8. Darius

Chapter eight

Darius

I t’s just another normal day here at work. Here, meaning, my office at the house. And the work part is me chewing out my brother’s ass for making a monumental mistake with one of our international clients when I told him to go easy. Side note…that just sounded wrong. I just finished a phone call where I patiently corrected him on his behavior because instead of listening to me, he went into the deal extremely aggressively and scared them off. I had to spend half of the night, because of the time difference, trying to convince them to reconsider. I think I worked my magic, though, because I understand what it’s like to not want to be in the spotlight, to want to be more lowkey and not have some asshole crawling down my throat all the time.

Bradford. He’s the face of the show. No one knows it’s really me behind the scenes who is getting things done—correcting mistakes, putting in the hours, making the calls, answering the emails. Alright, so some people do know because it’s me they deal with. I’m talking about the better half of our clients and the general public.

I put my phone down and lean back in the chair, and then I immediately start going through a cycle of exercises for my arm. At first, I hated doing them, but then I worked them into every aspect of my day, and now it’s second nature. Half the time, I’m swinging it around like a flipping madman, and I don’t even realize I’m doing it.

Hans lowers his book. I’m intrigued by the cover, namely the growly, surly-looking, dark-haired male model holding a scantily clad blonde woman in his arms. She looks like she’s been keeping all his secrets, but she doesn’t really mind because they’re dirty and naughty, and she likes those kinds of things.

I cock a brow. “Are you reading smut romance?”

“Why smut?” He turns the book and surveys the cover. “Ah, I see. I don’t know that it’s smut. More just dark stuff.”

“Dark? Like what?” My grandmother was a great lover of romance books, but I can’t say I’ve indulged in many in my time. A not-so-nice voice in my head chimes to the tune of look where it got her. Or, more accurately, look where it got you. Honestly, it’s been over a week now, and I can’t say I feel as snarky about the whole thing as that voice implied.

Actually, I don’t feel very snarky at all. I’ve been losing sleep, sure, but it doesn’t have to do with disliking Everleigh. It’s more like being haunted by the ghost of the wife I can’t have because she’s beautiful and lighthearted and nice. She’s also alluring, attractive, and spirited, but she’s not really my wife, and I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate the advances. It’s an easy equation. Advances equal fucking up the peace we’ve carved out between us.

Hans leans back in his chair. He has the footstool popped out because it’s a recliner. Taking a deep breath, he crosses his arms over his head and shuts his eyes, laying the book across his lap so the spine flexes. “This girl gets sold by her dad to this guy who is a real asshole because her dad’s also a real asshole. Lots of assholes in the beginning. At first, she’s terrified, but then the guy who is all hard and scary becomes not so hard and scary, and they have lots of dark, kinky sex, and they find out they like each other, which leads to more dark and kinky sex. Then, they find out they’re in love, and all the while, the guy is trying to destroy her father, and someone else is trying to kill them, and her father is still plotting.”

“Oh wow. All of that, and you’re only halfway done?”

He glances down, and I swear it’s to hide a blush. Hans blushing? It’s quite a sight to behold. “I’ve read it once before.”

“Only once?”

He picks it up and snaps it shut. “Alright, so a few times. It’s a favorite. Whatever.”

“It’s perfectly fine to like what you like. No worries on my account,” I tell him with a chuckle.

He snorts. “You’re not being serious. Sarcasm suits you, you bastard.”

“No, really. This is coming from a man whose shirts you have to button and whom you have to shave every morning and sometimes in the evenings. I find nothing wrong with enjoying a good book, whatever the subject matter might be. Just because you look like a brute doesn’t mean you can’t be all soft inside. I know you’re smart. The rest of the world might think you’re a big oaf, but I know you. You’re a physicist, for Christ’s sake.”

“Hmm.” He doesn’t look so cross now.

“Hmm,” I echo. It’s the universal male speak for ending a conversation, I guess.

I pick up my phone and flip open my laptop to resume working on the real estate deal my brother fudged, but a sudden loud bang from upstairs interrupts me.

