NEFARIOUS: B723 SERIES BOOK THREE, page 36
“You wanna take a coffee break?”
“Nah. I’ve had three cups already.”
Hence the crazy, owl-looked expression on her face.
“Can I do something to help?” Not sure why I asked. I couldn’t sew a fucking hemline to save my ass. But I need something to do or leave.
And I don’t want to do the latter just yet. I know I’m getting too comfortable here with her. That this whole playing house shit isn’t going to last long because our existing in the same space together isn’t a hard thing to, yet it’s not the end game.
I’m not her end game.
She’s not mine.
All of this is us being thrown together and my making a grown-up decision to either slay half her fam or let them be.
“You can get out of the way,” she replies with a pretty smile then, looking hella cute and committed to getting her shit done.
I oblige her because, well, she’s fucking adorable and busy and strides past me to get back to whatever it is she has to do.
Then her hands find my lower back, and she pushes me down the hall a bit.
“You can’t look until I’m done,” she orders seriously. “Go back to sleep.” I turn my head to glimpse over at her, but a hand pushes my cheek to look straight ahead. “No peeking.”
“You’re a tease, Rus,” I complain when I’m halfway down the hallway, and she steps back.
“Go complain about it in the other room. Byeee.”
I hear her pad away, and I go to grab my cell somewhere on the sectional, finding a few messages that I can’t answer at this hour.
EMMY: I’m just checking in to make sure you’re good. I haven’t heard from you in a few days.
EMMY: No rush, just let me know if you need anything.
MARTY: When do I get to move in on the French bitch?
BLUE: Everything is good at your mom’s. I checked in before heading back. Call me if you need me to smack a bitch.
Rolling my eyes at all of them because Emmy is anxious as shit, Marty is impatient as fuck, and Blue is a helpful asshole, I power on the large flatscreen and watch sports replays of yesterday’s games.
The more I sit, the more the realization of how much I need to go home permeates. I shouldn’t be in some strange ass penthouse with a girl that was part of why I’m even in this headspace.
You like her. Admit it. The chick is fine as fuck, and you want all up in that.
Pulling back up my phone, I text the only dude that’ll call me out on my shit and give it to me calmly and straight.
MILLS: I don’t even know why I’m here.
I only have to wait two minutes to get the response back that I needed.
KYSON: Who’s to say you need to know?
MILLS: This is the girl who raped me twice, dude.
KYSON: You told me she had shit hanging over her head.
MILLS: She did. Hence my statement above. I’m done with her. Need to move on to the other three bitches.
KYSON: You’re not Marty or Bishop. You’re Mills.
KYSON: And stop comparing yourself to them. You’re not an unreasonable guy. The three other bitches aren’t going anywhere. We wait until you’re ready.
MILLS: She doesn’t want me to kill them.
KYSON: Do you?
Question of the year for me.
MILLS: I’ll head out to Pittsburgh tomorrow, and we’ll talk it out.
KYSON: No need, I’m here in NYC. I didn’t leave. Meet me for lunch tomorrow; we’ll figure it all out.
KYSON: And if you like the girl, don’t fucking worry about it. She was just as much a victim as you.
MILLS: I don’t want to like her.
KYSON: Now you sound like Bishop and Marty.
KYSON: You don’t want a woman who is independent and beautiful?
MILLS: No, I don’t want a girl that I put half her family behind bars. Can we say awkward as fuck holidays?
KYSON: From the looks of what I saw, she wasn’t a huge fan of the skinny sister. I think she wants justice more than you do. She just can’t handle the guilt of putting them there.
MILLS: I shouldn’t care. This is for me.
KYSON: But for some reason, you do. And that reason doesn’t need to be planned out or dissected right now.
KYSON: You don’t want to break this girl.
MILLS: She doesn’t belong with my kind of fucked up. And we’re all fucked up.
KYSON: Mhm, I think you just like the adrenaline. And you’re kind of a cocky son of a bitch.
MILLS: You’re getting off-topic here.
KYSON: I’m right on the mark. You’re afraid to leave B723 because you don’t want someone to take your spot and life.
MILLS: Who said anything about quitting B723? No one could make me do that.
KYSON: Make or create?
MILLS: Speak English.
KYSON: Don’t underestimate her, brother. You’re overthinking it because you give a shit about her. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have woken me up at two in the morning.
MILLS: My bad, go to bed.
KYSON: You with her?
MILLS: Something like that. I’m on the couch, and this is sounding too girl talky to me right now. If you ask me if she likes me next, I’m blocking your number.
KYSON: She does like you. She hasn’t kicked you out yet or gotten a restraining order.
MILLS: I buy her food.
KYSON: And go to Maryland.
MILLS: I hate New York.
KYSON: But you like Amirah. Grow a pair and admit it to yourself. Shit will get easier on that front.
