No Perfect Princess (21 page)

It had always been Killian Stone’s go-to for the situations where
dammit
was too specific and
fuck
too broad. While I’d always jabbed a firm thumb up at his warrior spin on the word, I never imagined letting a woman drag me to a place furious enough that I’d be yanking it up for myself.

With an embellishment.

“This is
enough
, princess.”

I bit out every word though, hardly worried about anyone acknowledging them. Standing at the corner of Ash and Seventh, close to sundown on the third of July, was a crash course in noise levels of every kind. The crowds were thick, everybody from hipsters in bowlers and families with strollers to loudmouthed frat boys and off-duty military out to enjoy the festive feel of the approaching holiday. The air itself was already on board with the party, a tangle of terrace barbecue, ocean breeze, sidewalk vendor tamales, and yeah, beer. Lots and lots of beer.

The go-with-the-flow vibe did shit for mellowing my impatience—this after I was so damn certain I’d secured a handle on the stuff this morning. Of course, waking up and instantly feeling like an eighty year-old had a tendency to realign certain thoughts. Yeah, yeah; I had only myself to blame; nobody had forced me to ring Keir and ask if he felt like playing Navy Physical Training torture master a couple of times a week with an old college buddy. And nobody had jammed a gun to my head when I ordered him not to give me any special sissy treatment, either. Dude was just being a good friend. Wasn’t his fault I couldn’t move this morning.

Sometime in the ten minutes it took for me to shuffle into the shower, the mental lightbulb blared on. I had a choice. Continue to let Keir turn me into hamburger twice a week, or face the goddamn piper and confront the real source of my agony.

Hamburger wasn’t cutting it anymore.

Which was why I stood here now, staring up at all fifteen stories of her ivory tower, screwing up the courage to finally step into her domain.

A domain I’d been invited to a month ago—then turned away from just as quickly.

I summoned new courage by scrolling up the window on my phone to arrive at the exact text message.

:: Still not feeling great. Tonight won’t be good after all. M ::

I’d told her it didn’t matter. That I’d bring soup and TLC instead of condoms and lube.

There’d never been an answer.

Not until two days later, when I’d gone half out of my mind with worry, hitting
send
on my fifty-first text:

:: Margaux, if you don’t confirm you’re still breathing, I’m calling the cops. ::

She’d said she was sorry. Pleaded for “time”. Said she needed “space”, that everything was moving too fast. But even that wasn’t the most cryptic shit. She’d waited three more days to wind up that curve ball, treating my inbox with the news this time.

Dear Michael,

I know you’re not a fan of personal emails, considering all the professional ones you have to write. But this isn’t something I can communicate in a text, and talking to you in person will only unhinge my resolve, so we’ll both have to deal with things this way.

Two sentences in and I’d already been growling back at her. “Unhinge” her “resolve”? About
what
?

Here’s the thing. My life is…complicated right now. I can’t go into details, which might be part of the problem already. You’re an an an amazing guy, Michael. You deserve a woman
without
complications. Somebody who can give you everything you deserve…

I’d stopped again, but not to growl. To grunt. In confusion. She’d missed a typo. Correction: a T-Y-P-O. The woman didn’t miss lint on someone’s suit, let alone a botch like that. And when the hell did she use words like “amazing guy”? That was the kind of trite shit they spewed on reality dating shows—the ones we’d laughed at together at the High Dive.

The rest of the email was more of the same, and not worth reviewing—then yearning to puke on—again.
Can’t be sure of anything right now
…blah, blah, blah…
probably jumped too fast
…blah, blah, blah…
the day just overwhelmed me
…

Was she serious? “Jumped too fast”? After the day “overwhelmed” her? After she busted my balls at Kil and Claire’s wedding about my mountaintop insanity only to show up at my place two hours later—begging me to help her get out of her gown?

If she’d written this in a sober, sane state of mind—if
she’d
even written it—I’d donate my right testicle for medical research.

