help it…the tears flood behind my closed eyelids before falling, and a moan escapes my throat. I grind my silk covered pussy against his rigid erection and—I think it’s the urgency, or maybe it was something else—it feels like hunger. But whatever it is, it’s clawing its way through me much too fast this time to stop or filter it.

So I nip—and when he nips back, I bite. I tear his v-neck t-shirt over his head, and when my hands meet his shoulders, my nails sink into the flesh covering his back.

“What are you fucking doing? Huh? It’s that bad, Lex?” he mutters against my shoulder before shredding my night gown, using only his fingers to tear the straps from the Chantilly lace neck down.

Everything that transpires after I finally let go, goes so fast that I can hardly keep up. And somewhere between me meeting him and him meeting me for every pang of pain, something twists and turns for the ugly—and not the fun ugly.

The tears that were just searing down my face are now sliding between my breasts with more to follow, and the tender lips Liam tugged at are now chapped and splitting, but he must not notice.

I keep trying, and it’s honestly for reasons unknown. You can call it what you want. But I do keep trying.

I drive my hands into his hair and pull on the strands before sitting up on my knees still straddling his narrow hips, and I kiss him deeper and deeper. I kiss him like I’m digging for something, because I am. I need something.

And for the life of me, I don’t know what it is.

When the sob splits the moan coming from my lips, I feel his entire body go rigid just before he speaks.

“Stupid little bitch. Even if I wanted to fuck you, I wouldn’t.”

That’s what he spits at me. Those are the words he says just before shoving me off of him and standing from the bed.

And I guess it’s safe to say here, that
this
is when I decide that I fucking can’t.

No matter how much I used to love Liam, I don’t anymore, and I can’t keep pretending, even to myself.

I just fucking can’t.

I don’t think anyone can love a monster.

And I’m too fucking tired to keep trying.

It was probably after three in the morning before the tension left my muscles and I was able to relax enough to lull myself to sleep. The next morning when the sunlight floods through the billowing off-white panels curtaining the open double set French doors, I turn my face into my pillow and pull the covers up, readying myself for more of last night. Or at least the lingering humiliation of it.

But when an unknown man’s voice splits the room, coming from where the Victorian chairs and table are positioned in the sitting area to the left of the French doors, I instantly bolt straight up in the bed and search for the intruder.

“Mrs. Dean, I presume? God-fucking-dammit, I pray you are, otherwise, this is about to get awkward as fuck and fast.” His voice sends chills all the way to my core, and I can’t explain it, right now—because I can’t fucking understand it.

When my eyes find the man, I mean— intruder— he’s going from sitting to standing beside and looking out the open French doors, and I have to rub the sleep out of my eyes to get a better look at him.

And I can’t help it. I just stare.

He’s at least six-feet-five, at least. And he’s not big like he’s spent his life in a gym, he’s just lean. And long. Those are the only two descriptive words I own staring at the Adonis before me. With a sandy blond man bun.
And
in a custom tailored suit.

He reminds me of a fucking alien. No…no he doesn’t. Alien is too strong a word…He’s different, though. I know that.

I can’t put my finger on what it is about him, and it’s here that his words click together and make sense.

“Stop. Right there. Stop. I have a gun.” I glance towards my purse on the bedside table, knowing full well I am lying through my teeth but hoping like hell I’m pulling it off. “And my husband will be back at any time. If I were you, I’d get the fuck out. Now.”
Shit, please sound intimidating enough…

He slowly turns towards me, and when his dark brown eyes meet mine he smirks before sadly smiling. “Mr. Dean had to step out of our early morning pre-aviation huddle-up to take a call. Mistresses…you know how needy they can be. But you’re correct, he should be back soon. As for the piece, I must say, Mrs. Dean, the fact that you carry makes my cock hard as fuck. It’s hot, like hotter than I’m willing to let myself be afraid of a bullet. Seriously. Did I mention that you’re fucking gorgeous? Shit.” He holds his hands up in false surrender and chuckles. His eyes scan over my bare shoulders and arms like he’s completely oblivious to the fact that he just shattered my entire world. “I’m sorry, where are my manners? I’m Rhett. Rhett Bennett, I’m an associate of Travis Jackson’s, and…” He pauses, his deepening smirk revels a dimple, “…I assume your husband’s now as well. I just spent the last seven years of my life in a maximum security prison, but that’s a much longer story, the point is, Trav and Liam have taken me under their wing. At least until I can—” he mimics air quotes, “—get back in the swing of things.” Then his dark brown eyes settle back on mine. “I’m an old family friend of the Jackson’s. Me, Trav, and Summer—we go way back.” When he winks at me, I’m past sputtering.

I’m fucking livid. And completely unaware of the fact that I don’t have a stitch of clothing on.

Flying towards him, I spring from the bed while my hands grab at the silk sheets, probably because subconsciously I know I need to shield myself from this asshole’s eyes. And I have the material almost wrapped all the way around me when I’m close enough to strike.

And yes, that’s what I do…or attempt to.

“You, asshole! You know
NOTHING!
” My flailing hands fly out, still gripping the sheets, to beat at his chest as my voice cracks, but my feet tangle in the sheets just before my attack, sending me falling towards him, head first.

Unable to stop it, unable to slow it.

I swear, it feels like I fall for ten damn minutes before my face meets the rigid plane of his abdomen, just above his crotch—where my bottom lip splits on his suit jacket button.

I’m a sobbing, sputtering mess when I feel his strong warm arms circle me under my knees and around my waist before scooping me up and carrying me towards the bathroom. “You know nothing,” I whisper over and over against his shoulder as tears fall from my face onto his dark suit, blotting out the light gray threads. “Nothing,” I mutter and pull my bleeding lower lip into my mouth before letting the tears continue to fall and the hurt be felt.

Why am I letting what this man, this intruder, says matter? Why am I letting him comfort me?

Why?

And I don’t have to hear my own voice ricochet through my mind to know the truth.

I already know it.

Because you know what he’s saying is the cold hard truth.

And because it fucking hurts. That’s why.

“Lexy…Lexy?” I hear the man wiping away my tears and pulling my face up to his calling me, but I close my eyes. And I let the hurt hurt.

“Lexy? Sweetheart? Please, we…okay, you need to get your shit together. Now.”

But I can’t, and I can’t understand why he doesn’t understand that.

“No,” I say, fighting to turn away from him at as I feel my bare ass being slid onto the cold bathroom marble counter top. “Stop. Okay?” I continue my demands, trying to shove at his chest, only to grip the material of his suit and tug instead. “STOP! Just stop.” I squeeze my eyes shut and shove the words out as fast as I can, “You obviously have no fucking idea how incredibly fucked you just fucked my life up, so just stop. Get your hands off of me, or I swear to god, I’ll fucking scream.” I finally shove him back and attempt to struggle against him.

But before I can make any progress against him and the wall that he is and get myself down off the counter top, I feel the back of my skull connecting with the vanity mirror behind me, and a swift second later I feel his palm setting fire to the outside of my right hip when it connects.

Did he just fucking slap me?

His right hand slides up between the valley of my breasts, and his fingertips grip then dig into my cheeks at my chin. His firm, rough manner with me causes my eyes to fly open and I glare, boring them into his brown ones.