MILLS: Eh.
“I’m done!” Amirah beams, pausing my following message to Ky and craning my head over to find her tightly clutching her hands and bouncing on the balls of her toes in front of me. Exhaustion coats her features, but the excitement in her tone makes the smile on her face illuminate what Kyson said to me over and over again.
She does like you. She hasn’t kicked you out yet or gotten a restraining order.
“That’s great, Rus,” I praise, rising from the couch, shoving back hard on her actually having feelings for me. “I’m proud of you.”
“Do you wanna see it?”
I nod, my chest tightening that she wants to share something so important to her. That sounds like liking to me. Or tolerable. “Absolutely.”
She spins on her heels, and I can’t help but glance down at her ass in her black leggings as she guides me to the extra bedroom.
Inside stands her dress on a mannequin. The gown has a halter neckline with a thin thread of barely noticeable material going around the neck. The underneath is a light nude with the lightest of blue fabric lapping over it, hugging at the waistline and giving it the illusion it's see-through.
On both sides are sown in flowers and stems of cream, making their way from the curve of the neckline all the way to the very bottom, where they are more heavily bunched up.
“This is amazing.” I circle the dress to find the lack of a back and drop dangerously low to give it that sexy, tempting look.
Amirah is exceptionally talented, and her love for her art definitely shines through.
“Thank you. So…do you think I got a shot?”
Let’s rewind here.
I, Rhett Mills, was a victim of the Van Doren family—we know the story.
My strategy of revenge changed.
It changed a lot.
Amirah is taken care of, compensated back to her old life, apologized, and proved to me that she’s sorry for what happened. Misunderstanding and all that.
So, how the fuck does she get sexier and sexier every damn day?
Why the hell am I here?
How does this stunning woman still hold a humbleness to her and not one rich prick around here pick her up, keep her, and marry the shit out of her?
Beats the hell out of me too.
“I know you gotta pretty good shot,” I emit. “You’re talented as fuck.”
She sighs like my words of encouragement set her at ease. My basic-ass opinion matters. Like we’re old friends. “Good. I’m going to look it over again and make sure—“
“Uh uh—“ I point to her room. “—bedtime, Sleeping Beauty.”
Her brows furrow, clearly not understanding that for her to turn this sucker in tomorrow—today—she’s gonna need to know how to walk and talk. “But I have to double-check—“
“It’s three in the morning.” I walk around her gown, thinking it’s going to scoot her out faster, but she remains where she is. “You have to wake up in five hours.”
She tsk, wrinkling her nose like a little brat. “You’re not my boss.”
And she sounds like one too.
“I’ll be whatever I want to be.” I reach out to cup her elbows and guide her to bed. “And you’re not gonna give me shit about it.”
I spin her around and give her a tiny push towards her room. When she drags her feet a little on the hardwoods, I lightly slap her ass to get her to move.
*shrug*
Once Amirah is in her room, she doesn’t bother to fight anymore. The power of a soft and comfortable bed makes anyone who’s drained fall to its powers. The little fashion designer is no match because she doesn’t even concern herself with pulling the covers down but instead plopping down like a dead horse.
Coming up to the side, I draw the plush blanket back from underneath her weight and tuck her in. It’s when I pivot to go back to the front room that her hand snaps out to seize my wrist.
“Where are you going?”
“To bed.”
She weakly pulls me forward. “This bed?”
This woman must believe I’m a saint deep down, which only proves how meek she is.
“No, Rus, I’m going to sleep on the couch. I’ll wake you up in the morning.”
“Sleep here with me.” I open my mouth to refuse the offer when she adds in, “I sleep better when you’re with me.”
Kyson was right.
I’m not like Bishop and Marty.
They would’ve told her too fucking bad and probably wretched their hand free already. Shit, they wouldn’t even be here, and all three women would be dead by now. They’d be home drinking a beer, spending time with the rest of the squad, and shoving this whole ordeal behind them.
I’m an idiot.
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” She drops my hand like it’s on fire. “I’m sorry—“
“Alright, Rus,” I divulge softly because I’m not going to say no; who the fuck am I? This girl has my feelings all twisted in knots. My plans all bent and skewed. I care when I shouldn’t, I’m fighting it, but to no avail.
I can’t not think about her.
So, keeping all my clothes on, I get on the other side of the bed and crawl in. Amirah has already flipped to her side to face me, holding up the white blanket for me to delve underneath.
“Good night, Mills,” she says sleepily. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
She snuggles closer to my body but is careful not to press herself too close. More than likely still afraid it’ll cause me to freak out.
It does the exact opposite.
I’m on fire with wanting to touch her.
My body burns to react, act, fucking be me again. I haven’t found a woman this attractive in forever, and she’s off-limits. I can’t kill her sisters and live happily ever after.