Like I
or
my testicle had gotten a clear answer from her on that. Or any answer at all. After the text to assure she was at least alive and breathing, the woman had dropped off the grid on me once more. She even cut the string of what we’d once called the tin can telephone—her direct line at work, no switchboard necessary—always letting me sit through three dozen rings before she pushed poor Sorrelle to pick the damn thing up, always with a new and better excuse. When the boy finally realized I wasn’t going for the regular lines of trips to the powder room, trapped on a conference call
or
two-hour traffic jams after three-hour lunches, the guy’s creativity
really
kicked in. One day, it was a doctor’s appointment. Then a nail appointment. Then a couple of out-of-town SGC responsibilities, since Claire and Killian had decided they needed to fuck their way across the
second
half of the globe, therefore extending their honeymoon. Then there was the DMV appointment (
seriously
?), followed by jury duty, a leg waxing, and a visit to her mother—

Which was as believable as the DMV thing.

Which had led to me calling Keir again. And becoming a nice hunk of ground round for him again.

And realizing nothing was going to take care of this strange chasm between Margaux and me—except Margaux and me.

I wasn’t letting her off the hook that easily, dammit.

The mental rehash incited me into motion. The light turned green and I skirted my way through the throngs with sure-footed precision. On the other side of the street, I didn’t stop. Pushed through the glass doors ahead of me, into the El Cortez’s elegant Spain-influenced lobby. Gunned it to the buzzer box for the VIP condos.

The button for her unit was, as usual, unlabeled. I jammed on it. Two quicks, one long, two quicks again—the secret code that, to the best of my knowledge, belonged only to me.

Unless…it didn’t anymore.

Don’t go there.

Too late. My heartbeat crushed the crap out of my windpipe. I grimaced against the similar hunk of cement in my gut, counting every goddamn second that passed. Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Beneath my breath, I beat on myself. “Should’ve called first, shithead.” What if she was out of town again? Worse, what if she wasn’t? All too easily, the rock in my stomach gave up a nightmare image to my head. Margaux, standing there in her ivory and cream foyer, touching those perfect strawberry lips to another glass of champagne, perusing the callbox on her end with a smooth, secretive smile. But that wasn’t the worst one. That came when the vision grew, including a faceless stranger sidling behind her, dipping his dark head to her neck, urging her away from my impotent buzzes…back to the bedroom.

“Fuck.” My exhale broke it into two syllables instead of one. As I stepped backward, my footsteps were heavy echoes across the lobby’s terra cotta tiles. My back finally collided with the wall; I snapped my head back to punch the same surface, grateful for the painful collision of my teeth.

I refused to punch that goddamn button again.

But turning and leaving? It was like playing a role in
Night of the Living Dead—
shot for being a zombie when everything inside was still human. And feeling just as bullet-in-the-head shitty.

What did you expect, dipwad? That she’d magically throw open the door after avoiding you like a virus the last four weeks? That you’d just walk in off the street and she’d be so stunned that she—

Her buzzer blared.

The elevator doors opened.

Three bounds later, I was inside the lift.

Fifteen floors later, my heartbeat started in on my lungs. The feet I’d compared to bricks downstairs now felt like bars of lead. Like that had any bearing on my pace the second the doors slid back and emptied me into the polished silence of the hall leading to her place.

I doubted a ninja could’ve successfully snuck up on her door in the modern day echo chamber, so I wasn’t surprised when it opened as I neared. Her hand, wrapped around the edge of the wood, was the only indication she’d come to receive me instead of sending Sorrelle, who’d all but grown fur as her self-appointed guard bitch.

Hmmm. That was a pretty good one. I contemplated weaving it into my opening line but decided to play the moment straight until she steered things otherwise. Four weeks. Just a fraction of the time I’d closeted myself up in Julian, but every day, minute, and hour had felt like more. Like that was surprising, after what had happened since the last time we stood face-to-face?

I paused on the threshold. Opening the door didn’t equal inviting me in and assumptions were a really bad idea right now.

From behind the towering wood portal, I finally heard a soft, “Hey.”

Did that mean
come in
or
get lost
? “Hey.” Huge inhalation. “Thanks for letting me up.”

She didn’t move but a new smile tinted her voice. “You were just going to come back if I didn’t. Right?”

“Yeah. No. Maybe. Probably.”

In usual circumstances, she’d have laughed at that. But we were a long way off from usual. “Come in, Michael.”

