Jaded, p.6
Jaded, page 6
Then, his knee brushes mine beneath the water. It’s brief, maybe accidental, but I swear I feel a spark. A jolt of electricity that bursts straight up my spine.
He stills immediately. Doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t move closer. Just waits.
My breath is caught in my throat. My pulse pounds in my ears.
I push gently away from the edge, widening the space between us again. Not much. Just enough to make the choice clear.
It was only one night.
He was just a mark.
We can’t do this.
I’m here for a job.
Locke watches me the entire time. Something dark and wild passes through his expression. It’s gone just as quickly as it came, sealed away behind that infuriating calm.
“Careful,” he says quietly. “This place has a way of making people forget themselves.”
I force a soft laugh. “Trust me. I’m very good at remembering who I am.”
His gaze drops then, dragging over my lips, my throat, the bare skin above the waterline. It lasts less than a second. But it tells me everything.
“Good,” he says, voice rougher now.
He pushes off the edge first, his jaw tightening as he does it. He’s creating even more space between us. Still, his eyes linger on me. For a heartbeat I want to reach for him, but I don’t. I can’t.
Despite the tension coiling between us, for now, I’m just floating. Letting the water hold me, letting the lights of the city, and him, fade into the night.
The next morning, the smell of coffee pulls me out of sleep. As I roll over to check the time, sunlight flashes off the infinity pool beyond the glass door, bright enough to make me squint.
I’m still here.
I’d almost convinced myself that last night was just a dream. That I’d wake up in my own bed to the sound of Zoe getting ready for school while Lexi packs her lunch.
But no, I’m here. Which means he must be somewhere in this house, too.
I swing my legs out of bed, my bare feet landing on the cool floor, and only then do I remember I’m wearing nothing but a lacy black thong. For a second, I toy with the idea of walking around like this.
Maybe Locke isn’t even home. Doesn’t he have some high-profile PR crisis to manage? I dismiss the thought just as quickly as it came, reaching for the silky white robe draped over a hook near the tub. I slip it on, wrapping the belt tight around my waist.
As I move down the hall, most of the doors are closed. Though one is cracked just enough for a sliver of warm light to spill across the cold gray tile.
I know I shouldn’t snoop around other people's houses, but my curiosity gets the best of me, and I nudge it open just enough to peek inside. For a second, I’m caught completely off guard. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. It’s an office; it must be Locke’s office, but it looks like it belongs in an entirely different house.
A massive wooden desk sits at the far end of the room. An open laptop is perched beside a small lamp that drenches the space in warm, golden light. A thick-cut crystal ashtray rests near the corner, with a small wooden box sitting next to it. Through the glass window on the lid, I can make out the shape of cigars stacked neatly inside.
Dark wooden shelves climb the walls, each one flooded with books. Most of them look old and worn, like they’ve seen centuries.
Next to the door, a stretch of exposed brick catches my eye. I reach out, half expecting it to be fake, but it’s real, all right. Impressive… and surprising.
My attention drops to a sleek mid-century console sitting against the same wall. A turntable and two massive speakers sit on top, polished and waiting for someone to use them. Below, a sizable vinyl collection fills the shelves. I step closer and kneel, fingertips trailing along the spines. Johnny Cash, Tom Waits, Miles Davis.
He might just have a soul after all.
There’s a sleek leather couch on the other wall with a small coffee table in front of it on which another cigar box rests. I’m noticing a pattern here.
I suppose it could all be for show, another prop in this carefully curated museum of a house. Still, I linger a moment longer before slipping back into the hallway, letting my fingers brush the edge of the turntable one last time.
When I reach the open kitchen and living space, I realize the morning light has changed everything. The sun streaming in through the massive windows gives everything a golden hue. The edges are softer, less sterile.
A small French press sits on the counter, a sleek glass mug beside it, the rich scent of coffee filling the air. Next to the coffee is an espresso machine with a sticky note attached: I didn’t know what you’d prefer, so I made coffee and prepped the espresso. Have whatever you like.
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. A thoughtful gesture? This man keeps blindsiding me this morning. I pour myself a cup of coffee, swirling in some cream, and take a sip as I resume my hunt for the elusive, broody, but surprisingly, thoughtful asshole.
I spot him outside through the wall of glass leading to the backyard. He’s wearing an immaculate black button-down shirt, tattoos barely visible beneath the collar, gray slacks, and another gleaming watch. He looks good. A little too good. Remember why you’re here, Arden.
He’s pacing the length of the pool, phone pressed against his ear, cigar in hand — seriously, at this hour? — and stress written all over his face.
He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose, then drags them across his brow. His shoulders look tight. Whatever he’s dealing with, it can’t be pleasant.
The urge to watch him longer claws at me, but I force myself to turn away. The coffee warms my hands as I slip back toward the bedroom. Whatever today holds, I need to be ready for it.
