No Simple Sacrifice Page 8

  “You have her calendar on your phone? When did she give you that?”

  “Who said she gave it to me?” He mumbled his question-answer, another trademarked Fletcher Ford-ism, without looking up. “She’s wide open for the next hour and a half. There’s no reason I should be going to her voicemail.”

  The revelation wasn’t surprising—but hearing him vocalize it was a jolt I hadn’t anticipated. Maybe I’d wanted to believe she was just too busy, as well. The deliberate radio silence was answered by chaos through my gut.

  I pushed back against the car, shooting a hard scowl across the garage. “Maybe we need to head back west once the meeting’s done.”

  “Let’s see how the rest of the day goes.” Fletcher’s shoulders slumped while he speared a hand through the hair that still needed cutting. “I want to be back in San Diego as badly as you, but I’ve had a ton of shit thrown my way at the office. Joel is an amazing director and the rest of the team is solid, but no one likes it when the boss is away.”

  “I hear you, man,” I muttered. “Getting the same side-eye bullshit in my backyard.”

  He swung out of the truck, shouldering his briefcase. I readjusted mine before we crossed the garage and bounded up the stairs to Stone Global Corporation’s massive glass lobby. We’d served on SGC’s board of directors for the past five years, since becoming close friends with Killian Stone in a water polo league at our club up the street. Since then, he’d brought us on as industry peers, made us endure the months he was ousted by his shithead brother then returned to the helm, only to move himself to California, opening the west coast arm of the company and living happily ever after with his soulmate.

  Fletch and I had razzed Kil without mercy for upending his life over a woman—only to receive our mighty payback in the miles we’d logged back and forth across the country for the very same reason. What was it about the women in Southern California? I had yet to put my finger on it but sure as hell understood that foggy look Kil got every time he was in Chi-town and had left Claire back in SoCal. This ache for Talia was the exact same kind of haze, clinging worse than summer humidity, though it felt like the sun didn’t quite make it through the clouds when we were apart.

  I didn’t want to continue living this way.

  With every day that passed, I was more and more sure of it.

  Something had to change. Fletcher and I would either have to follow Kil’s lead and make the same lifestyle leap, or somehow convince Talia to come to the Windy City. Fat fucking chance. Practically everyone in that platoon she called relatives was in San Diego. She was as close to them, if not closer, than I was to my family. But for that woman, I would do anything.

  Anything.

  The thought prompted a heavier daze as we rushed into the express lift for the penthouse. Fletcher pressed the sole button inside and the elevator sped us up to the boardroom.

  “Hope Old Man McGraw isn’t here today,” Fletcher groused during the ride. “Man’s a damn windbag.”

  “He’s wise.” I tried to be diplomatic.

  “He’s a fucking know-it-all who doesn’t get when to shut up.”

  “Now that’s eloquent.”

  “More like honest.”

  “Or a bout of PMS.”

  Instead of a comeback, he snickered. “There he is.”

  “He who?”

  “He you.” A quick glance revealed his twisted lips. He added a quick shrug. “There’ve been a few more boulders to your stony silence since we got out of the truck.”

  “Probably.” I didn’t push at his own weighted quietness, conveying so many things we didn’t need to say out loud. “Dammit, Talia,” I finally muttered. Nothing but a hard sigh from Fletch—again saying all that needed to be said. He was as wrapped up in her as I was. We were in a weird spot and I was getting fucking restless. As the elevator slowed, I spat, “Something has to give here, brother. I’m serious.”

  “I know.” Fletcher stopped in the middle of the hall, faking cordial smiles at a couple of assistants who walked past, then giggled. They were leggy and graceful in their nearly matching suits, the kind of bait we once would’ve chomped hard on. Now, it was an effort just to be polite with them. “But she’s holding all the cards,” he stated as soon as they were gone.

  “Hmmph.” Now I sounded like Old Man McGraw—and didn’t care. “We’ll see for how long.”

  Fletch jammed his hands into his pockets. Stabbed a foot at the carpet. “I’m so out of my element, man.”

