Break So Soft: Break So Soft Duet Read online

  “I’m not talking to a fucking stalker,” she says, eyes on the exit.

  “Technically I’m your host,” I say.

  “What?” she pauses, obviously confused before shaking her head and starting forward again like she’s just reminded herself that she’s ignoring me.

  “Where do you think Jamaal got those VIP passes?”

  She freezes again at that and bingo, finally looks my way. “What are you even talking about?” She lifts a hand to her temple. “You know Jamaal?”

  I shrug. “He works in marketing and we got to talking after the last niche market strategy session meeting.” I smile because I’ve been told I have a charming smile and I’m not above using any weapon at my disposal if it means getting through to her.

  Apparently she’s immune, though, because she just turns and starts walking again, making a beeline for the exit.

  But when I continue beside her, she starts talking. “And you just happened to chat up my best work friend’s boyfriend? And get him a bunch of VIP passes to a club where you also just happen to show up? What, did you hint that he should get his girlfriend to invite a bunch of her friends from work?” She shakes her head. “Did you get buddy buddy enough with Jamaal to mention me by name?”

  That’s exactly what I did, except for mentioning her name. Give me a little more credit than that. But I’m done beating around the bush. None of this is addressing the real problem here. We’re almost to the club exit and she can’t leave before I say what needs saying.

  “It’s not safe. What you’re doing.” I gesture behind us in the general area of the dark corner we came from. “With random men like that. These…” I shake my head. Jesus, I don’t even know the word for what she’s doing. “These hookups. Men you don’t know, circumstances you can’t control.”

  Even saying it out loud has my fists clenching. She’s been putting herself in such danger and I’ve had to stand helpless from the sidelines. Maybe tonight was extreme—making up the excuse to give Jamaal the VIP tickets in an attempt to run into her in a setting outside of work—but I had to do something. I couldn’t just let her keep—

  “Oh my God, you have actually been following me,” she whispers in horror. “Not just tonight.” Her eyes are wide with the sudden realization.

  We’re finally at the club exit and she slams her whole body into the door to shove it open. She’s obviously furious, closing it in my face when I try to follow. Shit. This is going all wrong. I had a plan. I was going to be so suave. Why am I such a shit when it comes to people? Code, I get. Code, I understand. But people? I’ve learned to occasionally fake it over the years, but I’ve always been shit at people.

  “Callie, wait,” I call after I get the door open and follow after her.

  She was stomping away in those damn heels of hers but she spins and stabs a finger in my direction.

  “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I am in control.” She pounds her chest with her palm. “I say when. I say where. I say who. I say how. Nothing happens that I’m not in control of.”

  I don’t care about the audience—the bouncer standing only a few feet away by the entry door or all the people lined up outside the club.

  I face off with her. “Bullshit.”

  I point angrily back at the club. “That’s not safe. You think you’re in control because it’s public, but that’s bullshit. I know for a fact that ten feet from where you and that low life were there was an unlocked door to a hallway. What if a couple guys see you and decide to fuck with you? You think you’re in control and then boom,” I slap my hands together and she jumps from the noise but I don’t care. Maybe I’m finally getting through to her. “They drag you in there with the doors shut so no one can see or hear you.”

  “So I’m just supposed to be scared all the time?” She throws her hands in the air. “Or feel ashamed? So it’s my fault if I get attacked?” Her voice takes on a hysterical edge. “It’s my fault, huh? For dancing suggestively? For daring to tempt the guy because of what I’m wearing? Because I’ve got big tits? Is that what you’re fucking saying?”

  She goes to slam me in the chest again but I catch her wrists before she can. My chest roars at the contact and all I want to do is pull her into me. Instead I let her go even though it takes everything in me to do it.

  She’s in so much pain. I hear it in her voice. I see it in her face and it is fucking killing me. Killing me.

  What happened to you, Callie? What did he fucking do to you?

