But all the should-haves in the world don't stop me from hating myself.
Because, if I can force myself to move, I'll drag him back and make him finish what he started. I'm so fucking furious with my traitorous body that frustrated tears gather at the corner of my eyes. It's a challenge to force myself to swallow past the hard knot of emotion in my throat. I swipe at my stinging eyes before any evidence can leak out to ruin everything. I will not give Calamity Gardel the satisfaction of knowing just what a head trip this is.
It's like some sick cosmic joke, isn't it? I search for years, trying to find a man who can keep up with me on a bike and dominate me thoroughly in bed. And I find what I'm looking for in the arms of the one man I can never allow myself to get attached to. The one man who should disgust me more than any other, and I can't even force myself to feel the proper hatred for him.
I clench my thighs together tightly, trying to quell the insistent throbbing of my core that begs for something thicker than fingers to slide into me.
"Prick," I mutter again.
He's done this on purpose. I jerk my chin up and glare defiantly where the massive man disappeared. If he thinks he can cow me that easily, he's got another thing coming. I'm Penelope Maria Ilona Cruz, and I've taken no shit. I'm not going to start now. He wants me to beg? He's going to be waiting a while. And meanwhile, I'll ride out whatever he does.
I untuck the covers and wrap myself tightly at their center, locking out the cold creeping over me. It also acts as a straight jacket against stupidity. It's one more layer to restrain me from seeking out Gardel. I shimmy to the top of the bed and keep my hands tucked firmly between my thighs until the throbbing want dulls to something more manageable. I don't know what Gardel's plan is here, but I know one thing with dead certainty.
Calamity Gardel will regret the day he tried to make me a pawn in his game.
* * *
I'm deposited onto the floor unceremoniously when someone tugs the covers out from under me. I splutter and roll to my feet, fists automatically springing up to cold-clock Calamity Gardel for waking me so rudely.
Instead, I find myself face to face with a woman about four inches shorter than me, even boosted by four-inch heels. I'm 5'9, so flat-footed, this woman has to be only about five foot even. She's busty and curvy in all the places I'm not, practically popping out of the pink halter and short denim skirt she's wearing. It's South Hollens, and the usual patter of rain is droning on outside the window, so I know she has to be freezing. Still, she screws an unpleasant little smile onto her face, just for me.
"You should wear nasal strips," she suggests snidely, tapping the side of her nose lightly. "You rattle on like a chainsaw."
Heat flushes into my cheeks, and I'm about three seconds away from swinging at this bitch. It should be easy enough to knock her off those heels. She didn't dress well for the fight she's trying to pick.
It's only then that I notice her peeking curiously at my lower half, and I realize belatedly that I'm still naked, except for my bra, and I'm flashing this woman an eyeful. I scramble to pick up the abandoned duvet, forgoing my need to sucker punch this bitch into oblivion to preserve modesty. Her smirk only broadens as I arrange the covers around my front.
"Who the fuck are you?" I demand.
"Kylie," she says with a shrug. "And you must be Penelope Cruz."
"Penny," I grind out.
I'm tired of everyone slinging my name around like they've known me for years. Only Kase and Cruz call me Penelope, and even then, only when they're pushing their luck. This woman hasn't earned the right to my name. Neither has Calamity Gardel, but it's slightly easier to ignore the twinge of irritation at his presumption when it's said in that gravelly bass growl he does.
"Whatever."
Kylie tosses a cloth bundle onto the bed. Her eyes tighten with dislike as she scans me from the soles of my feet all the way to the mussed hair atop my head.
"The boss got this for you," she spits, nodding to the clothing she dropped. I get the impression that someone is suffering from a case of sour grapes. Was this curvy little hooker Calamity's favorite before I came along? Is she put out because he just found a newer, interesting toy to play with?
If so, she can have him. I don't intend to stick around long enough to be broken. Eventually, he will tire of this game, and that will be the point at which I make my escape.
"Get dressed," she instructs me lazily. "The boss says you're not going to laze about all day. Get up so the rest of the boys can get a good look at you."
My stomach pitches once as I consider the implication behind those words. Maybe I wasn't as fortunate as I thought last night. Perhaps he's still planning to run a train on me.
I shake my head, pursing my lips. I'm jumping to conclusions. Why bother gifting me clothes if he will do something like that? Besides, Calamity Gardel doesn't strike me as the sort of man to share. He's not tossing me to his men until he's got inside me at least once.
Kylie pivots on one ridiculous heel and marches out the way she came. I'm left standing alone in the massive and sparsely decorated room. Curiously, I prod at the cloth that's pooled on the bed. It's a horrific pastel pink, something I wouldn't be caught dead in. When I lift it up for inspection, I find it's a scandalously short backless skater dress that will probably only hit me mid-thigh. Perhaps higher. I make a disgusted face at it, the desire to punch things quickly overriding my embarrassment at flashing the messenger. That motherfucker. He seems to know just how to push all my berserk buttons. He has to know that I'd rather strut around naked than wear a pastel pink monstrosity like this.
I drop to my knees, searching for my abandoned jeans, blouse, and jacket only to find them conspicuously absent. With mounting desperation, I cast my gaze around the room, trying to find a scrap of the clothing I cast off the night before. They're gone without a trace. In an act of dwindling hope, I move the sparse furniture around to see if I can at least find the panties that Gardel flung away the night before.
Nothing. I can't find a stitch of the clothing I wore here.
I eye the pink thing on the bed, clamping my jaw down so hard on a scream that my teeth ache. He's offering me a choice. Humiliate myself or play his game.
My knee-jerk reaction is to steal his boxers and just lounge around his clubhouse, letting his men get an eyeful of what he wants. But he's probably anticipating that, given how well he's played me. So I fight against my gut instinct. I will not give him the satisfaction. But I do silently vow painful vengeance. The bastard will pay for this.