  “Yeah.” I emulated his pose. “Me, too. I”—there was no other way to say it—“well, I haven’t been in love in a long time. Considering how this shit feels, possibly never.”

  “Hearing that.” He lifted one hand, again messing his hair, demonstrating how much he didn’t want it to be true.

  “But I can’t keep getting yanked around, you know? She’s going to have to play her hand, or get out of the game.”

  His fidgeting froze. His stare narrowed, turning just as icy. “An ultimatum, dude? Already?” But once the words were out, panic gripped every inch of his face.

  I flung back as good as I got—at least in the fury department. “How long do you want to keep doing this? I barely slept last night—again. I never want to eat. Screw working out. I can’t stay focused on my fucking business. So…yeah. Already.”

  He fell back against the wall, stabbing the other hand through his hair—though with telling silence. There was nothing more to argue and he knew it. And fuck, how I wished I didn’t. We were both used to running the show when it came to women—and right now, we weren’t. We were in a goddamn dinghy with one oar. Nothing but circles.

  “You really need a haircut.” Time to change the subject.

  “She said that, too.” Yup. Circles.

  “You told her you had an appointment.”

  “I do. Early tomorrow morning.”

  “Well, let’s go get this done and try to work out a plan.”

  “Deal.” We started walking toward the boardroom again but only got a few feet before an all-too-familiar voice yanked us up short from behind.

  “Well, there you two are.”

  Too familiar. And too unwelcome.

  She stepped between us, subtly swaying her hips to catch our attention. I noticed, but only in the way a dog notices a flea. I could only remotely care. The curvy blonde with the blouse opened nearly to her navel had a name, but my brain could only generate one word for her. Pathetic. I stood by, hoping Fletch would see to the bail-out duties.

  “Hey, Melissa.”

  Saved.

  I owed him. He cocked a brow, conveying that he knew it, too.

  “Fletcher.” She nodded coyly his way. Then, dammit, mine. “Drake, my dear. Well, didn’t I grab the brass ring, hmmm? I was so hoping I’d see you two when I heard there was a board meeting today.”

  “Really?” he countered, cold as ice. “Why so? Are you going to tell me I need a haircut, too?” The bastard finished with the grin that had melted panties from coast to coast—though the clench of his jaw behind it was discernible. Not that Melissa was up for noticing anything but the goods below his face.

  “Well, I just came back from my lunch break,” she explained, “and I spent it having a very—oh, how do I put this?—informative phone catch-up with Taylor Matthews, from the San Diego office. You know the sales girl I mean? Cute little southern thing?”

  She tilted her head to the side, much like a puppy begging for a throw of the tennis ball. That was better than a flea, I guessed—though her revelation was responsible for a new stab of surprise.

  “She’s Talia’s friend?” I looked past Melissa, seeking confirmation from Fletcher. He jerked a quick nod while she prattled on.

  “She certainly is…confirming my timing may be quite fortunate for us all.”

  “I’m not following.” That wasn’t a lie. Nor was my impatient undertone. Her tap dance made me as antsy as Fletch. Normally, picking up women—or even letting them pick us up—was a
flawless effort, a routine he and I had down cold. We’d barely had to work at it anymore—which, if I were being brutally honest, had begun to feel like a stale party game.

  Nothing about Talia Perizkova was a game.

  All I had to do was glance again at Fletcher to know he was completely on-board with the feeling—making this woman’s cat-and-mouse just one big ball of irksome.

  “I’m with Mr. Newland.” The surname wasn’t a glitch—nor was Fletch’s sudden attack of formality. “I’m not following, either.” He looked at his phone for the time instead of the Tag on his wrist, using the excuse to check for return calls or texts from Talia. “And I’m afraid we don’t have time for deciphering games at the moment, Melissa. They’re expecting us inside, so what exactly can we help you with?”

  Before he was finished, I knew the authoritative tone would only fuel the woman’s rockets. “How exact do you want me to get?” she purred, sliding a hand down his tie. “You mean like wondering how this pattern would look imprinted on my wrists tomorrow morning?”