“What the hell was that?”

Hans shoots out of the chair, immediately on guard. The book is still in his hands, so as he strikes a fighting stance, it’s kind of a funny picture, and my first instinct is to laugh, even though the house might be under attack.

Just then, there’s another bang, followed by the loudest, angriest death metal music I’ve ever heard. It’s muted because it’s coming from upstairs, but the banging isn’t muted at all. It goes on and on, and I realize what it must be. Stomping. Or jumping. I slowly look up. I’m not sure what’s worse. The thumping on the ceiling that makes the light fixtures in my office shake or the not-so-quiet lull of death metal continuing to infiltrate the room. Another thump actually makes dust particles fall onto my desk.

“Are you going to go up and join the dance party?” Hans asks, ever the cheeky bastard.

“No,” I reply.

“Sounds like she’s having fun. You might have fun too. It can be contagious.” What did he just say about sarcasm? He wears it much better than I do.

“Anyone would think you’re on her side.”

“There are no sides.”

My head snaps back from the ceiling, and I study him. He’s doing the perfectly impassive crap he’s so good at. “And here I thought you were going to pull the stunt where you don’t speak English.”

That earns me a swift grin. “No English,” he says in German before following that up by repeating it in at least ten other languages.

I sigh. Right as more dust falls from the ceiling.

“You had better go check on her before the whole house comes down,” Hans advises. One eyebrow rockets up to his non-existent hairline. “Are you sure it isn’t a T-Rex up there?”

“Not that I know of.” Not just because they’re extinct or anything.

“Let me know if you need the tranq gun,” Hans casually says as if it’s no big deal.

“Why the hell do we have a tranq gun? Please tell me we don’t have one of those.”

He shrugs. “You never know. What if it's really a T-Rex rocking out to death metal.”

I get up, rubbing at my shoulder. It doesn’t hurt, but it is stiff as fuck today. I must have slept on it wrong, which I’ve pretty much trained myself not to do, but sometimes, I wake up on my right side, cursing life and not being able to use my arm for the rest of the day.

I exit my office and take the stairs two at a time. The death metal gets louder and more ominous the closer I get. Everleigh’s bedroom door is open a crack, and I knock, but the leaping and banging and death metal keeps raging from the inside, drowning out my knocks. I push the door open and stare at the vision in front of me. It’s more than a dance party.

She’s doing what I can only call rocking out, and by that, I mean seriously getting into it. She’s screaming and growling out scary things right along to the song. She’s head banging, her hair flying all over the place, roaring with the music, and doing all manner of lunges and squats and hand gestures in time to the music. It would be cute if that dude weren’t going on and on about bleeding eyeballs, forked tongues, and gore, gore, and more gore.

“I like it,” Hans suddenly says, and I nearly jump out of my skin. He’s standing right beside me, and I didn’t even realize it. I wasn’t aware he’d followed me up. “I like it a lot.”

“For the love of death metal, go downstairs. I can deal with this,” I tell him.

Instead of following my instructions, Hans points out the tablet propped up on the dresser in front of Everleigh. The screen is on, and there are people on the other end. She’s video chatting. Or, I guess, video moshing.

“Don’t get your heart torn out, boss,” Hans shouts into my ear. My mouth drops open. “The song,” he clarifies. “The song.” He points to Everleigh, who’s doing a clawed hand, a slashing and tearing motion, and banging her head up and down again. She looks like a raptor gone rabid.

It’s freaking straight-up awesome.

She still doesn’t see me, but whoever is on the other end of the tablet, a woman with a bright pink scarf wrapped around her head who looks a lot like Everleigh—it has to be her sister—can see us. She waves quickly and giggles. Then, she waves her hands in front of the screen to try to get Everleigh’s attention. She’s currently leaping up on the bed to the crescendo of the growling in the song, and holy shit, did the guy in the song just say something about tasty toes? She does a spot-on ferocious T-Rex impression before leaping off the bed and landing on all fours, her back facing the tablet. Now I’m worried about Hans making good on his promise. Her head snaps up, and she looks right at me.

