Take Me Over: A Protector Enemies-to-Lovers Romance Page 8

  I was still trapped under Luthor's clutches and destined to go down in a ball of unimpressive flames. I didn't care then. Not in that moment when my heart felt lively enough to punch through my chest.

  He didn't deserve the trouble that I'd brought. Not at all.

  "Victoria?" He called, noticing my mind wander to the band and their steadily rising cords. "...Are you okay?"

  "Yes. Yes." I stammered. "I'm fine...Just..."

  He looked past our table—and the several other rows—to the stage where the band had been performing like it was a full house.

  We'd sat just close enough to make out their faces but far enough that the music wouldn't drown out our conversation. He'd put a lot of thought into that day. Much more thought than I'd ever bothered to give him.

  I wanted to change that. I just didn't know how.

  "...This band is amazing, aren't they?" I was hoping to cover up whatever expression that I'd had on my face. He seemed concerned.

  I took another sip of my drink to calm the nerves that were scratching their way back to the surface.

  "They are," he answered. "We should get closer..."

  "What," I startled.

  "Come on!" The smile on his face was inviting as a bed after three days of no sleep. He removed his suit jacket—his muscles spilling through his dress shirt as he unwrapped it from his arms and the steel looking length of his back.

  "Wha—What are you doing. Our food’s coming, silly."

  "Oh, come on. Don't turn me down. It's just one dance."

  "Dance!" I startled. "Since when do you dance?"

  He was clearly amused as he pulled out my chair from the table and offered his hand to me. "A man doesn't lose his legs and get them back only to not appreciate it." He had a point. "Come on," he assured. "It'll be fun."

  "But Brenton," taking his hand with some hesitation—as if I didn't love the idea. A girl like me could dance every day of her life and still want more. "I haven't danced in forever."

  "Don't worry," he said and brushed a stray strand of hair from out of my eyes. "I'll lead."

  By then, I'd been smiling so much that my cheeks began to hurt. "Okay," I answered and we made our way past the hundreds of empty seats—to the dance floor, that we had all to ourselves.

  "L-O-V-E" by Nat King Cole boomed from the stage as we made our way to the center of the dance floor—arm in arm like newly-weds. The lead singer of the band, was a dead-ringer for the man himself and had a voice as silky smooth as melted chocolate.

  Brenton held my hand as we arrived at our spot, just a few feet away from the band. He stopped me just short of the stage—where we could smell the copper of the instruments and whatever fragrance the band had doused themselves with. It was an odd mix of cologne and barbeque sauce.

  I was taken aback by the entire scenario. Though, I’d been to B.B. King’s on several occasions—alone or otherwise—I'd never felt as a part of the ambiance as I did in that moment. Where I’d grown accustomed to watching the litany of proposals, romantic gestures, and good times—I found myself in the midst of making such a memory all on my own.

  I followed Brenton—lagging behind him with the kind of hesitance that the city had taught me. It wasn’t fear. Rather, it was like being born. Being thrust into a dimension that most could only dream about and pine for. There I was. The underserving me. Reaping the benefits of emotions that I believed had long dissipated from my emotional capacity.

  With him, I was more than just myself. I was more than just my mistakes. I was better. I was whole. I was free.

  Brenton pulled me close and dropped one hand just above my waist as the other wrapped beneath my arm and cradled my lower back. He'd been gently tickling the same spot that he always had—whenever we'd hugged in the past.

  He used to call it my “soft spot”. Though, I’d be lying if I were to tell anyone that such a name hadn’t brought me immediate woe. I was far from that skinny bitch with the tight body that I used to be. But, he didn’t seem to care as he pulled me close enough to see the wrinkles in his lips.

  He was as lost in the moment as I was.

  I held him just as tightly—hoping to God that we could stay lost together. For a minute or two, it seemed possible.

  It's like no time had passed at all since our younger years. I was that young girl again. Only this time, I knew who I was holding beside my heart. I understood that flooding feeling that would overwhelm me whenever I was near him. I knew that he was the one. To some extent, I suppose that I always had.

  As the bassist set off on his notorious solo, Brenton and I swayed—chest to chest—each of us humming along as if we were some tangent affiliate of the band. It was as if our bodies had emboldened the notes and emphasized their meaning. We waded in each other's arms like the surface of a current.

  No resistance.

  No chaos.

  Just the two of us and our bodies falling back into sync with one another. His cement-hard body pressed into mine like a guillotine though a pear—I could feel him rising against the curve of my inner thigh as I laid my head onto his chest and thought of what he would feel like inside of me.

  I parted my legs—just a bit—to cradle his protruding cock as it pulsed against his thin pants and bounced up against my clit.

  It was enough to drive me mad. Any woman could have been driven mad by this god-like man whose body sang of masculinity and mind rang of brilliance. Shrouded in his sweet aroma, I told him something that I shouldn’t have.

  “I’ve missed this...”

  We never used to dance, but we always cuddled—cradled in each other’s arms like two spoons in a utensil drawer—exhaling the world and its problems in favor of our stolen time in isolation.