  Hell.

  I checked my own phone now, glancing at him with one message only. Better you than me, man.

  Inside two seconds, he’d stepped back from her—as if just touching her to push her away was too much to ask. “Find the brake pedal, please. We’re going to spare you the discomfort while we can. We’re in a relationship with someone and it’s pretty serious.”

  She assessed him with saucy swagger. “Well, that’s not what I just heard.”

  Screw the swagger. She was outright triumphant, a conquering princess with a secret and damn proud of it.

  Fletcher and I responded with numb stares.

  What the hell?

  He recovered before me—probably a very good thing. Fletcher, though more gregarious than me, had a temper that always ran a lighter shade than mine—and his patience for petty girl talk much deeper. “Okay, I’ll bite,” he practically drawled. “What exactly did you hear?”

  She inhaled dramatically. I was shocked a Georgina-of-the-jungle chest thump didn’t follow. “Well. Taylor told me, that Talia told her that you guys aren’t together at all. She said it was just a fling. One night in Vegas, and that was it.”

  “‘She said,’” I bit out the reiteration, back teeth grinding. I sucked to royal proportions at female code. “So…Taylor said that or Talia said that?”

  “Talia told it to Taylor. Then Taylor just told me. Just now. On the phone. On my lunch—”

  “We understand.” Though Fletch cut her off like a Mack truck to a deer, it was still better him than me. Personally, I wanted to pop the woman’s head off, just like I’d mutilated my sister Lizzy’s Barbies when we were kids. I was barely keeping my cool, but refused to make this innocent pay the price for my rising wrath at Talia. Innocent being relative, of course.

  Fletch, picking up on my tension like the true buddy he was, clapped a hand to my shoulder. “Listen, Melissa…there’s definitely a misunderstanding here.”

  “Anything I can help…clear up?” She flipped her head, one-two, executing a perfect toss-toss of the blonde mane, before parking her hands on her lush hips. Amazement blended into my agitation. As recently as six months ago, those hips would’ve inspired a thousand erotic scenes in my head. Now…nada.

  “No,” Fletcher emphasized. “We’re good. Really. No offense. We’re just not interested in anything right now.”

  “Right now?” Another toss-toss. A contemplative pout. “So, I’ll just pencil you into my calendar for next time, then.”

  “No.” He rolled the word in glass. “Not next time, either.” When the woman appeared to comprehend that as clearly as a quantum physics equation, he took another step backward. “We’re…we’re going to just head on in to our meeting. You take care of yourself.”

  He shifted by another step—clearly the one who was thinking around here. My statue status was sealed by pure shock. The woman had gumption—or something—actually pulling out a business card while Fletcher was basically telling her to fuck off…after he’d told her we were off the damn market.

  “Well,” she murmured, “if you change your minds…or just get a little lonely while you’re here and she’s there…”

  Fletcher, jamming his hands back into his pockets to avoid accepting the card, flashed his fakest-of-the-fake smirks. “No, thanks. We don’t have time to be lonely.” Another fat lie—we’d both been pining for Talia like a pair of Edwards for our Bella.

  “Well, I’m not looking for anything other than a good time, if you catch what I’m saying.”

  Fletcher finally, reluctantly, took the card. Shoved it into his pocket while staring only at me. “I think we’re done here, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  It was still all I could manage. Disbelief and irritation were quickly escalating into bewilderment and fury. What the fuck was happening—and how had we not seen it coming before we left? Had we been blinded by our own wants and wills instead of paying attention to tells from Talia to the contrary? Had we missed all the signs from her, even when we were wrapped in one another’s arms, blurting I love yous, feeling so fucking right? How had we not anticipated this, with a tart-on-high from the SGC office filling us in on direct quotes from the woman we’d just spilled our guts for, now telling us there was no us.

  After we made our way around the curve in the hall, past Melissa’s still-undressing-you-both gaze, Fletcher stopped short. Seized my shoulder to make me do the same.