  “No,” I say firmly. “Christ, I hope you know me better than that.” Then again, who am I kidding? I run a hand through my hair and mutter, “Not that we had that much time together to get to know each other beyond the basics.”

  Was that it? Was that Gentry’s plan? Just to dangle the best thing of my life in front of me and then snatch her away? I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of it.

  All I know is that when Calliope Cruise came into my life, I realized I’d been asleep for years. Numb. I had my routines and I had my company and I thought I was happy. Well, maybe I’ve always thought true happiness was a myth but I was content enough anyway.

  Only to find out I was actually sleepwalking through my life.

  Because she woke me up.

  Nerves gone numb from not firing in years came back to life. It was like Dorothy going to Oz. Everything was suddenly in vivid, heart-breaking color.

  Things mattered again.

  And maybe the Tin Man could find his heart again after all. The thing is, I did. But it’s beating in her chest.

  I’m staring, I know it, but she’s not looking away either. And I feel it again—the connection that’s like a fucking hammer to the chest. I’m looking at my future. The only future I’ll ever want.

  And she deserves the truth. I won’t play games with her. I’ll never be anything like him. I don’t know what he did to her and maybe she’ll only be the ghost of my future. A future that could have been but never will be.

  Maybe that’s what I deserve and maybe it’s a mercy because though she deserves the truth, there are some things about my past I don’t think I could ever bring myself to tell her.

  “Maybe I have been stalking you—” her eyes flare at my words “—if by stalking, you mean having one of my security guys shadow you when you go out on your own.”

  She gasps and looks furious, her mouth opening like she’s about to go off on a tirade but I hold up a hand.

  “He always stays a respectable distance away. Nothing invasive is involved and he only follows you when you’re in public.”

  “So you had some guy fucking watching me? And what, like reporting back to you my every move?” She looks both furious and mortified and for the first time I second-guess my decision to have her followed. I only wanted to keep her safe. More than anyone, I know exactly how dangerous Bryce Gentry can be. It’s why I never wanted her working for him in the first place. Some part of me knew the security guard was an invasion of her privacy but her safety mattered more. It was all I could think about.

  Even if it was too little too late.

  I hold up my hands again. “He never got close enough to see anything. But when you went off alone with certain… individuals,” I swallow to hold back how I really feel, “he felt that they were unsafe scenarios. He just stayed within earshot in case he heard you in any distress. But he never saw anything,” I hurry to add.

  She makes an exasperated noise and I hurry on. I need to make her understand. “I’m worried about you, Callie. Something happened with Gentry. Don’t even try to deny it.”

  Her gaze drops at the name and I watch her closer than ever. She swallows and then I notice her hands are trembling.

  Jesus, no. She looks afraid. I’ve hoped that whatever he did, it was just threaten her. But what if he hurt her, physically? I’ll kill him. I’ll kill the fucking bastard.

  She starts to fidget with her hands and her chin juts out as if she realizes too and is upset about th
e fact.

  “Something happened, something bad, and you changed.” Everything in me wants to reach out to her. Please, Callie, just let me hold you. Let me make it better.

  But I also know that sometimes nothing makes it better. It’s a lesson Gentry himself taught me.

  If only there were a way to take on some of her hurt myself. To bear it for her. If only she would let me.

  She rubs her temples with both hands, looking tired. Looking overwhelmed. Clubgoers stream by us, in and out, voices chatter, cars honk, and the beat of the music from inside the club thunders on and on in the background.

  For a second when she looks at me, I can see indecision in her eyes and I think, maybe this is it. The moment she opens up to me. Maybe we can fix this and we’ll be stronger together. Maybe both of us can heal from the wounds Bryce Gentry inflicted on us.

  Because the truth is I need her to save me as much as I want to save her.

  But then she crosses her arms over her chest and glares at me. “So? What the fuck is this?” Her tone is scathing. “An intervention? Are you here to show me the error of my ways and lead me to the righteous path?”

