Outer Core (6 page)

I nod and squeeze his hand over the table.

“This is as unprofessional as I've ever been,” he says, defeated. “But I love him. I don't want to let him go.”

Back at my desk, before shooting Tash and Ian a message ordering them both to meet me for drinks after work, I send a glance toward Josh's office. He's one of the good guys. I hope my Ian realizes that before it's too late.

We each hold one of Ian's hands over the tall, round table. Tasha seated on a high stool with a bottle-green sheath dress on and a cucumber Martini by her side. Me with a sweating glass of water. And Ian, feigning indifference, eyeing his Caipirinha, clearly avoiding our eyes.

“So how you doing, handsome?” I say, encouraging Ian to finally award me with a glance.

“Even the fucking birds in my skies sing off-key.” He snorts a chuckle. “What's up with the grieving vibe? Smile, gorgeous ladies. Everything's peaches and cream.” He studies us with a smile that slowly turns flat.

“So what did your parents say about the big news?” Tasha asks.

Vicious much, missy?
I flinch. Talk about ripping off the Band-Aid.

Ian's mask drops, revealing his pain. He retrieves his hands from our hold and takes a long drink of his glass. “They asked me to drop the movie.” He takes another generous swig, seeming emotionally bankrupt.

Tasha and I exchange a let's-get-rid-of-them-and-hide-the-evidence stare.

“Hey.” I rest my hand on his bicep. “Screw them, Ian. Really, if your happiness means nothing to them, then they shouldn't count.”

“I was raised with the belief that family is above all, and I strongly believe that,” Tasha says, holding Ian's gaze. “But when it comes to yours, I'm sorry, but I think it's time you cut them loose.”

I nod in complete agreement. They just keep on hurting him. Time after time.

“And while you figure out what you want to do or soak in your newfound stardom,” I say and am rewarded with a beautiful, naughty Ian smile. “Please don't do anything you'll regret later. Anything that you won't be able to undo.” Ian's gaze takes a firmer edge. “Josh loves you,” I add, my voice just above a whisper.

For a silent while, we sip our drinks in a contemplative state.

“Do you think that anal is the new black?” Tash asks. I almost choke on my next sip and Ian comes to life. “You know how I love my romance, right?” We both nod, well familiar with Tasha's insatiable appetite for romance novels. “It seems like ‘pop my backside cherry' is the new hot thing. For a long time, it was the virgin gets deflowered, unleashes her inner cheetah, and becomes an immediate sex goddess theme.” Ian and I crack a smile at the same time. “But lately, it's like the one precious thing you share with your love object is letting him access your backdoor.”

Ian lets out a free chuckle. “Letting him access your backdoor, really, miss prissy? I think we're out of the playpen, it's A-okay for you to say you want to be fucked up the –”

“We got it,” I say, raising my hand.

“Have you ever tried it, anal?” Ian asks, his entire face smiling.

Before he is able to finish his sentence, Tasha cuts him off. “No.” She scowls. “The last person who asked me, I asked him if it was okay if I return the favor with a strap-on.
Huge surprise
, the issue was dropped.”

“Rafa?” Ian's lips rise up in obscenity. Tasha's glare makes him turn my way. He smirks at me, the question seconds from leaving his mouth. I give him a hostile look to which he physically withdraws, saying, “Don't give me that look. I sometimes have nightmares of that look.”

“Drive safe.” Ian closes Tasha's car door. She rolls down the window to say good-bye. In succession, we both squat down to place noisy smooches on her cheek. When Tasha's headlights fade out, Ian sees me to my car.

“I want you happy,” I tell him, taking his hand in mine. We swing our joined hands, walking the last few steps to my car.

“I am. Really.” Ian's voice morphs thoughtful. “It's just; it's time I stop taking their shit.”

“I agree.” I nod. Beeping my car open, I turn to hug my Ian. He squeezes me tightly, his lips descending to my hair.

Keeping me in his embrace for a while longer, he whispers in my ear, “Daniel's a great guy. That pep talk he gave me the other day . . . He's cool.”

I ease back from our embrace. “I know. I love you.” I send him a soft smile. “Please don't hurt yourself.” He pulls me into a warm, tight hug, telling me good night.