  “...I’ve missed us.” He answered me as if it would be our very last time together. It was then, that it hit me. What if it was? What if Brenton Fox’s main objective was to walk a bit in the past before exonerating himself from his memories? What if all that he wanted was the taste of the man that he used to be?

  “You don’t have to anymore...” I said. “Not if you don’t want to.”

  He took pause at my invitation. I think it’s safe to say that it startled him. Caught him off guard. Threw him off of his game. I couldn’t blame him. After what we’d been through together, he would’ve been right to assume that I was nothing, if not, that manipulative teenager with a smile that could’ve started World War 3.

  He thought of me as that same monster. I’d say that he was only partially right. Yes, I was still trouble—but for the first time in my life, I wanted nothing but to be free of it. To live in peace.

  To be with him.

  I wanted him to understand. I wanted him to believe me. But with a slight dab of his index on my lips, I was hushed and all at once humble.

  “Let’s save the conversation for lunch,” he said, and wrapped his arms beneath mine, holding me as tightly as a Chinese finger-trap.

  We’d have the conversation, but not until our song was over.

  Not until I'd breathed in enough of his scent that I would never forget it again.

  "Excuse me..."

  Or, until our food arrived.

  "Mr. Fox. Ms. Mills." Our waiter seemed to have popped up out of nowhere as we swayed along with the song. I thought to give him the look of death, however, after seeing Brenton beat me to the punch, I resided to lay my head back into his chest and continue feeling his slight erection.

  "Your food will be out in less than sixty seconds," he announced as the servers appeared from the shadows, holding large platters and two bottles of champagne.

  "Seems like we have to cut this short," Brenton said.

  He was right. This was, after all, still supposed to be a professional occasion.

  But, he'd never know how badly I wished that it could have been something more.

  12

  Victoria

  “So...” I interrupted shortly after Brenton had made his way through half of his meal. When our serv
er arrived, it snapped him out of whatever trance that I’d enraptured him in. In an instant, he’d returned to his extended rants about his business acumen.

  He was stalling. Afraid to have the conversation. I thought that it would be best to let him have his moments of serene ritual—if only to comfort him to the idea of the bombshell that I inevitably had waiting for him.

  At every sight of my lips parting—to say anything—he'd interrupt. When, I’d finally had enough, I waited for a particularly tough piece of steak to clog his speech.

  He was defenseless.

  “...What have you been up to all of these years,” I said—trying to maintain the smile that I’d forced between my cheeks. “...aside from taking a heap of dance classes?” I just wanted to lighten the mood.

  His eyes darted open once he’d realized that his mouth had been too full to change the subject. I took a sip of champagne to keep it from getting too awkward. The extra seconds helped him to compose himself a bit, maybe even acclimate to someone else running the conversation. It was obvious that, though the money had left his sensibilities intact, the billions had done a number on his social skills.

  His expressions varied between utter shock and slight resentment.

  “Well,” he said, sounding like he had a sock stuffed in his mouth. With a painful looking swallow, his jaw was once again free and he responded, “...you mean other than plotting to take over the world.” I’d finally made him smile. As little progress as it was, it felt like we were getting somewhere.

  “Sure...” I joked. “Other than your plans for world domination, what have you been doing?”

  He made it a point to finish his glass of champagne and pour another before answering. “Working on myself. For the most part, that is...” He swilled down another sip and averted his gaze. “Trying to prove all of the bullies wrong, you know?”

  “Well...” I laughed. “At a net worth more than some countries, what else do you really have to prove?”

  His wandering gaze had found something of which to affix itself. Something behind me. At a glance, all that I’d seen were his stalking security guards and a line of angry, would-be, customers forming outside of the door, awaiting our departure.

  “Do you remember Malcolm Reed?” He asked and slowly brought his attention back to me.

  Malcolm Reed, I thought. Of course, I remembered him. There wasn’t a day that’d gone by that I didn’t curse his name. I imagined that Brenton had been feeling something similar.

  “No,” I lied. “I can’t say that I do...”

  “Hmm...” Brenton scoffed. “I guess that you have no reason to...I just thought—”

  At the sight of his eyes dipped into crescent frowns, I reached my hand across the table and dropped it on his own, massaging it with my thumb as I always had back when Brenton and I were innocent and pitted against the world, together.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing...It’s just that...It was him, Victoria.”

  I knew.

  “...He was the one who took a lead pipe to my fragile body and changed my life forever. He’s the reason that I still feel pain when it rains. Snows. Anything that isn’t basically a beach in the summer.”

  He refilled his glass and let the carbonation fizzle around its rim before continuing. “He’s the one who broke me.”

  “Brenton,” I eked. “I understand if that bothers you. We don’t have to talk about it.”

  “There isn’t much to say...He’s dead.”

  “What?” I was genuinely stunned. Malcolm Reed was one of the most popular athletes (and Fraternity brothers) that SUNY Albany had ever known. Thanks to some well-placed investments, he’d essentially been granted a free ride all the way to political office, poised to join the next generation of assholes who’d control everything.