Chapter 14
LOCKE
There’s no sign of Arden except the missing coffee. Good. It buys me a few more minutes to ground myself.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I let out a sigh when I pull it out and realize it’s Nate again.
Nate
Any updates?
Timeline’s shrinking faster than projected.
Me
Working on it.
Nate
We don’t have the luxury of delays.
Me
I said I’ve got it, little bro.
Nate
…Right. Yeah. Just keep me posted.
The pressure’s mounting faster than I’d like; we have to move quickly to catch Luke before he does something stupid. Caution isn’t a luxury we have anymore.
I know it’s her when I hear footsteps coming down the hallway. She’s light on her feet, but I can feel her getting closer like static in the air, crawling under my skin where I swore I’d never let another person again.
I turn just as she appears at the threshold to the kitchen, and for a moment, everything else falls away.
She’s dressed to kill.
A black fitted dress hugs her like it was sewn onto her body, stopping mid-thigh. Her legs look longer than they are, toned and bare, carried on black leather boots with a chunky heel that thuds softly against the tile and adds a couple of inches to her height. Still, I’m at least six inches taller. Her makeup is sharp. Black liner cut into perfect wings, smoky eye shadow deepening the corners of her eyes, and her lips are painted a burgundy shade that looks almost the color of blood.
I drag my gaze up, past the hourglass curve of her waist, past the bare skin of her collarbone, until I meet those ocean blue eyes. She’s smiling. Barely. Like she knows exactly what kind of wreckage she’s leaving in her wake, and she’s enjoying it.
“Coffee okay?” My voice comes out rougher than I intended.
She nods, offering a small smile before drifting closer. “Coffee was great. So was the music.”
There’s a glint in her eyes that’s sharp, like she’s discovered a secret. My gut tightens, but before I can unpack it, the buzzer at the front gate cuts through the room. Nate.
I curse under my breath. “We have company.”
Her brow arches. “Fun.”
I almost smile at her sarcasm, but there’s no time. I hit the intercom and buzz him in. Minutes later, Nate strides through the door like he owns the place. Black jeans, a fitted leather jacket, mirrored sunglasses, and his motorcycle helmet tucked under one arm.
My wild younger brother: brilliant and reckless, and the reason this business still exists. Nate doesn’t just work with me; he keeps the machine running. Cleans up messes. Handles things I can’t, or won’t, put my name on. Which means he’s the one who takes the most heat when something goes wrong.
His gaze snaps to Arden instantly. Assessing and suspicious.
“Hello again,” Nate says, his tone a little too friendly.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” she shoots back.
Nate’s eyes flick to the coffee in her hand. “You settle in fast.”
Arden’s smile doesn’t waver. “Only when I’m invited.”
He grunts, “We’ll see how long that lasts.”
I shoot him a look that tells him to stand down, then jerk my head toward the back patio. “Outside.”
Arden lingers, leaning against the kitchen counter, swirling her coffee like she has all the time in the world. Casual. Unbothered. But when Nate and I step out, I catch her reflection in the glass. The tilt of her head, the subtle inching toward the door. She’s listening.
I expected as much.
“We’re moving forward,” Nate says, lowering his voice. “Holloway will be at the gala next Friday. Not Wilde, though; he’s on tour.”
“Excellent,” I reply. “Arden’s coming with me.”
Nate’s jaw tightens. “I wouldn’t be so quick to decide. Once you bring her out in public…” he exhales sharply. “You don’t get to control how people spin it.”
I give him my best reassuring smile, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Then let it spin. I’m not worried.”
His jaw flexes again, but he lets it go. I can see he’s not convinced, but there’s no point in arguing.
“Fine.” He hesitates. “And you’re sure about her?”
“She’s more capable than you think,” I reply, sharper than I mean to. Nate seems to have forgotten that I’ve seen her in action.
She played me like it was nothing, slipped right past every defense I thought I had. If she can do that, she can handle this. Still, this isn’t a club or casino floor. It’s Hollywood. And it’s an entirely different world.
I abandon that thought as we move on to logistics: venue, surveillance, and proximity. Behind the glass, I catch Arden’s shadow shift, just barely. She’s still there. I’d bet good money she’s caught every word.
“I’ll handle the details and prepare her for the onslaught of cameras and carefully practiced smiles,” I mutter to my brother.
He doesn’t want her near me or anyone else in this city. Certainly not in Hollywood. I can see the concern written all over his face.
Nate drags a hand through his hair. “Once you bring her into this world, you think she’s just going to walk away like nothing ever happened?”
“She’s not staying.” I assure my younger brother. “Once this is done, she’ll go back to Vegas.”
It’s a promise I don’t entirely believe, but it’s enough to keep him from pestering me further.
Nate studies me for a second longer. Then he exhales again. “She’s here to help us with a problem; she’d better not become one.”
I nod, because that’s what he needs to see.
Through the glass, I watch as Arden sets her coffee on the counter and turns toward her room.
I don’t know how much she heard.
Whatever it was, it must have been enough.