I don't even make it out of the parking lot when a text message lands in my phone. I roll to a stop and read the message.

Ian
:
Daniel is cool. Oh, and not to mention, he's fuckable in magnificent and awe-inspiring proportions
.

I step on the gas. The amused headshake that follows is uncontrollable.

“Hey, where do you think you're going?” A firm, large hand traps mine, stopping me from getting out of bed.

I turn to a luscious sight of a semi-awake Daniel. “Getting ready for work.”

“Um, I don't think so.” Daniel's morning voice, this bass-coated voice with enough hoarseness that strums just the right chords in me.

“Is that so?” I run my eyes over his toned chest and that heart-racing crooked smile of his.

“C'mere you.” And I'm pulled back into our warm bed.

I feign seriousness, trying hard to wipe off the smile blooming on my lips. “I need to be at the office in thirty.” My words fall on deaf ears, albeit a very attentive mouth. “I really . . .” I say futilely trying to wiggle out from under the divinely mass of man above me. “I-I, oh God.”

“You were saying?” Daniel murmurs to the heated skin between my thighs.

Threading my fingers into his morning hair, I close my eyes. “Daniel.” His name together with my resentment leaves my lips on a breath. I pull his head closer to me, inhabitations melting away by desire.

Gazing at me with predatory eyes as I'm reeling from my ecstasy, Daniel says, “Stunning.” With the right amount of roughness, he flips me to my stomach, propping me on my knees before him. He teases me till I push against him in a plea, and with one fluid thrust, he fills me in the most delicious way. Daniel's hands come up to grip my hips as he works his body to pleasure us both. Sounds of our drunken pleasure fill the room, matching our rhythm as it picks up. I push against him as he thrusts into me with great abandon until we're both lying side by side, spent and blissfully sated.

“Hey,” I say, retracing Daniel's chest with the pad of my finger, trailing up to the spiral tattoo on his shoulder. “Why didn't you tell me about your new investment approach?”

His features edge. “It's just another thing we're exploring these days.” As ever, Daniel downplays his generosity and benevolence. Turning to lie on my side, my head resting on my elbow, I look at him. His humbleness is one of his most attractive virtues. One of so many. Sensing my stare on him, he turns his head on the pillow to look at me.

“It's an admirable thing to do.”

He shrugs. “Unfortunately, men have it easier raising funds. I just thought some balance was missing. Especially with the great ideas and innovation the women bring to the table.” His eyes soften. “The two most important people in my life are women. Incredible ones.” A gentle smile takes over my lips. For a brief beat, Daniel's thoughts, once again, turn him somber. Before I'm able to comment, he shakes it off and turns back to me, this time with a suggestive, crooked smile. “Ready for round two?”

“You'll get me sacked.” I jump out of bed. I know better than to let him try to seduce me.

“Sucking sounds just as good,” Daniel says, humor lacing his words.

I take a step back, shaking my head. “I already had to cancel a meeting. Seriously, I'll get fired.” I blow him a kiss over my shoulder and scurry to the bathroom.

“Good, maybe then you'll finally do something about your illustrations,” he calls after me.

Driving, I sing along to The Dunwells, loudly and ridiculously out-of-tune, smiling at the world. The effect of a Daniel-infused morning. With an intense caffeine craving, I check the time on the control display. I have more than twenty minutes before my next meeting. Just enough time for a quick stop at the nearest coffee place. Looking for a parking space, I put together a short list of perfect beverages to quench my cravings. Hazelnut and Caramel Ribbon Crunch Frappaccinos are head to head by the time I make my way to the archangel that's smiling at me, the tall, head-to-toe black-clad barista.

Stepping out of the sacred caffeine establishment, I take the first sip of my drink. Closing my eyes, I wait for the sweet, creamy pleasure to reach all the way up the straw, right into my waiting mouth. The moan I let out next should be rated PG13. The little things that can make a girl nearly climax. I don't let my hollering phone kill the moment and let it go to voicemail. Whoever it is can wait for five minutes. This drink is all I can focus on right now.

Passing a few cars, I make my way to mine and admire the brightness of the day. Snippets from earlier this morning flash before my eyes, adding some rosiness to my overall beaming. Daniel above me, hazel eyes wild with desire, sweat beads forming above a scarred brow, full lips hovering next to mine. With a silly smile, I let myself get carried away to the little porny world my mind is orchestrating.