And screams.

There’s a mad scramble off the floor after that, and she grabs her phone from the dresser and quickly shuts off the music. There’s laughter. Everleigh’s sister, if that is her sister, is laughing her ass off.

Everleigh looks devastated, but the laughter continues, and then I start, and she can’t help it. She has to smile. “I’m sorry,” she says sheepishly. “Was it too loud?”

“It might have been a bit loud,” I admit, and heaven help me, I’m already cracking a smile like a big old softie.

“I thought the house was built soundproof and that noise wouldn’t travel…and then, uh, I kind of got really into it.” She studies the floor intently. “Oh my god, this is how I die. Death by mortification served up hot and spicy.”

“She was doing it for me,” Everleigh’s sister says through the tablet. “I’m Heather, by the way.” She waves, and I raise my hand and wave back. “We’ve been doing it since we were kids, pretending we’re starring in a song, and we’re the band, but we get to pick each other’s songs.”

I look around for Hans, but he seems to have disappeared. How convenient that, for once, he does what I say. He clearly didn’t want to get roped into the dance party, which is, of course, exactly what Heather had in mind.

“Oh my god, sis,” Heather squeals. “Your husband is so hot. You didn’t tell us that!” Everleigh’s face is now as pink as her sister’s headscarf. “I have the perfect song for you,” Heather goes on, and by you, I realize she means me. “Come on. Show us what you got.”

“I really don’t think—”

“Please?” Heather begs. “Do it for me.”

Jesus. The poor girl has cancer. She’s wearing a headscarf because all her hair fell out from her treatments, and she probably feels like crap, which is why her sister is trying to cheer her up. How can I say no to that?

“I’m really not a good dancer,” I warn everyone. It’s not like it matters, though, since my protests fall on extra deaf ears.

“Here we go!” Heather yells, and there it is—an older pop song by some boy band that was extremely overplayed back in the day. My sister loved this song growing up. Unfortunately, I know it well.

I’m frozen, and I don’t know how to start. I know all the words, but how does one just launch into making a total ass of themselves? This is not my regular routine. This is most definitely not in my wheelhouse.

Everleigh sidles up and grabs my hand, my good hand, and helps me pull her into her arms. My other hand comes up, and my arm might be useless and stiff today, but she makes it easy to guide her along. She’s belting out lyrics, and a deep rumble of a laugh works its way up. Even when she grabs my hands and tries to make me shake them, I don’t stop laughing. It only dies away when she turns around in my arms and wriggles her tight little bottom almost right against my front, totally innocently, making me pretty much swallow my tongue.

Boner control. Emergency boner control. I’m wearing my usual—slacks and a button-down. I don’t do office casual around the house. My jeans rarely make an appearance, and sweats or track pants or whatever just aren’t in my repertoire. The point is, they do little to hide my growing erection, so I try and make it part of the dance, dropping my hand in front of my crotch and angling away, which means turning to the screen and, yes, shaking my own bottom. It makes Everleigh erupt in a fit of giggles, which makes Heather follow, and damn it, it’s such a nice sound that it cancels out my nerves, embarrassment, and reluctance to keep dancing.

Ass forward, of course.

I’m so fucking glad Hans isn’t here to observe this. Then again, knowing him, he’s probably hiding somewhere in this room and recording the whole thing. For bribery or for a raise later. Kidding. It would be for more nefarious things than that. Perhaps something like this:

We’re getting pizza with vegetables on it because some parts of the pizza should be healthy, and don’t argue with me on that one. Oh, and I’m adding sardines. Just an FYI. Wait, what’s that? Protests? Remember that video…

The flutter in my chest tells me I’m enjoying this despite the unexpected erection debacle and the hearty amount of embarrassment that comes with being put on the spot when it comes to dancing along to and lip-syncing pop ballads. Actually, I might even be having fun. Fun, in this house, is basically a four-letter curse word.

