Psycho Ex Boyfriend (Standalone New Adult Romance) (The Alpha Brotherhood Book 2) (28 page)

He doesn’t say anything. I think at this point he knows better than to comment on the amount of hours I put in at work. Instead he simply runs his hand across my back, dips down to kiss my head, and then gets up to remove my heels and flick off the light.

His body is next to mine when I wake up a few hours later at 1:00 am. I have to be back at the office by 7:30. This shit is killing me.

“Hey,” he yawns, staggering into the kitchen. “There’s leftover Chinese in the fridge.”

“I am so sick of takeout,” I groan, looking through the cabinets for something fast to cook. I can hardly think straight.

“Let me,” he says, putting on a pot of boiling water and grabbing a bag of dried tortellini. Sounds good to me. “How long are you going to keep doing this?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same thing lately.”

“You have?” He seems a bit surprised, glancing over at me skeptically.

“Yes. After five years of 80 hour weeks, hell yes. I’m not sure if I even want to make partner anymore,” I admit.

“Really?”

“I don’t know…” I leave the kitchen for the comfort of my expensive couch that I rarely get to sit on.

Adam gives the pasta another stir and follows. He sits beside me and I pull at him, guiding his solid body to lay between my legs with his head on my chest. He wraps his arm around my waist. It’s been great having him here, even though I don’t get to enjoy it much. But he’s here. That’s all that matters.

“I can’t imagine not being a lawyer anymore. I mean, what would I do with my life?”

“Actually have one,” he chuckles.

“Why don’t you work like crazy anymore?” I ask. It’s something I only recently realized once he came back around.

“I have the luxury of delegating responsibilities. It was a necessity at first, straddling business in two different cities. Then once I got here, everything was set up and running well. Too well.”

“I can’t delegate.”

“You could if you started your own firm.”

“I feel like I’d just end up working more.”

“There are only 24 hours in a day, Sabrina.”

“I’ve been known to stretch that to 27 or 28 on occasion,” I reply, making him laugh and shake his head.

“It’s not as if you don’t have an alternative source of income.”

“Adam, the coloring book thing was a fluke.”

“A fluke that continues to make you ten times the money putting in one tenth the hours,” he reminds me.

“I know,” I grumble. “And everyone at the office knows, too. They’re just waiting for me to leave.”

“Because you should. And I’m sure you’ll be able to lure just enough clients to come with you to start your own firm.”

“I do have a friend from law school. We’ve talked about it before.”

“Do I know her?”

I cringe. “It’s actually a
him
.”

Adam’s body grows rigid in my arms and he sits up to stare at me. “Long hours in an exciting new business venture with another man,” he huffs. “Perfect.”

“I’m around men all the time.”

“Men. Plural. In a group setting. Not that it doesn’t drive me crazy.”

“He’s married.”

“Like that stops anyone.”

Oh, my God! It totally does. “I don’t find him attractive.”

“I suppose that’s mildly reassuring.”

I do love keeping Adam on his toes, I just can’t help it.  But it’s kind of bullshit that he’d make a big deal over this. Trust issues much? Thankfully, it’s a nonissue because, “Honestly, I think I’d rather do this on my own, though.”

Adam sighs. “Don’t shut someone helpful out just because I’m a twitchy bastard,” he says. “I have your back either way.”

With a kiss on the top of my head, Adam gets up to check on our midnight snack. Or late dinner. Hell, it might be breakfast too and probably the only thing I’ll eat all day. I’m so sick of this. I want to sleep in late with my twitchy bastard boyfriend. Maybe go out and actually spend some of the money I’ve been working so hard to earn. Not that he’d let me.

I watch him continue preparing the meal, surprised that he’s doing such an amazing job in such a short time.

“Do you cook?”

“I’ve been bored since I moved here,” he answers. I suppose that’s a yes.

“What else don’t I know about you?” I ask, wrapping my arms around his waist and resting my head on his back.

“Hopefully, not much.” He spins around and pops a tortellini in my mouth. “Although, I have read quite a few resignation letters in my day and I know what makes a good one.”

My eyes close as I savor the taste of prosciutto and expensive olive oil. “I’m not there yet.”

“Didn’t you tell me that there’s another big, complicated case coming up soon?” he says, exaggerating the words big and complicated.

“Yeah, we’re already prepping…”

I don’t even want to think about that. All I want to do is sleep. Damn. Maybe I am ready. Adam’s mouth curls into a knowing smile. Then it falls away as his phone starts ringing from my bedroom. I watch as the mild annoyance on his face turns into shock.