  “What the hell is going on?” he grumbled. The question was practically rhetorical. He knew I had no more of an answer than he did. After savoring the commiseration for another few seconds, I drew air in through my nose, underlining the sobriety of my reply.

  “Good thing I didn’t stow the rope far.”

  Another familiar voice punched down the hallway—infinitely more welcome than the last.

  “Well, well, well. Look what the cat’s dragged in.”

  I joined Fletcher to raise a smirk at Killian Stone’s unmistakable baritone. I watched as he and Fletcher locked hands then leaned in for a gruff hug. “Hey, pretty boy.”

  “Talking to the mirror again, bastard?” Kil rejoined. “My, my. Check out those golden locks. Braid some flowers in and you’ll make a fine spring window display down at Macy’s.”

  “Fuck you.”

  When I didn’t echo or add to that, Killian jerked his chin in my direction, curiosity narrowing his eyes. “What the fuck happened to you?”

  I grunted. “That’s how you say hello when you’re the king of the world?”

  “Something to look forward to,” Fletcher teased, while I stepped over to shake Kil’s hand. Trouble was, he didn’t let me have it back. Kept me held in the grip while peeling off a stare of gooey concern.

  “What?” I finally snapped.

  The gooey vanished. His dark brows shot up. “We’ve known each other for a very long time, Newland,” he responded. “And right now, you look like a PTSD flashback got the better of you.” Still no let-up with the grip. “Seriously, you okay?”

  “Fine.”

  I jerked my hand away.

  He winced—before punching a code into the security panel outside a darkened, empty office. Before the lights even activated inside, he ducked his head toward the space, a silent order for me to move.

  “I said I’m fine.”

  “Get your ass in here, Drake.”

  Gritting profanities I usually saved for get-togethers with guys from the Corps, I let the big jerk have his way. Only this time—and only because they couldn’t start things in the next room without him.

  Whoever the office belonged to was apparently out of luck too. Once the three of us were inside, Kil punched his override code on the door again. They were as locked out as we were barricaded in.

  “Okay,” he directed, turning back with crossed arms. “Spill.”

  I fought the urge—a pretty damn strong one—to flatten his pretty head against the wall behind him. As a result,
my demeanor clicked into its default of stony control. “You know, you’re really letting the king shit go to your head.”

  Fletcher canted his head. His hair flopped into his eyes while he glared back at me. “He’s the king because he cares, man.”

  “I’m going to drop the next bastard who calls me king.” Kil’s jaw jutted, again right at me. “And you, asshole—I’m just trying to be your friend right now.”

  The indictment was harsh—but edged with hurt. I nodded slowly, knowing he was right. Like a twelve-year-old, I was letting emotions stab at my own override panel. With a deep, full breath, I worked at untangling those circuits once more.

  “That woman you saw us talking to down the hall…”

  “The blonde stripping you both with her eyes?” To his credit, Kil spoke it as truth and not a taunt.

  Fletcher huffed. “That’d be the one.”

  “Yeah, well.” I paced across the room. Swung out a chair from the small table then straddled it backwards. “She said some stuff that’s not sitting well with me.”

  “Explain.”

  I pushed out a harder breath. Kil scowled, recognizing when I dug in my figurative heels—knowing me well enough to also see that his ire didn’t mean a rat’s ass. I didn’t need more perspective on this matter. I was already confused enough.

  But Fletcher was also in the room.

  Fletcher, the professional shrinks’ couch surfer, who felt like anytime was a good time to share.

  Shit.

  “Her name’s Melissa,” he filled in for Kil. “Apparently, she’s good friends with someone named Taylor, from your San Diego sales division. This Taylor is also tight with Talia.”

  “And my sister and wife, as well.”

  Fletch and I gaped at him. Then at each other.

  Killian continued, “Before you ask, I am damn certain. Margaux’s relayed tales of a few escapades she and Taylor enjoyed before Michael settled her ass down. Claire was pulled into the bunch by osmosis, though she and Taylor have forged closer ties since the pregnancy started. Taylor’s a decent woman—heart of gold. She comes to the house all the time to bring Claire cookies. And pickles.”