Secrets of a One Night Stand by Naima Simone

Seven

Achilles plowed his fist into the punching bag, sending it spinning away and swinging back. He struck it once more, the power singing up his arm and into his shoulder. He welcomed the vibration that carried a subtle, sweet burn. He sought it, chased it as he pummeled the bag again and again until his arms trembled with fatigue and sweat dripped off his face and bare chest.

The gym in Farrell International had quickly become Achilles’s favorite area of the building, next to his office. In both places, he lost himself either in code or in the numbing exhaustion of exercise. He could lock himself away...lock everyone else out. Even Cain and Kenan.

Guilt flickered in his chest, and he smothered the urge to rub at the spot, as if he could erase it like a smudge of dirt. If only it were that simple.

He scowled, stalking over to the weight bench where he’d left his towel and bottle of water. Snatching both up, he wiped off the perspiration and downed almost half the water. At seven o’clock at night, he had the place all to himself. After a long day at work, most of the employees champed at the bit to leave. Not him. He delayed going back to that luxurious penthouse that had come with the appointment of co-CEO. Luxurious and cold. Three months he’d lived there, and he still felt like a squatter. To be fair, though, he had no desire to be there.

The cavernous apartment with its floor-to-ceiling walls, fireplaces huge enough for a man his size to stand in, a kitchen that would make Emeril Lagasse weep in envy, a library that his mother would’ve wrestled Belle to get...

It didn’t make sense that he could live in a place so huge and still battle claustrophobia.

Nine more months.

That had become his mantra.

Nine more months, and his promise to Cain would be fulfilled. And then he could return to his cabin. His life. His peace.

Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed in battered but comfortable jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, he moved behind his desk, his mind already focused on work. Not for Farrell, though. No doubt it violated about ten company rules, but he used his after-work hours when all the rest of the staff had gone home to return to his pet project—the one he’d been laboring on for over a year now.

A high-fantasy, open-world, action-adventure video game geared toward at-risk youth. With world building that was a cross between the inner city and Middle Earth, he aimed to challenge players, teach them teamwork, decision-making, discipline, problem-solving, to think outside the box.

Six months of that year had been working with a psychologist on Achilles’s mission and figuring out what elements he needed to include in the game to reach the kind of youth he’d once been. The youth he’d met and lived with for two years while locked up. This game wasn’t just a possible moneymaker for him; it was his passion. He didn’t want to hear why it wasn’t marketable. Or that while his ideals were laudable, they weren’t realistic. That’s why he hadn’t told anyone about it.

He might now be a millionaire, living in a penthouse at the top of a high-rise, but that didn’t expunge lessons learned from bullies’ fists or slaps from his mother’s boyfriends: No one cares how smart you are. Keep it to yourself.

Achilles sank into his chair, reaching for his mouse to bring up his programs on the three monitors on his desk. His fingers flew across the keyboard, and within minutes he became engrossed in the script.

“Hey, Achilles.” A fist rapped the top of his desk, reluctantly dragging him out of the world of code. “I’m not above doing something completely immature to get your attention. We both know this.”

Sighing, Achilles leaned back in his chair and met an identical blue-gray gaze. Kenan smiled at him, dropping into the visitor’s chair, his long legs sprawling out in front of him. Unlike Achilles, his half brother still wore a dark blue, beautifully tailored business suit that appeared as fresh as if he’d just donned it minutes ago instead of hours.

“What’re you doing here?” Achilles asked.

Kenan heaved a theatrical, loud sigh. “Aging well before my time worrying about you. I’m too young and pretty for these lines of concern to be etched in my forehead.” He circled a finger over the nonexistent wrinkles. “So I’m asking you the same question. What are you doing here so late?”

Achilles snorted. Both at the dramatics and the deflection. Kenan might be better at hiding his ambition and hunger behind his charm and magnetic smile, but the other man didn’t fool Achilles. Demons pursued his younger half brother, too. Achilles just didn’t know Kenan well enough to identify them by name.

“Working.” He jerked his chin up at Kenan. “Your turn.”

“I’m wrapping up a couple of things.” Kenan cocked his head and studied Achilles through shrewd eyes that belied his smirk. “But unlike you, Jan, I don’t make a habit of burning the midnight oil. What gives?”

“Jan?” Yeah, he was stalling, but still... What the hell?

“Y’know, Jan. Middle child. Brady Bunch. ‘Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!’” he chanted in an impressive falsetto. “You exhibit classic middle-child syndrome.” He returned to his normal voice with a wide grin. Holding up a hand, he ticked off each point with a finger. “Unsocial behavior. I mean, instead of choosing an office on the executive floor with Cain and me, you purposefully chose to be down here in the basement in a closet.”

“It’s not the basement,” Achilles muttered.