“He what?” Adam barks at whoever is on the line. “When?” He runs his hand through his hair. “Who flipped on him?”

Adam hangs up the call and stares at the screen in silence, his chest heaving with every breath.

“What happened?” I ask.

The knot in his throat jerks as he swallows. “Marlowe was arrested this evening.”

“Oh.” That’s a good thing, right? Why wouldn’t it be? “On what charges?”

“Drug trafficking and pandering.”

“I have a few friends in the District Attorney’s office. I can get the details on his case if you—”

“Fuck!” Adam yells suddenly, making me jump. “Son of a bitch!”

He storms out of the kitchen and into the bedroom, emerging fully dressed in less than a minute. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what are you going to do?”

“Nothing,” he snaps. “I’m not going to do a fucking thing. It’s too fucking late to do a goddamn fucking thing!”

“Adam, I don’t understand.”

His fiery eyes lift to meet mine. “What would you have wanted to do if it had been your sister?” he asks.

My spine straightens at the chill running up to my neck. I’d lose my mind. I’d be ready to kill with my bare hands. The only difference is, Adam is probably capable of doing just that. “You can’t…”

“No, I fucking can’t,” he laughs bitterly. “So don’t worry about it.”

He brushes his lips across mine out of obligation, then disappears through my door. I am so not sleeping tonight. I finish eating the meal he made me, then write the first draft of my resignation letter.

I’m a zombie at the office the next day and eventually leave earlier than everyone else, a cardinal sin the in legal world, where billable hours are king. But fuck it. I’m useless and I don’t think that I’ll be here for long anyway.

I don’t see Adam that evening or the next three. Then he finally tumbles back into my arms for a quick fuck before he flies off to England with Shane to check on those kids.

Good. Focus on that. And please don’t kill anyone
.

Adam

Age 28

It’s official. I am going to kill Jordan Marlowe. Now I just need to figure out how.

It became an inevitability one unseasonably warm day in November. The private guard I’d hired to keep an eye out at Sabrina’s office noticed a suspicious character following her to lunch. That was the third time he’d been spotted in the building. My guy immediately detained and questioned him, confirming our suspicions that he worked for the man that got my sister killed and was now apparently watching Sabrina.

Shane calls me later that week. Someone broke into the former home of his sex toy or girlfriend or whatever the hell Zoey is to him. She’s still his captive, not a hostage. My brother is very specific about that. I personally think the poor girl has Stockholm syndrome, but I’m not exactly in a position to judge.

The biggest problem is, Marlowe is in jail. Which means he’s still pulling strings out on the street, along with being impossible to get to.

Not that we have a goddamn clue how to ‘get to’ someone because we’re fucking businessmen, not vigilantes. It’s a strange feeling not to possess the skills that I need to accomplish something, to be in over my head with nowhere to turn. We can’t call anyone, not that we even know who to call. That will only leave witnesses. Shane and I must bide our time and fumble through this one on our own.

Thankfully, Marlowe has more experience eliminating obstacles. The two thugs that rolled on him are assassinated, despite police protection. Their testimonies were essentially the only evidence that the prosecutors had and the case against him falls apart. Marlowe is out by Thanksgiving. I seriously doubt that he’s forgotten about us, though.

Like I didn’t hate the fucking holidays enough already.

Sabrina worked on Thanksgiving and I was quite thankful for that. She wanted to go eat turkey with her mother and sister. I detest turkey about as much as I hate family gatherings and we almost got into an argument over it. Bree was so upset that she had to work through the weekend that she finally turned in her resignation.

That could certainly complicate things between us. As it stands, we don’t see each other often enough to really fight, but we bicker often. And if we aren’t arguing over the most trivial of things, or flinging accusations at each other, there’s a sickening disconnection hovering over us.

It’s my fault. I’m physically beside her, but not very ‘present’ as she puts it. That sounds like therapy talk to me. She still sees a shrink and hinted that she’d like me to go with her. I don’t think so. I’d rather just keep being an asshole.

Honestly, she’s right. I show up at her door every night, but I don’t feel like I’m there. My mind is somewhere else entirely. The only time I forget about it all is when we fuck. I don’t think anything could distract me from that. It’s just enough to ease her worries for a good night’s sleep. But by the next time we see each other, she’s wondering where I really am.