Michael.
Not “mister” or “buddy” or “Captain America”.

And definitely not “stud”.

Clamping back an unnerved grunt, I stepped into her condo.

Screw the grunt. Tough to make that happen when one’s jaw was headed toward the floor.

No smirking berry lips. Or gloating gaze. Or even one of the cute little “casual” outfits she usually wore at home that drove me nuts because they left little of her incredible curves to the imagination. Her usual rock band tee was now an oversized USD sweatshirt, and her legs, normally encased in bright things that seemed like glorified pantyhose, were replaced by cotton shorts that barely covered the essentials. At the bottom, her feet were swallowed by bunched-up socks, one of the things I loved best about visiting her here. The look was such a glorious change-up from her designer platforms, it grabbed me in the cock at every new sighting.

Now was no exception.

Goddammit.

I swung my gaze back up to her face. And said a silent farewell to every inch of my erection. Tendrils of her hair, falling loose from the messy ponytail atop her head, framed cheeks that seemed drawn in by exhaustion despite the light makeup she wore. The cosmetics did nothing to cover the shadows beneath her eyes, either. I blinked hard, trying to recall how I’d ever imagined her up here as some preening Gone Girl. The tired woman—scratch that; the exhausted girl—in front of me was a full one-eighty from the impression.

My frustration and fury of ten minutes ago? Now officially left behind in the lobby, where they belonged. Beyond that, I didn’t know what to think, let alone fathom the words to express it, as she closed the door with a gentle click—

But not before rushing a furtive stare down the hallway.

Like she expected someone else?

No. Like she was afraid of something getting in. Or some
one
?

But that made no sense, either. Didn’t it?

My life is…complicated right now…

I scowled at the thought—along with the puzzlement at watching her fingers tremble while sliding the deadbolt home, before she swiveled back toward me. She studied me for a long moment. I stared back, definitely not studying. Unless an obsession with how she wetted and rewetted her lips counted as “studying”.

She flowed a toe over the floor in a little arc. “You—you look good.”

“Thanks. You too.”
And gee whillikers, great fucking weather we’ve been having, eh
?

She stepped past me toward the living room. At the last second she stopped, turned, and sidestepped into the space-age-meets-Mission-chic kitchen, instead.

“You want something to drink?” She tugged on the fridge’s stainless steel handle.

“Said the convict to her executioner?” I followed by a few steps and folded my arms.

“Huh?”

“Trying to delay the head roll?”

She glowered. “Trying to be
nice
. Just give it a go and see how it fits, okay, big guy?”

“Sure.” I stepped over and leaned forward, elbows on the marble-topped center island. “As soon as you tell me how good a ‘fit’ that refrigerator is—since you aren’t able to get your head out of it.”

Her snort pitched slightly toward soprano. “Not a crime to look in the fridge.”

“Except for someone who labels three bowls of bar mix and a martini as ‘dinner’.”

“I could so completely make you dinner.”

I took advantage of the chance at an unmonitored smirk. “Let’s not push it. Veg and dip?” A tub of sour cream dip sailed over the door. I caught it easily. “Way to go, Joe Namath.”

“Who?”

“Tom Brady?”

“Oh, yeah. Giselle’s husband.”

Good thing we hadn’t gotten to the drink part yet. Nothing to snort out my nose. “Uh, yeah. Him.”

“Shit. I don’t think Sorrelle got any vegetables.”

“Did you check the crisper?”

“The what?”

Face, meet palm.
“Forget about it.”

“No. Hey! I can really do—”

By the time she got there, I’d skirted the island and grabbed her hand. “Come on.”

“But—”

“Margaux, I didn’t come here to eat.” I pulled her up, kicked the door shut, and led her back out to the living room.

“But I’m sure I can find the damn veg—”

“
Come
. Now.”

I freed her once we stood in front of her custom couch, a bright blue monstrosity that looked strange but was comfortable as hell. All too quickly, I wished this was another night when we’d just polished off a Soleluna pizza and were about to settle in to order up a movie. But that would mean we’d time-traveled back eight months—when I was still in the fucking friend zone. AKA: a relationship coma.