  I can’t do anything but let out a dark, self-deprecating laugh at that question. “I’m the last person in the world to know anything about righteousness.” Our eyes catch again. “But I do know a little bit about finding my way back to sanity after Bryce Gentry blows up a person’s life.”

  She squirms a little under my gaze but she doesn’t look away.

  “I’m not suggesting that I know what you’ve been through,” I say, “whatever happened. I’m not saying that you should tell me what it was or that I have some great wisdom I can impart.”

  “What the hell are you saying then?” She throws up her hands.

  Okay, here’s the pitch I’ve been leading up to all night. Stay calm. Don’t let her see how much I want this. “There are safer ways to get the same—” I cast about for a word, “—effect as what you’ve been doing.”

  She blinks like, okaaaaaaaaaaaay. And?

  So I press on. “There are ways to do it safely. In controlled environments. One possibility is to do it with a partner that you have an established agreement with, no other attachment or strings.” My eyes briefly drop at this. Of course that’s what I’d want more than anything. Mainly because the thought of her with anyone else makes me want to put a fist through the wall.

  But by the look on her face it’s clear that’s not going to be on the table. Like she thinks I’m saying all of this just in an attempt to get her back in my bed. Which I’m not.

  At least I think I’m not. Jesus, I just want what’s best for her. In the end, I swear that even if I do want her, I want what’s best for her more.

  “But that’s not the only option.” I rush the words out. “There are groups of people and places, and I’d like to introduce you. It’s a world where safe, sane, and consensual are the most important tenants.”

  Her eyes widen like that phrase rings a bell. My breath quickens and yeah, my cock stiffens a little at the thought that she’s even passingly familiar with the idea of what I’m suggesting.

  “As in… BDSM?” she clarifies, eyebrows at her hairline. “Like Fifty Shades?”

  I look around. Jesus, say it a little louder. Then I lean in.

  “Okay, first of all, those books and movies got a lot of things wrong. A lot. And second, it doesn’t have to be seedy and sleazy.” My eyes search hers. “Most of us who live the lifestyle have perfectly normal lives on the outside. And like I said, all play is safe, sane, and consensual.”

  Her eyes went wide as saucers when I mentioned the ‘most of us who live the lifestyle’ part. What is she imagining in her head? Whips and contracts and ball gags? The Fifty Shades version of an emotionally distant, overly-manipulative dominant?

  Her eyes are darting every which way and she’s backed up a couple of steps. Shit, am I the one scaring her now?

  I frown and don’t go any closer. I don’t move back though, either. “I can’t tell if that face means wow, how interesting or, wow, how can I distract him because I need to get the hell out of here right now.”

  “It’s just…” she trails off. “A lot to take in?” Then she nods and repeats, “A lot to take in.” It’s a statement this time.

  And she’s not running. All good signs. “I understand. I do. I didn’t mean to,” I wave a hand, “ambush you like this. I was going to suavely run into you in the VIP lounge, buy a round of drinks for your group…”

  I shake my head before thinking about why plan went awry before I go looking for walls to put holes in. Just the image of her in that guy’s lap—

  “Yeah.” My hand goes to the back of my hair and then I drop it. Jesus, I’ve never met another woman who gets to me as much as Calliope Cruise.

  But better to leave it here than to press for too much too fast. “Well. You have my number. So.”

  I pause, waiting for her to say something. To give some indication of whether she’ll call or not. To stop me from leaving and declare her undying love for me.

  Yeah. She does neither.

  Time to go. I give her a half smile. “I’ll see you, Callie.”

  I stop myself from reaching for her as I pass by her to head for the town car. But only just barely. Where is all my normal discipline and iron control?

  I lock my jaw and start down the sidewalk.

  Okay.

  But I never could leave well enough alone. When I reach the corner, I turn back around. She’s just standing there on the corner, and God knows what could happen to her if—

  “My driver, Sam, is just around the corner,” I call back, “and I could—”

  She shakes her head quickly and holds up her phone. “My Uber’s coming. I’m good.”