Sabrina’s last day at work comes and goes. I take her out to dinner, but the only thing I can think about is the fact that protecting her just became infinitely more difficult and complicated. By a stroke of luck, a rival kingpin is hell bent on burning what’s left of Marlowe’s crumbling empire to the ground, seizing nearly all of the illegitimate streams of income that Shane and I could never hope to touch. That’s keeping him busy. For now. If only somebody would fucking kill him already.

“So what do you think?” Sabrina interrupts my thoughts. Shit. I wasn’t paying attention. “You didn’t hear a word that I said, did you Adam?”

I sigh in exasperation. I vaguely recall cringing when she said the word Christmas on the elevator ride up to her house. “I’m not ready for family holidays yet, Bree.”

Her mouth hardens into a straight line and she shakes her head. “Well, I have to go.”

“You don’t have to do anything.”

“I
want
to go. Sun is coming home.”

Sun. I haven’t heard anything about her in a while. I need to call Oliver to ensure that winter break is not affecting her protection. “You act like she lives out of state, Bree. Coming home involves an Uber or a train ride. You see each other all the time.”

“It’s actually been two months because I’ve been working so much.”

“Then go have Christmas with her and your mother. Why does that have to involve me?”

“Because we’re… I don’t know what we are,” she replies. Fuck. Not this again. “I guess we’re not at that stage yet where we spend the holidays with each other’s families.” She sniffles and I tell myself that she’s probably getting a cold.

“I don’t spend the holidays with anyone. It’s just another day.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Goddammit,” I snap. “Just fucking drop it already. I’m not going.”

Her bottom lip quivers and her eyes water. “Fine,” she whispers.

“Bree…”

“No, it’s fine.” She kicks off her shoes and heads into the bedroom.

This keeps happening. She runs away. I chase after her. We make up, just enough to stay together but not enough to bridge the growing distance between us. I’m losing her.

“Did you ever think that it might be extremely awkward for me to be around your family, Sabrina?” I say, standing in the doorway because I’m not sure that I’m welcome in her bed tonight.

“Why?”

“Because I stormed into your wedding and punched your father in the face. And then I beat your fiancé half to death, barely avoiding assault charges, I might add.”

“Adam, stop using that excuse. My father won’t be there and Mom still talks about how much she loved watching his nose bleed that day. And you’ve seen Sun a few dozen times since then when she was living with me.”

“Still…”

“Whatever. I’ll just pretend I’m fucking single.”

Son of a bitch. That is less than ideal. But I tell her, “Yeah. Just do that.”

Her mouth drops open and her eyes fall to the floor. I should be apologizing, but instead I’m just getting pissed off.

I hate these twinkling lights on every fucking tree, bush, and pole in the city. I can’t believe that I’ve made it this far in my life without kicking a bell ringer in the face. And the music. For fuck’s sake. Nobody knows what the hell figgy fucking pudding is, but that doesn’t stop them from singing about it. The entire world goes insane for a whole month. I don’t shop, I pay people to do that for me, and every goddamn year I have to explain that I don’t want to hear about fucking presents. Just send something that fits social convention. I don’t give a shit. I’ve purchased exactly three Christmas presents myself in my entire life. All of them were for Sabrina. This year will make four.

I should tell her the real reason that I won’t go. Shane and I have some semblance of an inadequate plan. All we need is a time when people will be too distracted with their own lives to notice an out of place man in a suit. Christmas seems like an ideal time to me.

Or perhaps I could tell the woman I love more than life itself why I hate the 25
th
of December. I told her an abridged version of the story more than a decade ago, but left out the date. Fucking Christmas is the time of year when self-absorbed assholes feel guilty and decide to do a good deed. Like call the police and child protective services on the drug addict neighbor down the hall for being a shitty mom to her two kids who were doing just fine on their own.

Who cares about every other day? Who gives a shit that there was never any food in the house every other fucking day of the year? We didn’t have a tree, didn’t get any presents. Such a goddamn tragedy.

I could say all of these things. She’d probably drop it. Sabrina would also feel bad for me or try to convince me that it’s too risky to do the one thing that I absolutely must do. We could have a big long talk and become closer to each other. And I wouldn’t mind getting laid tonight.

Instead I call her a selfish brat and walk out her door. She doesn’t call me and I don’t call her, initiating a standoff that will probably last a while. And ironically, I end up spending the pathetic holiday with my brothers, drunk off my ass.

