Chapter 17
My eyes snap open, and my chest tightens as I spring up in bed. I can feel my damp shirt clinging to me as I gasp, struggling for a breath while dabbing at the wetness beading on my brow.
A nightmare about Lonnie, and it's happened while I'm in Brexton's bed. Surprising, really. I've been sleeping at his place for almost two weeks now.
At first, I wasn’t going to. After coming back with him the first night and spending the rest of that weekend together, I’d mentally prepared to resume sleeping at my house again.
But Grant—he feels too good to leave. I loathe not being with him at night and feeling his weight and warmth next to me.
Plus, his speech about indulging in the high moment of life—our honeymoon phase, if you will, resonated deeply with me. I can’t recall the last time I lost myself in something that I wanted. I’ve given in completely, and the bonus is, I’ve been enjoying peaceful sleep with no problems every single night.
No Lonnie, no Mom or Pat. Nothing.
Until today.
Somehow, my past has found me here. I rub at my face, and most of the dream becomes blurry. All I’m able to remember clearly is the ending.
Me, running down a never-ending hallway, Lonnie's footsteps echoing in rhythm with my pounding heart while he remained out of sight. He repeated two phrases.
“Bad doll. Bad little Vivian.”
Looking over my shoulder, I'm worried the abrupt wake up has been noticed. However, Grant isn't here. His side of the bed is empty, lacking all the warmth and security I've become so familiarized with. Every part of his presence that keeps the dark memories shut out. That’s why I had the dream. If Grant were here, it wouldn't have happened.
I climb out of bed with a stretch to go find him, knowing there’s no way I’ll be falling back asleep now.
Noise filters from the living room, and I notice the time. It's six a.m. on a Monday morning. I’ll need to leave and get ready soon.
Coffee, though. I need that before anything.
I step out and enjoy the open penthouse. It never fails to take my breath away with its nearly 360-degree views of the city. Grant’s personal style also isn't lacking. The place is impeccably arranged with tasteful décor and sleek couches with matching chairs, a gigantic built-in TV, and…
Shit.
The ad my mom put out is on the stadium-sized screen with Grant standing right in front of it. And frankly, I haven’t been thinking about them at all.
Grant— At least he’s a decent distraction.
He’s already dressed for the day, minus his vest and suit jacket. He stands with his back to me, hands shoved in his pockets. If he hears me or feels my presence, I don’t know it, as he continues to stare at the screen.
I swallow past the lump in my throat as my eyes trail back to the commercial and hope for the best. I zone in on my mom’s face on the screen, their words not even registering with the blood rushing to my head. Maybe he’ll change the channel. Please let him change the channel.
He doesn’t.
Rather, his head tilts, and I know that gesture. It's caught his attention.
Which means if I’m still trailing along this path of forgetting with him, then I’m going to have to force it to uncatch his attention.
I sneak behind him and wrap my arms around his waist, resting my head on his shoulder blade. Pressing my palms into his flat stomach, I smooth them up and down the course of his hard torso, feeling his pecs twitch before my fingers trail back down, farther until I reach his corded thighs. I dig my nails into his thick, muscled flesh, and my stomach clenches when he groans. His reactions to my touch never get old.
“Good morning,” I say in my best come-hither voice.
“Morning.” The deep rumble is all sex, and I know he's thinking about it, yet his gaze never leaves the TV. Instead, as the ad ends, he shakes his head and sighs. “That's sad, isn't it?”
The plan I thought was so perfect combusts around me. Looks like I’ll have to address the issue after all, which is something I’m still not prepared to do. I should have stayed in bed.
“What? Are missing children a passion of yours now?” I say with an unintended bite, tossing his words from weeks ago back at him. Pressing my breasts into his back before letting him go, I turn away from him quickly and move toward the exposed kitchen.
“No.” He follows after me, not giving me nearly enough time to gather my racing thoughts. “You have to admit, it's odd. The girl looks young, so how could she leave on her own? The parents don't make it sound any other way, though.”
“Who knows.” I try to compose my unsteady breath and keep my back to him. “Besides, people go missing all the time.”
“Seems a heartless answer coming from you. Don’t you feel bad for the parents? They look devastated.”
My throat dries up and my hands go clammy as the truth climbs up my throat, fighting to finally come out. “Maybe…”
Grant pauses and tilts his head. “Maybe what?”
Hell … I pinch the bridge of my nose. I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I blame the bad dream I had this morning. Part of the past wants to come out.
A breath later, I let a piece of my armor fall to the floor. “Maybe I’m privy to something about the situation and know that those people are getting what they deserve.”
Understanding flashes across his face. I see it in the way his eyes widen a margin. A second later, he stiffly nods, straightening his tie. “Fair enough. I don’t have much room to talk shit considering I’m the last person to hand out forgiveness. I do like my dad, and wouldn’t wish that on him, but I’ll accept that you know what’s best.” He flicks off the TV like nothing happened and checks his phone.
Easier than I thought … all of it. From sleeping with him to telling him tidbits about my messed-up life. Every time I allow myself to open up to him, in any way, I only feel acceptance.
With a small smile on my face, I go to the sink, filling up the coffeepot to ready a few cups, thinking about the information he gave me about his dad.
“You really have a good relationship with your dad?”
“I do,” he says, following after me. “Is that surprising to you?”
“A little.” After shutting off the water, I pour it in the coffeemaker and throw in a filter and grounds. “You strike me as the last person to think about being obedient to your parents.”
The fresh application of citrus shaving balm alerts me that he’s stepped up close. “Why?”
Flipping the lid closed and pressing the start button, I turn around, hoping my answer comes out soft and not at all offensive. “Saying you’ll gouge people’s eyes out with your fingernails and threatening to nail their mouth to the wall might have something to do with it.”