  Of course. Callie is nothing if not self-reliant, or haven’t I learned anything after knowing her for four months?

  I flash her a smile, linger looking at her for only a moment because I want to memorize the way she looks tonight, and finally turn to go.

  Chapter Four

  CALLIE

  The bottle of wine I drank after getting home from that showdown with Jackson didn’t really help and only results in a monster headache on Saturday morning. Seeing him again after all these months…

  He was as gorgeous as ever. The firm jaw and the rough stubble on his face. His strong eyebrows and the flat, arrow shape of his nose. At one point when we were arguing, he stepped so close I could smell his aftershave.

  The familiar woodsy pine brought on a rush of memories I can’t help losing myself in: the stubble of Jackson’s cheek rasping on my neck as he kissed his way to my ear. Breathing him in while I clutched him close as he thrust into me, over and over again. Him mastering me…

  But he’s been fucking following you.

  I snap my eyes open and then go to wash my face with cold water. No. I will not be thinking about Jackson Vale anymore.

  I spend the rest of the weekend marathoning the second season of Outlander with my sister, Shannon. Thankfully Shannon is addicted to two things in life: strong coffee and immersive TV shows. When we have marathon TV sessions, she gets more lost in the story of the on-screen characters than anyone I’ve ever met. Perfect for me since it means she’s too caught up to concern herself with what’s going on in my life. So I spend the weekend watching TV, eating ice cream, folding laundry, and texting Lydia.

  What I do not do, however, is let myself think about any of the things that came out of Jackson Vale’s mouth.

  Nope. Not happening. I’m officially checked out for the weekend. The only drama I can handle is of the 18th-century Scottish variety.

  And, in small doses, Lydia’s. Lydia rarely has drama, after all. She’s really into the redhead from Friday night, Shayna. Turns out they didn’t hook up that first night. Instead they hung out and walked around downtown San Fran in what apparently turned into one of those epic all night get-to-know-you sessions that ended after sunrise and pancake
s.

  She only slept a few hours before waking up and immediately blowing up my phone with texts about every detail of the night. After more pings coming in before I can even text back, I finally just call her and we talk for about an hour.

  I’ve never heard her so excited about a girl. When we finally hang up I feel the briefest stab of something in my gut. Jealousy? No, I don’t think that’s it. Maybe just the hurt of a memory when I’d been similarly happy at the beginning of what I imagined might be a great relationship. Which leads back to thoughts of Jackson and the confusing tangle of thoughts and emotions and…

  “Come on,” Shannon calls. “How long does it take to go to the bathroom? They’re about to land back in Scotland. That means we’ll get to see Jamie in a kilt again. Get your butt back in here!”

  Yeah. Time to check out of my own life again. I hurry back into the living room. “Just let me grab another pint of Ben & Jerry’s.”

  * * *

  Now it’s Monday and I’m heading into the CubeThink offices with no better idea of what I would say to Jackson’s unorthodox proposal if I ran into him in the elevator. Not that I usually see him in the office. But what if he’s waiting in the lobby for me, ready to ambush me as I head into work?

  When I get there, though, the coast’s clear and I let out a small sigh of relief as the elevator climbs to my floor.

  I check my phone. 7:51. Good. I’m going to be conscientious to be early for a while so Marcy doesn’t hold the one time I was late against me for too long. No one can hold a grudge like that lady. So far I think she’s satisfied with my job performance, but you can never really tell with her. It’s not like she gives out compliments. She just seems to berate me less than others on the team.

  My immediate coworkers are a small group of four fellow coders. When I started, we were just scrubbing code that comes down to us from above, debugging and scrutinizing it for errors, and then setting up experiments to check run times. Wash, rinse, repeat.

  But lately, I’ve been getting to write some code. The algorithms we were working on in the middle of summer were dubbed too slow for product viability. We were given a shot at increasing data-run time with our own code, not just quality testing other people’s work.