********

I smile widely at our favorite doorman of Sabrina’s building. He thanks me profusely when I give him $500. A tip to remember.

“Happy New Year,” I say, shaking his hand.

“Happy New Year to you, Sir!”

I get in the elevator and take it to her floor. I only want the cameras to see me, not her. She’s home and I’d like nothing more than to knock on her door and beg her forgiveness, but I can’t. Not yet anyway.

Now for the hard part. I’m carrying a large department store bag. I need to get the oversized hooded sweatshirt inside it onto my body while staying out of view of the cameras. Shane’s given me a map and there’s a blind spot around the corner that’s about three square feet.

I walk past her door, my heart beating faster. If for some reason this footage is ever analyzed, I’ll need to come up with a reason why I didn’t knock, why I kept walking down the hallway and slipped out of view at the same time a man in a gray hooded sweatshirt appears out of nowhere and exits the building.

It’s the best we could come up with. There is no such thing as the perfect murder.

I never realized that I hate hooded sweatshirts before, probably because I never wear them. Of all the nights to lose one’s peripheral vision, this is probably the worst. As I glance around the train car, I notice several other similarly clad men, confirming my choice of criminal attire. My trousers are nice, but my shoes are scuffed and dull. People look at shoes.

It’s a long ride up to Marlowe’s stomping grounds. Thankfully, it’s not a horrible neighborhood, though it’s not a particularly good one either. He moved away from his territory the first chance he got and started commuting. With any luck, he’ll come back here tonight. If not…

Don’t think about that. Marlowe is supposed to be here, ringing in the New Year in the comfort of his own home with three prostitutes that he can barely afford. How Shane found this out, I don’t really want to know.

It’s 9:42. His apartment building is large and houses the type of tenant that parties a bit too much, but not enough to do a lot of damage. It’s perfect. Everyone is coming and going, there is at least one celebration on every floor and liquor flows freely. I’m just another hooded sweatshirt lingering in a stairwell, sitting on the concrete floor enjoying whatever high I’m riding.

9:58. Three pairs of heels clap up the stairs. A lot of girls have passed me by, but the three I’m waiting for are supposed to be here at ten and escorts typically arrive right on time. I glance up, noticing their lack of enthusiasm. Party goers are excited. They stop right in front of me and my heart starts thumping so hard I’m sure they can hear it. One of the girls fishes a prescription bottle from her purse and hands the others a round of whatever pills escorts need to get through the night. It’s definitely them.

I pull on a pair of leather gloves and stand up once they start walking, keeping about ten feet between us. One of them glances behind her and I bow my head, but her friend asks a question and I don’t think she gets a good look at me.

They knock on the door and don’t wait long for it to open. I have one chance to do this.
One
.

The gun is heavy in my hand as I retrieve it from breast pocket of my jacket and I quicken my pace. My hand is shaking as I stretch out my arm between the two of the girls in front of his door as they squeal out a greeting to their client.

Time slows, each breath I take echoing in my ears, each beat of my pounding heart causing my chest to constrict tighter and tighter. Marlowe’s eyes meet mine for a split second and my finger tightens on the trigger. I didn’t even get a chance to give him a smug smile. I probably looked more terrified than he was. There is no time for a grandiose speech about avenging Molly and protecting Sabrina. I doubt that he even had enough time to recognize me.

All I can do is pull the trigger and watch as his head essentially explodes, at least from my perspective. This I was not expecting. Clearly, we chose too powerful of a weapon. Something splatters across my eyes as his body crumples to the ground, but I don’t realize that it’s blood until I taste it on my tongue.

Obviously I can’t stop and apologize to the screaming, blood covered prostitutes beside me, but it’s my first thought. At least I used a silencer and didn’t damage their hearing, only their psyches. I remember to drop the gun before I get to the stairs, but there’s so much adrenaline pumping through my system that I can’t concentrate on anything else.

The escorts’ screams get farther away and mingle with the sounds of celebration as I emerge from the building, drawing in a painfully cold breath of air as my knees go weak.
Keep fucking walking
. There are sirens off in the distance, but I think they’re getting farther away, not closer. It takes a while for people to realize a woman screaming is cause for concern in places like this, especially on the last night of the year.

I pull a wet cloth from my coat and wipe my face. The moisture immediately freezes on my skin and I wince, but at least I don’t look like the blood splattered murderer that I am. I need to ditch this stupid hoodie.