After the song is over, Everleigh claps. She’s flushed, her hair is a wild, untamed mane of a mess from all the head banging earlier, and her eyes are still dancing, even though the music is over, too. From the tablet, Heather claps as well.

“Bravo, Darius,” she says. “You have some killer moves. You’re good-looking, you’re rich, and you’re a good sport. My sister won the lottery when she was half conned into a marriage of convenience with you.”

“Heather!”

“Oh no,” she exclaims, putting a hand to her mouth as she pretends to be shocked. “I’ve gone and said something scandalous.”

“No.” I walk to the doorway before I can get roped into another song. Also, I have a bit of a problem south of my beltline to keep trying to hide, and it’s not exactly easy. “Not scandalous. It’s not something we all don’t already know.”

“Still. Heather…”

“I’m sorry, Darius,” Heather says and laughs as I keep heading for the door. “Don’t leave because I’m rude!”

I angle my head around and give her a thumbs up while trying to keep my body facing the other direction. It’s not easy. I feel like a bit of an owl, except without the crazy range of motion they have with their necks. “You’re not rude. I’m just heading out to get back to work because things are more than piling up. Are you okay? How are your treatments?”

“I’ve just had one so far, but it was okay. Scary as heck for the first five minutes, but not nearly as bad as I thought it would be. I’ll keep you updated, but you can be sure I’m going to kick this shit’s ass.”

Everleigh does an owl trick of her own and turns her head so Heather can’t see the worry and pain on her face. It’s devastating for her that her little sister is sick. She feels helpless, I can tell. She’s the one who made the treatments possible, but she can’t do more than that. She can’t go inside her sister’s body and heal her or take her place. I make a note to pay whoever it takes to look into Heather’s treatment plan to make sure she really is getting the best of everything. Maybe there are other options or medications that she hasn’t been offered to combat the side effects. Anyway, I plan on finding out. I know good doctors and medical staff, thanks to my fucked up arm. They’re not in the same state, but they probably know people who know people who know people, and I’ll have answers soon.

“Thank you,” Everleigh mouths to me while blinking back tears. Louder now, so her sister can hear her this time, she says, “I’m sorry about the noise. I really didn’t mean to disturb you.” Then, she gets a saucy expression on her face that warns me some major sass is coming my way. “I’m surprised you didn’t send Hans up to spank me.”

“Who’s Hans?” Heather asks.

“His bodyguard,” Everleigh responds.

“My assistant,” I correct.

“His badass enforcer,” Eveleigh insists. “The guy who drugged me.”

Argh! “That was unfortunate!” I protest. “We’re all past that now.”

“Well, he did save you from drowning,” she cedes, handing me the point. Not that we’re keeping score. I hope.

“I see he’s good at multitasking, obviously.” Heather sighs in a way that I’ve learned her sister sometimes does when she’s gearing up to say something totally inappropriate. “He didn’t send Hans. He came up to spank you himself.”

Everleigh’s eyes go wide with surprise. “Heather!” She races over to the dresser and picks up the tablet, hiding her sister from me. She flops onto the bed, giggling to herself despite her reprimand.

“You started it,” Heather insists. “You were the one who brought up spanking.”

“Not that kind of spanking. Our relationship is purely platonic. You know that.”

I know that, and Everleigh no doubt knows it. But it doesn’t change the fact that my dick still won’t obey or that I have a funny feeling in my chest like I’ve drunk an entire bottle of champagne, and I’m all bubbly on the inside. I don’t drink champagne, for the record. I find it sickly sweet. I don’t drink much of anything, actually, besides water. I guess I’m boring that way. When it comes to the good old H2O, though, I’m a bit of a snob.

I try to make a fast retreat out the door on that note, but Heather stops me in my tracks. “Everleigh wants to come and visit us next week. She gets to take your fancy jet, she says. I’m wicked jealous. You should come too!”

“Oh, I…I would have to think about it.”

“That would be complicated,” Everleigh says at the same time.

