Hurt the One You Love Read online

  Ultimately, she didn't. Simone had walked away from Aidan long ago, at least in the girlfriend/boyfriend department. It didn't bother her that that Corrina believed getting on her knees with her hands tied behind her back was the best way to get into Aidan's pants, his wallet, and his heart . . . but it did bother her that Aidan seemed to be falling for it.

  "C'mon, don't be like that," Aidan said in a low voice.

  "How would you feel if I called you up late on a Friday night after we'd made plans to tell you sorry, I've got a better offer?"

  "It's not . . . better."

  Simone huffed a sigh so deep it blew the fringe of her bangs off her forehead. "She will let you gag her and tie her up before you spank her. She'll call you 'master.' Don't tell me that you don't think that's better. At least give me that respect, Aidan. We promised we'd never lie to each other, do you remember that?"

  He was silent for a moment or so. "She can't take the cane like you can. Or a flogger, or a strap."

  "It's not a contest," Simone snapped, her voice suddenly thick with an emotion that surprised her. Not jealousy. Not melancholy or nostalgia, but maybe a combination of all of those. A sickening thought occurred to her, and words tumbled out of her before she could stop them. "Oh. God. Oh my God, Aidan. You love her."

  "No," he began, but stopped himself when Simone made a low noise of disbelief.

  "You are in love with her," she whispered.

  His silence was her answer. There was nothing more to say after that, so without another word, Simone disconnected the call. Her phone felt heavy and warm in her hands. It rang. Aidan again. Slowly, deliberately, she thumbed the screen and sent the call to voice mail.

  Then she turned off her phone.

  Chapter 8

  Superstition.

  Elliott hated it, and ritual, and habit, at least the sort of habits that made no sense. Regular exercise, that was a good habit. Double-checking for your hotel-room key before you stepped outside, then remembering to pull the door completely closed behind you, that was a sensible habit. Flossing after meals made sense, too.

  But this . . . this list-making habit was ridiculous. He had a smartphone that knew more about him than his own mother ever had. He had not one but three phone apps that acted as to-do lists or reminders. And yet here he was with the pad of paper and this pen, making a list of everything he had to be grateful for.

  It was the only way to do this list that felt right. There'd been long periods of time when he hadn't made the lists, when there'd been nothing to be grateful for, or so it had seemed. Molly had never scolded him about it. Never reminded him of his blessings. All she'd ever done was given him this pad of paper in the leather binder, along with the pen. The gratitude lists had been her thing. What kept her sane, she'd told him more than once. When you felt down, you reminded yourself of everything you had, and it made you feel better. He wasn't feeling down, not exactly. But he was feeling out of sorts, and it had been awhile since he'd written one of these.

  Health, Elliott wrote.

  Financial security.

  Professional success.

  Molly, he wrote after a second or so of thought. It would make her smile that he thought of her as a blessing, though she often claimed she was nothing but a burden.

  And that was it. The sum of Elliott's blessings. He supposed he could've gone further, noting the doctors and nurses and caregivers who made Molly's life more comfortable, or the grandparents who'd believed paying him to stay out of their lives had been worth every cent of their generosity, or the well-chosen stock options that had allowed him to afford the best of care for the woman who'd raised him without having to sacrifice his own quality of living. He could've listed the beautiful fall weather or the lunch he'd had today, too, he thought with only a trace of sourness. This would have to do.

  Tearing the paper from the pad, he slipped it into his inner jacket pocket and then tucked the pen into the leather binder. He put everything in his briefcase and looked around the office. Friday night, what the hell was he doing in this place after hours?

  He got out of the elevator in the lobby without looking first, only to come up short at the sight of that woman, Simone, bending to slide her feet into teeteringly high heels. Her skirt had lifted enough for him to catch a glimpse of her ass, maybe his imagination more than anything else. She caught him looking, of course, and her slightly curled lip told him exactly what she thought of him.

  He'd been an idiot, practically running out of her apartment that night. And why, because she'd made his dick hard when she'd writhed and moaned at the sort of touch most other women decried? Because her response had made him afraid, Elliott told himself unflinchingly. Because he was a coward.

  "Of course it's you," Simone said in a thick voice, raspier than he remembered it.

  She straightened, finger combing her hair. Her nipples poked the front of her thin white blouse, and he realized she'd slipped out of her bra. One lacy edge peeked from her oversized shoulder bag. With another of those half sneers, she stood up straight and watched him.. When he met her gaze, she finally smiled.

  "Aren't you going to say anything?"

  "Hello," Elliott said.

  Simone drew in a breath. For a second, something flashed deep in her gaze and an emotion tugged at her expression, so fleeting he couldn't determine what it was. She lifted her chin as she smoothed a hand over her hip. "Let me ask you something. What's wrong with me, Elliott?"

  "Nothing's wrong with you." It was the right thing, the polite thing to say. It was also the truth.

  "No? Is it because I'm not tall, thin, and blonde?" She tilted her head to look at him.

  Startled, Elliott shook his head. "I'm not sure what you mean."

  "I mean," Simone said, "why you didn't fuck me that night when you took me home. What's wrong with me?"

  "Nothing is wrong with you," he repeated.

  She nodded as though he'd made some kind of sense, though he felt as though he'd done anything but. "You ran out on me. You know that? Just up and left, like I'd burned you. Or tasted bad. You acted like I tasted bad."

  To his alarm, her breath hitched, and a brightness that could only be tears glimmered in her bright blue eyes.

  "I'm sorry, Simone."

  "Well. At least you remembered my name."

  "Of course I remembered your name," Elliott said. "I'm not a total asshole."

  She leaned forward. Gripped him by the tie. Pulled him two steps toward her, close enough that he could kiss her, if he wanted to. And suddenly, it was all he could think about doing, even though they were in the middle of a public space.

  "I'm not so sure about that," she said in a low voice. "Prove it."

  At first, the demand made his own lip curl, but after a second, he softened. "How?"

  "Come out with me, Elliott. Not to some boring charity party or whatever the hell you've got planned. Come with me to my sort of place. Show me a good time. Make it up to me," Simone said, suddenly harsh, eyes glinting again but this time, not with tears. "Make it up to me."

  And, although he'd made far different plans for the evening that had not involved anything like this at all, Elliott found himself agreeing.

  Chapter 9

  Simone took Elliott to the place she thought he'd like the least. Loud music, black light, goth decor. Guys in eyeliner, girls in latex dresses. Expensive liquor. Honestly, it wasn't one of Simone's favorite places even when she'd been younger and more into this scene, but she could fit in here if she tried. She'd layered her eyes with thick, black shadow and painted her mouth the color of fresh blood. Spiked her hair. The transformation had taken only a few minutes, and she'd looked at Elliott's face carefully when she came out of the office lobby restroom, watching to see his reaction.

  He hadn't looked scared.

  She couldn't get a read on him, but at least she could tell that much. Now, sipping from a bottle of beer while he drank whiskey on the rocks, Simone studied him. He hadn't so much as loosened his tie.