Kept (24 page)

“Garrett, you moron,” he muttered.

He wandered back to his office, leaned against the doorjamb, and stared at the computer. All he had to read was the last month. If she’d written details about Scheider or Sullivan, well, he didn’t need to read those.

He plopped onto his chair and searched for her blog title which had branded itself into his mind. Her blog was the first listing.

Her profile described her as a Midwest girl loving life in the big city, doing her best to make ends meet.

He snorted.
Buy a house in the suburbs and you won’t have to prostitute yourself.

The most recent entry detailed her two worlds almost colliding, something she’d never expected.

Whatever.

The next entry talked about the beautiful spring weather she wished she felt deep inside.

Oh-kay.

The third entry, “Wait For It,” made him pause.

I confess I love a good historical romance, especially one set in the Regency or Victorian era when people were such prudes. So much potential for scandal makes for a fun romance. But I’m glad that’s not how we live today.

Can you imagine trying to get a good workout in a corset or petticoats? Or posting a picture on Instagram where you and a friend of the opposite sex are—gasp—touching and being shunned for it?

Or actually waiting until marriage for sex?

I’ve met someone who thinks we’re still back in olden times. Who believes in waiting until after he says, “I do.”

That’s right. Some
man
said that to me.

We’ve all been told to save it. You know, wait until it’s someone you really love, someone you can see yourself with long term. But wait until marriage?

He tried to talk me into that view today. We had a nice, heated discussion about it and his views on how we came to be—that Adam and Eve story. The one that says God made everything out of nothing.

He’s the epitome of the religious nut. A pastor.

Dillan clenched his teeth.

He says he’s waiting for the right woman. In all his twenty-eight years, he’s never had sex with a woman.

I find that hard to believe.

Would a decent-looking guy wait that long? He’s all male, rather good-looking in an un-GQ way. Can carry on a conversation if you start it. Is into sports and running. A guy like that waits?

On the other hand, he’s a pastor. A Bible thumper. A man who buys into all that nonsense. Not very manly if you ask me.

Let’s be honest—have you ever seen a truly masculine man of the cloth? Look at what the Catholic Church has dealt with in recent decades, all those priests with gay tendencies, even as they denounce homosexuality and preach abstinence or marriage.

This guy wouldn’t be the first to lie about having sex, would he?

Dillan growled.

So maybe he hasn’t had sex with a woman. At least, not in a very long time. Maybe he’s a gay man hiding it under the guise of waiting for—

Dillan stormed to his feet, stomped to his door, stomped back to the computer. What an idiot he’d been, what a fool to share the truth with her. Trying to give her answers. Trying to point her another way.

And here she was, telling the world he was gay.

Well, he’d had it with her stabbing him in the back, with her fake friendliness and questions. He’d call her on it.

He sent the post to the printer.

The hum of the machine pounded in his head. She deserved a piece of his mind. How smug would she be when she found out he knew what she’d written?

He pounded on her door, chest thumping with the speed of his breathing. “Come on,” he muttered. He raised his fist to pound it again.

The knob turned.

Miska opened the door, her forehead marred by questions. “Dillan? What is it?”

“This.” He held the paper in front of her, aware that he was shaking with anger. “This garbage you wrote on your blog.”

She took the page from his hand and stared at it, backing up a bit as she read.

He barged into her hallway, letting her door bang behind him. “The things I could write about you. The way you pretended interest in what I thought. The way you asked me what you should do about Mark. And here he was, only one of your men.”

“We had just argued, Dillan. If you bothered looking at the date, you’d remember this was right after you told me you were waiting.”

“Well, you sure took it and ran with it. Wrote some great fiction there. Attached my name to it.”

“I never gave your name.”

“Tracy knew it was me.”

“I’m sorry, but I never imagined you’d see this—”

“No. Really?”

“Dillan, you were an anomaly. I’m serious. I’d never met someone who believed this way.”

“So let’s mock them, huh?”

“Look, I’m sorry.” She crumpled the paper. “I told Adrienne about you, and she said people like you existed.”

“Yep. Put us in the zoo.”

