Fat Girl (48 page)

My temper flares and I clench my fists, struggling to keep my cool. “I don’t give a fuck what you believe, what you think, or what you do.”

“Tough words,” he says. “But everybody has a weak spot, Peters. What took you to the Lemon Lounge last night?”

My stomach bunches with a sick sense of foreboding, but I continue to mask my emotions. “You’d know if you’d been invited to hang with the big boys.”

His eyes harden, telling me I’ve found his weak spot. “The
big boys
fell for your solo act. I didn’t. I read about you being there and got to wondering, why would Micah Peters be at a birthday party for the daughter of a commercial real estate builder? She’s dating some bone doctor, so she wasn’t the draw. And his upper-crust friends and their daughters don’t seem your type.”

“Is this going somewhere, O’Malley?”

“Indeed, it is. I checked around and guess what I found?” He pauses for effect. “A friend of Alexandra Townsen’s. A woman you couldn’t seem to keep your hands off of.”

I feel my poker expression falter at his triumphant announcement and the muscles in my jaw clench.

“Ah…that got a reaction. Protective. Proprietary. It’s written all over your face, Peters. My source told me about the intimate dances…the passionate kiss. And most interesting of all,” he says as his smile turns caustic, “she’s said not to be your usual type. Is that why you’re hiding her from the media?”

Goddamn it
. I’m not hiding Dee. I’m protecting her from vultures like him. But as much as I try to deflect it, given the choice I made to keep her a secret years ago, his shot aims past my defenses and hits dead center, where I store all my regrets and guilt.

“It will make for interesting headlines,” he taunts me, indicating an invisible banner with his hands:
Micah Peters, Closet Chubby Chaser
.”

I’m out of my chair in an instant, fury blinding me as I reach for him, wanting to knock that smug expression off his ruddy face and stuff his insulting words down his fucking throat.

“Go on and do it, Peters. I’d love to make news with you again.”

For a second, through my red haze, nothing else matters. I don’t care about the onlookers. All I want is to beat him to a bloody mass. But I hear Dee’s voice.
Don’t do it, Mick.
Think about Dwayde. If you hit O’Malley, he’ll press charges, the story will go viral, and your witness testimony will be useless. Walk away. For Dwayde…for your family…for me…just walk away.

Not trusting myself to utter a single word, I ball my hands into iron fists at my sides and leash my fury. O’Malley watches my angry retreat with relish. It’s all I can do to leave the son of a bitch standing.

Once I collect my order and I’m inside the car, I heave out raging breaths.

Who was O’Malley’s source? Miranda Townsen would have turned up her nose at the likes of the celebrity blogger and freelance tabloid reporter. No, whoever O’Malley spoke to didn’t know Dee by name. Maybe the beauty pageant queen? But for what motive…jealousy? Most likely, it was one of the serving staff who saw us together…saw that heated kiss.

Everybody has a weak spot.
How long will it take before O’Malley discovers her identity? Weeks? Days? He won’t hesitate to use Dee to get to me. He’ll write sensationalistic headlines about her not being my “usual type”—commentary that will wreak havoc with Dee’s psyche. What’s more, he’ll dig. He’ll snoop into her life as a foster child, find out her connection to the Torreses…to me…find out about her mother’s suicide…Jesus, her miscarriage. I grip the wheel, my knuckles whitening, my thoughts murderous.

I know I should distance myself from Dee before she gets hurt by any of this. But I also know that I won’t. Fifteen years of living without her was like sleepwalking through darkness and rain. She’s the air that I need to breathe, the sunlight I need to bask in if I’m to be more than the shadow of a man I was.

I’ll destroy O’Malley before I let his greed and ambition harm her.

Picking up my phone, I scroll down and tap the private number.

My call is answered on the first ring.

“Stiles, it’s Mick. I have an urgent job for you.”

I OPEN THE FRONT DOOR to Mick, and my heart does a loose somersault. Absent the cap, Mick’s hair is wind-mussed, and although I can’t see his eyes behind the dark lenses, I know that I’d find them crinkled at the corners from the smile curving his mouth. It’s not the flash of white he wears for the cameras, but his real smile, which fills his face with warmth and humor.

“Hi,” he says, leaning in for a brief, teasing kiss.

“What’s all this?” I ask, indicating the two enormous paper bags he’s carrying by the handles.

“Food.” He enters my house and deposits the bags on the kitchen counter.

I follow him in and while he removes his shades and jacket, I peer inside at the array of groceries, from staples to cold cuts, bacon, expensive cheeses, and bread to caviar and steak. “I thought you said you were just picking up lunch.”

“You have nothing in your fridge.”

For reasons I haven’t told him about. As someone who’s struggled through addiction, Mick might be able to understand this hate-love relationship I have with food, but I don’t say anything for fear he will see me as damaged.

After washing his hands at the sink, seeming as comfortable in my kitchen as he was in his own, Mick begins unpacking.

I step beside him and we fall into a smooth rhythm of him unloading groceries and me putting them away. I’m once again struck by the alternate ease and nerves I feel when I’m with Mick. Comfortable yet exciting.