We both look at each other. Is her house within walking distance of anything? Probably not. I could always do what she suggested and invest in a good bicycle. God, I really need to get over this thing. I need to sit in her red convertible for five minutes a day and increase it to ten and then eventually work at driving around the driveway before, heaven forbid, driving around the block or something.

I could do it. I could go because I could have Hans give me the nerve pills that are so powerful that they knock me right the heck on my ass. They’re prescription, and I hate them. I hate everything about them. I hate that I probably becoming a drooling, out-of-my-mind zombie, and someone else has to look after me because I can’t do it myself. I hate that I can’t get over this shit in my head, and they’re necessary if I don’t want to fly out of my skin whenever a vehicle is unavoidable. Breaking my brain like that was so much worse than what happened to my arm.

“I know it would be complicated and weird,” Heather goes on. She has no filter, kind of like Everleigh. I would say hers is a much lighter version of Heather’s, though. “But I want to meet him.”

“You could come here,” I say without thinking. “After…uh…” There’s no backtracking now since the invitation is already out. “Everleigh could take the jet and pick you up for a few days. You’d be jetted back. Private. Everything would be sanitary, too, since I know your treatments probably knock your immune system down. The house here is quiet, and it’s just us. We won’t go anywhere either, so we won’t track anything back, and I’ll have the whole place cleaned from top to—”

“Okay!” Heather yells. “But you don’t have to go all crazy clean on the house. I want to try and live a normal life, even while doing treatments. I could come after the next one is over, even though I feel barfy, but I usually feel better by the next day. That would give us enough time before I have to be back.”

“Heather, I—”

“No, Ev, I want to meet him. I want to thank him in person for making this possible. We basically owe him my life, and he’s been good to you. Besides, he’s willing to dance with us, so he can’t be that bad. And the Hans guy sounds interesting. Do you think if I paid him, he’d spank me?”

“Fuck, Heather!”

“Okay, I’m being bad now. I’m kidding. Sorry. Sorry, Ev. Sorry, Darius. Mom and I will be there. Thank you for the invite.”

“You had better leave now while the going is still good,” Everleigh advises me, making shooing motions. “Before my sister says anything more inappropriate or scams more free trips out of you.”

“It’s fine.” It is. It actually is. If it were anyone else other than Everleigh and her family, it would bother me. I wouldn’t have given anyone else a million dollars, I wouldn’t have given them the use of my own jet, and I definitely wouldn’t have opened my house for them.

It’s a bit of a jolt to realize Everleigh doesn’t just make me want to be different. She is making me different. She’s making me feel things I haven’t ever felt before. She’s challenged me, helped me, and brought laughter, sunshine, and dancing to this house, and I’m pretty sure it’s never had any of those before. This house is quite a gloomy place. It was likely built that way to appeal to broody motherfuckers like me. I swear, that was the selling point.

“What’s that about spanking?” Hans appears out of nowhere right as I’m cresting the stairs. His arm shoots out to block me before I can topple down the whole curving flight of them, ass over my face.

“I knew you had to be somewhere, listening in.”

“Yeah,” he says and nods. “I wouldn’t have missed that for the world.”

I called it. I knew it. I’m not fuming, but I’m also not laughing, as that would just be wrong. I want to, though, but instead, I just roll my eyes. “Your job isn’t to spy.”

“Had to make sure she wasn’t going to go all death metal on your ass,” he protests, but I can tell he just wanted to watch me make a fool of myself. To see if I was going to.

“Did you record that? Because if you recorded that, I promise you I will—”

“No, boss, I would never do that,” he says in such a way that it is absolutely unquestionable that he, beyond a doubt, did indeed do exactly that. He shakes his head, pretending to be all innocent. I know I’m going to find out later what exactly he got on video from whatever hiding spot he was at. God, the guy is like a ninja ghost. How someone his size can just disappear is beyond me.

I wonder how and when he’s going to use that video against me. I bet it will be for pizza. I’m just waiting for it.