“Dillan, stop it. What do you want me to do? Right a retraction on my blog? Take it all back? It’s a stupid blog. What does it matter?”

“What does it matter?” He took a step closer, relishing the way he towered over her. “You called me gay!”

“I was trying to make sense of it, and that was the only thing that fit.”

“Are you
kidding
me?”

“Real men don’t wait. Real men, in my world, don’t make it to twenty-nine—”

“Like you would know a real man.”

She rolled her eyes. “Here we go.”

“You think Mark’s a real man, that Kendall’s a real man? Why? Because they use you?”

“It’s how they make me feel, Dillan. They know how to take care of a woman—”

If he hadn’t been mad before. “They’re
using
you, Miska. Wake up!”

“Fine.” She clenched her fists, stepped up to him. “Call it how you see it, I don’t care. But a real man knows how to make a woman remember she’s a woman—”

If that’s what it took— He grabbed her shoulder, pushed her back against the wall. His mouth covered hers.

She caught her breath, her soft lips open in shock.

Good.
He kissed her again, pressing against her to make his point.

Her hands settled low on his chest. Her lips moved against his.

Oh.

Oh, man.

His hand slipped to the wall behind her, flattening her curls.

Her hands slid up his chest.

He pulled back just enough to give himself a better angle, and she came with him, like metal filings to an industrial-sized magnet. He wrapped his good arm around her back as her hands glided up over his collarbone and neck. Her fingertips slipped into the hair around his ears, the length of her fingers blazing against his skin.

He groaned against her mouth. She was so soft, so much woman. And the way she responded— He didn’t want to stop. He couldn’t stop.

She stretched up against him, back arching beneath his palm. “Dillan,” she breathed against his mouth. Her kiss turned aggressive. “Oh, Dillan.”

His breath came even faster. He had to stop. He’d made his point. But he didn’t want to let her go. Her body against his felt so amazing.

“Dillan,” she groaned. He stumbled back a step, and she followed his movement again. “Let me show you. Please.”

He pulled his mouth from hers. Show him?

“Let me show you how wonderful it can be.”

What had he done? What was he doing? He raised a shaky hand to his hair, rested it on top of his head.
God, no. Please. No.

“We can take our time. Go as fast or slow as you like.”

No. No, he couldn’t. “Oh, God,” he begged, everything in him shaking with longing and shock. What was he doing? What was he thinking? To treat her like this? To touch her? Kiss her? He closed his eyes and backed away, his fingers clenching his hair. “Oh, God. Help.”

“Dillan, it’s okay. We’ll just—” She grabbed his elbow, tried to pull it down. “We’ll go slow.”

“No!” He jerked away. “Get your hands off me.”

“Dillan—” She reached for him again.

He frantically grabbed for her doorknob and yanked on it. The door flew open, and he raced the few steps to his door and banged it open. He slammed it behind him. Flipped the deadbolt.

Safe.

He sagged against the wall and stared at the thick white baseboards. His chest heaved as if he’d finished a set of sprints. He leaned over, hand pressed to his thigh. What was wrong with him? What kind of a man was he?

He swallowed.
God, what have I done?

A knock sounded on the door.

He startled and stared at it.

“Dillan?” Miska called. “Will you open the door? Please?”

She’d come after him?

“Dillan, let me in.”

He backed away.

The knob twisted. “Dillan!”

The woman had no shame. No remorse. No soul.

She knocked again.

He crossed to the far corner of the living room. Still he could hear her knocking. He opened the door to Garrett’s room and slipped inside.

Shadows hung in each corner.

He closed the door and sat on Garrett’s perfectly made, king-sized bed. He stared through the partly open curtains and catalogued the view—blue water, white boats, clear sky.

But all he could remember was Miska in his arms, her lips responding to his, her voice in his ear.

Let me show you.

Sitting uncomfortably on her hallway floor, Miska pressed an ear to her front door.

Voices, but they were going the other way.

She stretched her legs. Three hours had passed since Dillan had kissed her, kissed her thoroughly. She’d never imagined he’d look at her, much less kiss her, but he had.

Now he wouldn’t open his door.

