Chapter Eleven
Zoe
I dress in a shimmery topaz blouse and taupe skirt, asking myself what I’m doing. I’m crushing on C so hard right now, when I know I should be running away. Fast and far.
A man like Connor McCann has expectations, and they’ll only get worse the deeper I get. I have plans for my life that are nonnegotiable. Not that he negotiates. I touch my ass gingerly. It’s sore in a way that causes my pussy to throb, but my body is an instrument. Expecting to spank me for displeasing him is just one more way that our lifestyles probably aren’t well suited.
I shouldn’t be wearing thousand-dollar outfits he’s bought for me. I can’t let myself get caught up in his world, no matter how much I love the way he makes me feel.
When I emerge from the bedroom, he’s pacing with a frown on his face and his phone to his ear.
“It’s his choice. I’ve gotta go.” He ends the call. The phone rings immediately, and he shoves it into his pocket, scowling.
“What was that about?”
He shakes his head.
The phone vibrates in his pocket. He looks like he’s barely keeping his emotions under wraps.
“Are you all right?”
The phone rings again, and he grits his teeth. He pulls it out and swipes the screen. I can hear a woman’s hysterical voice. C listens, saying nothing. The voice continues for several moments, begging him for something.
When there is finally a pause on the other end, he says, “I told you I’ll send someone.”
A fresh round of crying pleas begins.
“I have to go,” he says and ends the call. He shoves the phone into his pocket.
I go to the suite’s kitchen and take a lime from a basket of fruit. I slice it and make him a Jack and Coke. The ice swirls against the sides of the glass when I stir it. I cross the room and hold the glass out.
“Thanks,” he murmurs.
He turns to the window as he takes a drink. I slide my arms around him from behind and rest my cheek against his shoulder.
“Heavy is the head that wears the crown,” I whisper, then fall silent again.
After a few moments, he sighs and holds the glass over his shoulder.
I take a couple of small sips.
“My guy who was wounded in the van robbery? His wife is losing it. He’s taking pain pills and is unsteady on his feet. He took a tumble getting out the shower. Twisted his ankle. She wants him to go to an emergency room. He says no. She wants me to order him to go.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No, she doesn’t want him to know she called me. So I’m supposed to pretend to be calling to check on him about the gunshot wound. He’ll know that’s bullshit. Plus, I don’t lie to my guys. We have to be able to trust them, and that means they have to be able to trust us too. I might hold things back that are none of their business, but I’m not going to outright bullshit them.”
“Is he a pretty reasonable guy? If he needed to go to the hospital, would he?”
He’s silent.
“No, then?” I ask softly.
“He wouldn’t go for the gunshot wound. Hospitals have to report that to the cops. But for a regular twisted ankle he could go if he thinks he needs it. He obviously doesn’t.”
“Is his wife the hysterical type usually?”