Chapter 15
ARDEN
I didn’t hear the entire conversation, just fragments. Names. Places. I gathered enough information to let me know this event matters, but not nearly enough to tell me why.
Most of it blurred together the second it left their mouths. There was just one thing that stood out.
Arden’s coming with me.
He spoke the words with an ease that told me the decision had been made long before he bothered to say it out loud. Locke stated it like a fact. Nate responded with concern for his brother’s reputation, disguised as strategy. I wasn’t a person in that conversation; I was a pawn.
And Nate’s face? Tight-jawed and overly cautious, his gaze constantly assessing. It’s clear that he sees me as just another liability.
Fair enough. I know I’m not here because anyone trusts me. I’m here because I’m “useful,” as Locke put it.
Honestly, his suspicion tells me more than his approval ever could. Men like him don’t waste that kind of scrutiny on people who don’t matter. Whatever his reason, I don’t have time to dissect it now.
And whatever this week holds, I have a feeling I won’t have a say in any of it.
Two days later, I’m sitting at Locke’s kitchen counter while he makes espresso like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The week hasn’t been difficult, but it hasn’t been comfortable, either. There’s a constant awareness between us, like the air is humming with electricity. Every time we end up in the same room, it feels intentional, even when it’s not.
Apart from that, it’s almost like a vacation. Luxury estate, top-tier amenities, and apparently a personal barista.
“You've seriously never had espresso?” He’s staring at me like I have two heads or something. “You've never had a latte? Cappuccino?”
I shake my head. “I never knew what to order, so I just stuck with regular coffee. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right?”
“No,” Locke huffs. “That’s unacceptable.”
I arch a brow. “Unacceptable?”
“We’re fixing it. Right now.”
He pours milk into a silver pitcher and places it under the steam wand. His movements are practiced and precise. I watch as he tilts the pitcher just enough for airy foam to form on the surface.
When he hands me the steaming mug, our fingers brush. It’s nothing, barely a second, but my chest tightens anyway.
He doesn’t pull his hand away immediately, doesn’t look away either. His attention fixes on me with an intensity that makes the steam curling from the mug feel hotter.
“You’re going to let it cool down if you keep staring at it,” he says.
“You’re the one staring,” I retort.
“I just want to know if you like it,” he urges, motioning for me to hurry.
As I lift the mug to my lips, his eyes stay locked on mine.
I watched him make the damn thing. There’s nothing in the cup but espresso and milk, but the way he’s watching makes my nerves hum. I consider asking why this matters to him. I decide against it.
“Well, you’re right. That is delicious,” I say, wiping a thin line of foam from my lips and setting the mug on the counter. “Next time, less milk.”
He smiles a real, genuine smile. “Noted. I’m glad you liked it.”
I give him a sly smile. “Thanks for a great first time.”
A chuckle slips through his lips. “Keep saying things like that, and I might think you actually like me.”
I shift my eyes away from his, looking down at the granite countertop. Damn it, I need to keep my 12-year-old sense of humor in check. I have no business flirting with him. This is a job. I’m an employee.
The smile fades from his face, and my thoughts are interrupted by his voice, low and serious once again. “You should get ready. We’re going shopping.”
“Shopping?” I repeat.
“Yeah. This gala isn’t exactly a jeans and t-shirt event.”
“Okay, then,” I mutter as I stand to head back to my room. “Thanks again for the coffee.”
He stays silent, giving me a half-smile as I head down the hall.
Chapter 16
LOCKE
Every afternoon this week has ended the same way.
Me and Arden in my office. Her on the couch with a book in her hands that I’m not sure she’s actually reading. Me at the desk, tablet in hand, skimming headlines and drafting press releases while a record spins low in the background.
I suppose it should feel routine by now, but it doesn’t.
I’ve learned her tells. The way she pretends not to listen. The way her attention hones when something matters. The fact that she never asks questions she hasn’t already thought through.
The record spins out, the crackle fading into silence.
I try not to look at her. If I do, I’ll read too much into how comfortable she seems. The way she settles in like this is a choice, even though I didn’t give her one.
“So,” she says, sitting up to face me. “What’s this gala all about?”
There it is.
I keep my eyes on the tablet, unsure how much truth I want to give her right now. She doesn’t need to know everything, just enough to do the job.
“It’s a fundraiser.”
“For what, exactly?”
I exhale through my nose. Of course she won’t let that be enough.
“Mental health and addiction recovery. The industry’s favorite virtue signal.”
She snorts in response.
I turn the screen I’m holding toward her. There’s an image of a man standing on a red carpet, smiling into the camera. His sleek blonde hair is perfectly styled. Baby blue eyes stare back at us, and his arm drapes around a tall brunette.
The headline above his image reads: Luke Holloway’s Charm is Winning Over Hollywood.
Her reaction is instant. “Luke Holloway. Ever the pretty boy.”
“Publicly,” I say. “Privately? Not so much.”