So here she sat. If she could catch Garrett before he talked to Dillan, maybe she could get inside the condo and make Dillan listen. He needed to know that she hadn’t viewed him as gay for a long time.

Her laptop clock said seven.

Yawning, she set it aside and struggled to her feet. Of all the days for Garrett to get home late. Where was he?

Keys jangled.

Miska looked through her peephole.

Garrett stood outside his door.

She stepped into the common hallway. “Hi, Garrett.”

He didn’t look up, searching his keys instead. “Hey, Miska.”

He seemed tired. Worn out. Sick maybe? “You okay?”

He glanced up. “Yeah. Fine. What can I do for you?”

“I just—” She had to pretend this was an ordinary coincidence. She shrugged one shoulder. “I had a question for Dillan. Is he home?”

“Far as I know. Come on in.” He unlocked the door and pushed it open.

She followed him in.

Dillan sat in front of the TV, in navy blue sports shorts and matching Fighting Illini T-shirt. His hairy legs were spread, his forearms covering each arm of the chair. He stared at the TV as if he wasn’t seeing a thing in front of him.

Good. He was still thinking about it.

Garrett stepped into the kitchen and hefted his briefcase onto the island. “Dill. Company.”

Dillan’s head turned, his eyes meeting hers. He jumped to his feet. “What are you doing here? Garrett, what are you thinking, letting her in?”

Garrett turned from beside the refrigerator, eyes wide.

Miska rounded the couch. “Can we talk? Garrett can stay—”

“No way. I want you out of here.” He kept the chair between them, fingers gripping the seatback, eyes dark.

He couldn’t be mad. “I know you didn’t mean it, Dillan—”

“Get out.”

“Don’t you owe me a minute? After what you did?”

Rolling his eyes, he let go of the chair and marched around the far side of the couch.

She ran back the way she’d come, trying to cut him off before he escaped down the hallway. “Dillan!”

They made it there at the same time, almost colliding. She reached for him. “Please. Let’s—”

He yanked himself back, hands up by his shoulders as if she were vile. Infected. “Don’t touch me.” He slipped past her. Another second and he was at the door, wrenching it open and rushing outside.

The door banged shut behind him.

Trash. Worthless. Her shoulders sagged. Her vision blurred. She pressed her fingertips against her eyelids. Was that how he viewed her? Scum? Tramp? Whore?

Garrett still stood by the refrigerator, mouth open. He blinked. Shook his head. “What was that?”

He’d hear it from Dillan eventually. Hear Dillan’s side anyway. She motioned to the couch. Maybe Garrett would know what to do. “You got a minute?”

Night approached by the time Dillan returned.

Silence greeted him as he stepped off the elevator and turned down his hallway. He’d spent the last hour and a half in the gym. He needed a shower, but that could wait. First he had to pack, because in the morning he was leaving.

As he neared his door, he eyed Miska’s.

It stayed shut.

Good. He slowly turned his doorknob and let himself in, then sneaked to his bedroom.

The condo was quiet. No TV. No NBA Finals. No ESPN. Where was Garrett?

He dug a suitcase from his closet and plopped it onto his bed. A stack of shorts went in one corner. He grabbed jeans and arranged them in another.

“What’re you doing?”

He stilled at Garrett’s voice behind him. Man, he didn’t want to talk about this. But Garrett had seen him and Miska. Garrett wouldn’t stop until he knew all the details. Like how good of a kisser she was, how far—

He dropped the last pair of jeans into the suitcase and stared at it.

Garrett sniffed. “You all right?”

“Yeah.” He grabbed a handful of books from his nightstand.

“Miska told me what happened.”

Garrett probably had her tell it twice, just to have details to lord over him. He shoved the books between his jeans and shorts. “Did she?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm.” He crossed to his closet and grabbed sweatshirts from the top shelf. He tossed them at the suitcase, not caring that they fell half in, half out.

“What’s with the suitcase?”

“I’m leaving. I’ll stay at Mom and Dad’s until I figure something out.” Returning to his childhood bedroom made him sick. He wasn’t running home, but he had to get out of here, away from her, and right now home was his only option. “Maybe Cam has a spare room.”