“For giving a shit,” she professes. “For hanging out with me tonight and making sure I ate. For being something I didn’t think—“ She yawns then sighs. ”—I needed.”
“A friend?”
“An everything.”
The fuck?
I’m nothing but a tormentor to this entitled, but not, little rebel of a Van Doren daughter.
“Don’t put me up that pedestal so high, Rus. It’s a long way down.”
“I won’t push you. I’ll never hurt you again.” The empathy in her voice, the soft tenderness that she has no idea she’s emitting, it’s all her.
Pure Amirah Van Doren.
“Who says I won’t hurt you?” I look up but am only greeted by blackness. There’s no crystal ball to tell me the right or wrong answer for this decision with her family.
“Will you?”
I shake my head because I couldn’t now, even if I wanted them all to perish and become a distant nightmare. “I’m going to try not to. But I can’t live like this. I can’t forget.”
“I understand.”
I stretch my jaw, wanting to ask her something but anxious with the answer. “Would you hate me, Rus?” Silence answers me, and my brain tries to convince me that she may have fallen asleep.
Does it really matter?
I know how this ends. I’m aware that I can be married and happy one day as my family, but not with these mistakes.
And not with the casualties I’m going to cause.
“I don’t know.” I barely hear her words, but she continues on with, “My family is already torn apart by lies and evil. I just don’t want it to destroy my father.”
“Would it destroy you?”
“I want you to be able to live in peace.” I turn my head to look at her but can only make out the outline of her frame.
She’s anxious about me.
It sends a cheerless emotion in me. She always thinks of herself last, I guess. She saved her brother, having to assault me, not that one selfless action counters a negative.
Amirah is the youngest and most thrown away. Her mother could give a shit about her. Her sisters are envious, and her father doesn’t seem to know what to do. God bless the idiot.
I wonder if anyone besides Laurent has really put her before themselves. If she doesn’t see that, she’s worth it.
“I kill people for a living,” I voice and, for once in my life, I wish I never had to say that.
Because if I didn’t, this wouldn’t be so hard.
“For fun?”
I could almost scoff out because the naivety in her tone is mindless. “No.”
I hear her pillow rustle as she looks up at me, and it's then that I really want to see her face. Sometimes I can read it more than her actions.
“Are you telling me that a killer is lying in my bed?”
“Yeah.”
She's silent for a moment, whether out of shock or thinking of the right thing to say before coming up with, “What do you kill them for?”
“Would you believe me if I told you to save the country you’re living in right now?”
“You haven’t lied to me yet…I don’t think.” My lips curl, but I don’t chuckle. I just like how she’s not normal by first reacting to kick me out of bed or scream at the top of her lungs.
“You can just thank me that we haven’t been nuked yet.”
I expect her to speak, not act or move.
Amirah pushes herself up before swinging her leg over to straddle me. I flinch, but she doesn’t notice, leaning over and placing her palms above my shoulder.
Her weight on me erects my breathing to strain. I hate that my body isn’t over this yet. That it remembers while my brain tries to forget.
Amirah’s gentle lips claim mine, and it’s not until she’s on her third brush against my mouth that I begin to relax. I coax hers wider, needing something else, something more. My tongue slides in to taste her sweet syrup from the blueberry pancakes that she wanted earlier.
Breakfast for dinner, a woman after my own damn heart.
A sweet and needy moan leaves Amirah’s throat, and my cock strains against the zipper of my jeans. Wrapping one arm around her back, I palm my free hand to the side of her face. She meets my dance of kisses lapse by lick, battling with me and not against me.
She begins to move against me, looking for friction and a release that she’s attempting to get from me. I mindlessly thrust my hips up, and Amirah gasps which causes me to grasp onto a small piece of rationality and pull back.
“Amirah,” I groan, needing some space and a reality check.
“Is this alright?” She moves to try and get more weight off me, which is barely any at all. “We’re not there. I promise won’t hurt you.”
This sweet and unknowing woman.
“I know, it’s just that—“ Amirah attempts to roll off me, not allowing me to finish my sentence, but I hold tightly to her instead.
“It’s me being on top,” she offers then. “I forgot—I’m so sorry, Mills.”
“I like where you are.” I brush the creaminess of her cheek. “I‘m just not looking to put any regrets in your life. I never told you what I wasn’t and was going to do with your mother and sisters. And you’re tired. You’re the only woman I know that does crazy shit when she’s exhausted.”
Rolling to my side, I take Amirah with me. Gently placing her head on her pillow before trailing my lips to her cheek then the tip of her nose.
She needs sleep, and either her body is fighting it, or Kyson is a damn mind reader.
When the comforter is back over her frame, she reaches for my hand and laces our fingers together.