Over my favorite music playing in the background—Bocelli nestled between modern jazz and old Motown, he tells me about practice and the kids being pumped for Friday’s game. I ask about Dwayde and hear he was in good spirits. I suspect that’s because the Franklins have been incommunicado. It’s a false sense of security, but Dwayde’s entitled to a break from the constant state of worry he’s experienced for nearly four weeks.

We talk about the progress Mick’s made on
Dark Angel
. I discuss my ever-growing workload and my hesitation to hire an associate. He understands my reluctance to give up total control over my cases but also points out that not only would it be better for me to have more balance in my life, I could help more children.

When we finish, I lift up on tiptoes and press my mouth to his. “Thank you for the groceries.”

He pulls me into his arms and kisses me back as if we’ve been apart for days rather than hours. I can feel the intensity in his hands at my waist, in his lips against mine. It thrums off his body in waves of heat that burn through my silk robe. When we come up for air, I blink up at him.

It’s a little frightening just how much Mick has come to mean to me so soon. How much I’m coming to depend on his smiles, his touch, his presence, the warmth of his body, and the security of his arms.

I’ve been with other men. A couple in law school, a couple more while I was working at the law firm, and one lukewarm relationship I squeezed in while building my own practice. But none of them left a lasting impression.

Only Mick.

Once we cleared our way through the murky depths of our past, I fell again—the way I had before—in one fast, hard tumble. There wasn’t a gradual move from dating and getting reacquainted to maybe slowly, carefully, cautiously letting the feelings strengthen. No, rather than a gentle fall, I’ve plunged headlong into a love affair with barely a safety net. It’s as if my self-preservation switch won’t turn on where Mick is concerned.

Growing up the way I did, I learned not to trust in happiness or love. Both could be snatched away in the blink of an eye. So despite my reckless heart, I have to hold a little back. Keep something for myself in the reserve tank, just in case.

Putting space between us, I move to the far cupboard, where I store empty bags for recycling. Mick follows and cages me in. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his finger tracing the pleat of my brow. “Why did you pull away?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you to be sorry, Dee. I want to know what I did wrong to make you doubt us again.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Mick. Being with you is incredible. That’s what scares me,” I confess.

“Why?”

I breathe through my hesitation. “Because happiness has always been my bad luck charm. Whenever I’ve felt happy in the past, something has come along to ruin it.”

“Nothing bad is going to happen this time, Dee. I won’t let it.”

Compelled by the hard set of his features and the unyielding determination that simmers in his eyes, I know I’m staring into the face of a man who wouldn’t only move mountains for me, he’d slay dragons and battle monsters.

Fighting my love for him is a lost cause. I don’t want to pull away anymore. I need to give this a real chance…give us a real shot. “Take me to bed, Mick.”

He shakes his head, brushing my lips against his as he does so. “I want you right here…right now. The way I imagined it earlier.”

After my bath, I slipped into racy underwear and drew the bedroom curtains to filter out the sun in anticipation of his arrival.
I can’t do this here.

But
I hardly have time to complete my thought, let alone process my fear, before Mick is untying the belt and pushing the robe off my shoulders and down my arms. It falls to the floor around my ankles in a white silk puddle. There is nothing to buffer the flaws. Nothing except me in the pouring sunlight in skimpy underwear and all my less-than-perfect glory.

Mick recognizes the conflict on my face. “Trust me, baby,” he whispers, letting his eyes roam to the push-up bra, which does exactly what it’s supposed to do: push my full breasts up and together to form firm, plush cleavage.

“Jesus, Dee,” he murmurs, looking a moment before deftly flicking the front clasp open, causing me to spill, flushed and heavy, into his hands.

“I’m older,” I say, knowing my boobs on their own don’t sit as high as they used to.

“Better,” he counters, his fingers rolling and tugging my nipples, sending arrows of desire straight to my core.

He lowers his mouth to kiss me again. It’s wild and chaotic. Consuming and drugging. He whispers against my lips how good I taste, before dragging his mouth across my jaw and down my neck. He removes my bra and through shuttered eyes I watch him kiss my breasts and suck my puckered nipples before going to his knees.

He stares up at me in my thong with its embroidered butterfly on the front triangle. I thought it was so pretty and flirty when I bought it. Not so much anymore.

My desire recedes on a black cloud as his bevy of beauties line up in my head, mocking me. What was I thinking? That sexy underwear was going to magically make me feel sexy? That after a night of great sex, under the cover of candlelight, all my insecurities would vanish?

Above my panties, the recessed white lines that mar my olive skin look like the faded claw marks of a tiger. Mick presses his mouth to my belly and traces a shallow groove with his tongue. “Mick…don’t.”

My plea doesn’t deter him. “Once you kissed my bruises…my scars,” he says, tracing another stretch mark. “And wanted me still. Do you think I feel any different? I’m turned on by everything about you, Dee. Even the parts you think aren’t perfect. In the dark, in the light. At eighteen or thirty-three. I still want you. I stay hard with wanting you.”