“Hayley Grace?” A voice brutally bursts my scrumptious bubble.

Startled, I raise my eyes, the straw still held between my lips. A guy in a light blue blazer, brown corduroys, a trimmed beard, and a combed back ‘do, complete with the essential thick rim, plastic spectacles, smiles at me. My brows crease as I try to search my memory for any recollection of him. Nothing about the hipsterism epidemic victim rings familiar.

“Miss Grace.” He extends his leather bracelet adorned hand for a shake. “Can I call you Hayley?”

“Depends,” I say, giving him another overt examination. “I don't think we've met before.”

He chuckles lightly. “No, we haven't.” His hand still hanging between us, waiting. “Byron, Byron Hobson.” I send a hesitant hand to meet his. “Of
Celebrity Gabfest
,” he adds.

I jerk my hand back as though I just touched scorching curling iron. Sensing the forthcoming turbulence in my force field, I let my hand drop to my side and shake my head. “Oh, no. Whatever it is, the answer is no.” I'd rather have a thousand leeches suck my body cold than talk to any media parasite.
Never again.

“Hey, hold up, Hayley.” He hastens his pace to match mine. “Just a quick chat. Did you guys set a date yet?” His face is a display of amicable cajolery.

Giving him a second side-glance, I raise a hand, signaling for him to stop right where he is. “Have a nice day, Byron Hobson,” I say and point the remote at my car, beeping it open. With my drink in one hand, I hurry to open the door with the other.

“Hayley.” My stalker's harsh tone demands my attention.

I throw my purse into the passenger seat and crane my neck over my shoulder.

His smile slowly crooks into a malevolent warning, one that I fail to arm myself against. “Are you going to raise the child together?”

I spin back to fully face him, my eyes wide open. How in the hell does he know about our plans? I just gape at him, a foolish, disconcerting smile frozen on my face. I'm too stunned for my vocal cords to catch up with the questions in my head.

His frame-rimmed eyes join his disturbing smile. “Or is it true, is Daniel Stark indeed leaving you for Robin and their child?”

I blink at him. And blink again. As though he just spoke in a foreign language. My mind works to translate the wording. I remain unmoving
. Keep cool, Hayley.
It's not the first time; there's always something on Daniel in the media, and it's mostly well-fabricated nonsense. Or a very creative twist of the truth. I take a bothered breath. Queasy, I duck into the car. With frenzied taps on the lock pin, I bolt myself in the safe confines of my vehicle. Checking the rearview mirror, I follow the tabloid journo as he tucks his hands into his pockets and shrugs. His lips set into a pursed, narrow constriction, appearing to whistle as he turns on his heels.

My eyes drop to the cold drink wedged between my thighs while my stomach attempts to keep what I've managed to consume so far in. The thing about spiteful, yellow journalism, even though you clearly know that it is what it is – “yellow” – ignoring it is easier said than done. The words “leaving you, Robin, and their child” keep smarting in my head, repeatedly, like some psychedelic hypnoses. And I do something that I know I shouldn't do. At least not before talking to Daniel and finding out what it's really all about. I get my phone out of my purse and type: Daniel Stark, Robin, Child into the search engine.

The first headline that catches my eyes manages to empty my lungs of oxygen. The photo of the beautiful redhead further down the page assaults my stomach like a nasty punch. I skim through the content. “. . . of course, I would like the father of my child to be a part of his life. I know he is in a relationship, but it has never before affected our long and strong friendship.” My heart drums in my ears as I try to digest what I've just read. I look at the image of the elegant redhead in the A-line dress and it feels like the image burns into my eyes.
This Robin person is pregnant with Daniel's child? They are friends? This is insane.

I'm uncertain how much time passes till I'm able to unglue my eyes from the photo. I need to shake it all off before driving to work and actually beginning this day. I shouldn't let this thing evolve into something it might not be. Probably isn't. I take a deep breath, doing my very best not to freak the hell out, jump to conclusions, or drive home, pack my things, and move out. This would never happen. Daniel would never be unfaithful. He'd never sleep with someone else.
Never
.
Except for the one time, he did . . .