  I could imagine that, with his death, Brenton had been poised to fill that empty slot. Though, he’d fought hard for it.

  “What happened?”

  “Overdose.”

  “Jesus...” I gripped Brenton’s hand like a leather glove—unsure of what my response should have been. “Are you alright...” He seemed to be hiding something.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “I’m fine...It’s just that...”

  The crowd gathered outside had begun banging at the door and screaming, “It’s two! It’s two ‘o’ clock!”

  Somehow, we’d blown through all of our time—even the wait staff was beginning to become testy. All the money in the world couldn’t have replaced their tips for the evening. To make matters worse, they weren’t exactly thrilled with standing around and watching a couple swoon over one another.

  “You want to get out of here,” Brenton invited.

  “Sure,” I answered. “But, where do you want to go?”

  He smiled that gleefully naïve smile that I’d known him for. “I have an idea.”

  Brenton went ahead and made the call for me. Despite it having been Luthor’s last official day as the head of the company, it was still his responsibility to deal with any absence on behalf of his primary staff.

  Where Luthor had likely expected an easy day of drinking and collecting the last of his unwarranted applause, he’d be forced to deal with the variety phone calls and other meaningless tasks that he’d have me do.

  Brenton had made up some lie about needing me to assist him with the transitional paperwork. With his clout, he could’ve had any number of overqualified individuals handle such a task for him. Though, I suspected that a majority of his own obligations were fulfilled.

  Even if they weren’t, the only man that he had to answer to was himself and the equally famed Ian Brice.

  When we arrived at his hotel, he dawdled on about the changing world and the business climate being “ripe” for his takeover.

  It’s almost as if he’d just wanted me to listen. Anyone, really.

  “You mind hanging out in here, while I get changed?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I answered. “As long as we can keep drinking.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  He'd reserved a luxury suite at the Four Seasons hotel—within walking distance of B.B. King’s.

  The hotel room was nearly twice as large as any room that I’d ever been in. Upon entering, I was swarmed by the cream-colored carpets and off-white walls with a golden trim that extended through the suite as King Midas himself had been dragging his fingers across the room. Despite the neutral colors, everything popped with the subtle beauty of a mountain or a skyline at dawn.

  Past the small walkway, two couches sat in the center of the living room. I slid my own fingers across the fabric, both to admire it and to ensure that it hadn’t been a dream. Hanging on the wall, directly across the room was a one-hundred-inch flat screen that rivaled the floor to ceiling windows that bordered an entire section of the room. The sheer magnitude of each was enough to give me pause.

  A loud clink grabbed my attention.

  I looked over to the kitchen, similarly cream colored and adorned with stainless steel appliances. Brenton had been standing beside the kitchen island with two glasses and a decanter of rum that smelled of graham crackers and vanilla extract.

  “Ice?”

  “Sure...” I answered and let my body melt onto the cloud-like couch. “Not too much.”

  “You got it.”

  As he poured our drinks, I found myself lost in the fantasy of it all. Left to gaze about his palace of a room as I pretended not to be impressed. He floated over to me, his blazer gone and his dress shirt unbuttoned, bringing with him two glasses of some of the finest drink that I’d ever had the pleasure of enjoying.

  He sat on the opposite end of the couch, just close enough for the tips of mismatching shoes to graze his leg. “Party time,” he joked and handed me my glass, letting my fingers linger between his before he let go.

  “We should toast to something,” he said.

  “Something like what?”

  He raised his glass in lin
e with his shoulder and awaited mine to meet him in the space between us. I followed in kind—still hoping that at some point he’d make his move. That he would take me off to that world that I’d so often visited in my dreams.

  “To old friends and new adventures,” he said with a grin and an expectant look on his face. I touched my glass to his.

  “To new friends and memories,” I said.

  Our glasses clinked and just as soon as they did, our eyes buried in the rims of glasses. I’d stolen a look or two as the liquid emptied into my stomach and set my mind ablaze with the welcomed possibility that the moment could have been more.

  But it wasn’t.

  With our glasses empty, he landed his on the coffee table beside us and shot to his feet. “I’m going to take a quick shower...I can still smell that flight on me. It should only be a few minutes. Do you need anything?”

  “Some more of this would be nice,” I answered as I placed my glass beside his. I wasn’t necessarily referring to the liquor.

  “Help yourself,” he added with a smile. “I won’t be long.”

  Just as soon as he finished his sentence, he was gone.

  And I was alone with nothing but my thoughts and the sight of a new text message from Luthor Greene.

  “DID YOU GET HIM???” It read.

  I pretended not to see it.

  It’d been having too good of a time to let Luthor ruin it. If I had my way, I would’ve made sure that he never ruined another moment for me again.

  Then again, I rarely got my way.

  13

  Brenton

  “Come on, Brenton! Come on,” I muttered to myself in the bathroom mirror as I contemplated what to do next. I didn’t expect to bring her there. Even less, I hadn’t anticipated that she’d ever want to spend more time around me than absolutely necessary.

  I was an asshole. People tend to avoid that kind of personality.

  But not her. Not my Victoria.