Ignoring him, Kenan continued, “Trust issues. In spite of Cain trying to include you in Farrell business and showing you he’s trying to make an effort to build a relationship with us, you’re as cold as a hundred years of winter.” When Achilles arched an eyebrow at his Narnia reference, Kenan scowled. “What? I read. And third, and the one that will possibly get me thrown out of here on my really great ass, but I’m going to say it anyway...”

Kenan leaned forward, planting his elbows on his thighs, his gaze losing all hint of humor and trapping Achilles behind his desk. In this moment, Achilles sympathized with a butterfly mounted on a corkboard.

“You don’t want to get too close to Cain and me. Hell, you probably have your plane ticket already bought for the one-year anniversary of the reading of the will when you can return to Washington. But whether you admit it to yourself or not, you want us as brothers. You’re just afraid we won’t want you back. Which is bullshit. Because we’re not Barron. Or...” Kenan’s mouth hardened, locking away whatever else he would’ve said, but the flint in his eyes remained. “Like I said, we’re not Barron.”

Achilles stared at him, stunned. And if he could move, then maybe he would’ve kicked Kenan out of his office as he’d predicted.

His brother’s words echoed through him, pounding inside his head like hammers. He longed to lash out at Kenan, order him to mind his own business. To stay out of his. That DNA didn’t give him the right to go digging around in his psyche or play armchair psychologist. Or better yet, to tell Kenan he didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. Not about the office. Not about trusting him or Cain. And damn sure not about wanting their love or brotherhood.

Achilles was doing them a favor by staying. Wasn’t that enough? What more did Kenan want from him? It was all he had to give. All he was willing to give.

All he could afford to give, goddammit.

His breath roared in his head. It lifted and dropped in his chest.

Slowly, he straightened fingers that he hadn’t even realized had curled into tight fists. And second by second, he deliberately relaxed his body. Only then did he dare to meet Kenan’s steady gaze. He expected challenge or even smug satisfaction to be in that Farrell blue-gray gaze. Instead, a disarming and disquieting compassion greeted him.

Part of him would’ve preferred the smug satisfaction.

“I think somewhere in California, Dr. Phil is sighing in relief that his job is safe.”

The corner of Kenan’s mouth quirked, and he shrugged a shoulder. “He better keep an eye on that wife of his, though. Robin’s hot.” Standing, he stretched. “I’m about to head out. What about you? Are you going to be here much longer?”

Saying yes would only invite more unwanted analysis so he shook his head. “No, I’m going to shut it down in a few minutes.”

“In that case, join me for dinner.”

Well, shit. He’d walked right into that one.

As if reading his mind, Kenan grinned. “You would be doing me a favor. My parents called and nagged me about not coming home in forever. With you there, they wouldn’t dare air dirty laundry in front of a guest. It simply isn’t done.” Something flashed in his eyes, there and gone before Achilles could decipher it, but the grin remained. “Say you’ll be my beard.”

“As tempting as that sounds—” A buzz echoed in the room, and Achilles glanced down, noting the flashing red light on the company IT help line. Looked like someone else was working late, too.

Kenan snorted. “Huh. Saved by the bell. Literally. If only I had that excuse.” He gave Achilles a mock salute. “Talk to you later, Jan.”

Kenan strode out of the office with a chuckle. Glaring after him, Achilles picked up the phone and jabbed the blinking button.

“IT.”

“Oh, thank goodness. I hoped someone was still there.”

Oh. Fuck.

He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. God hated him. Had to. Otherwise, why would that voice stroke his ear?

“Hello?” Mycah asked. “Are you still there?”

Lowering his arm, Achilles gripped the receiver tighter. “Yes, Mycah. I’m still here.”

Her soft gasp echoed across their connection. “Achilles?”

“It’s me,” he said, impatience sliding into his voice. “What do you need?”

He didn’t miss her brief hesitation, and he fully expected her next words to be “never mind.” But this was Mycah.

“My computer just made this weird buzzing noise, then the screen did this even weirder staticky thing. I rebooted it, and now I can’t find the most recent copy of the document I was working on. And I’m trying not to panic.”

Trying and failing, because he clearly caught the thread of it in her voice.

“I’ll be right up.”

“Wait.”

He paused, listening to her agitated breath over the line. “What?”

“You can’t...” She emitted a sound that landed somewhere between a cough and a groan. “...you can’t just tell me how to fix it over the phone?”

“No, I can’t.” He barely managed to swallow his snort. “What’s the matter, Mycah? You have a problem being in the same space with me?”

“Of course not,” she snapped. This time he didn’t bother containing the snort. “Fine. See you when you get here.”

The line went dead, and for a moment, he continued to hold the receiver to his ear. A grim smile curved his mouth.

He must be a glutton for punishment.

Because he could most definitely accomplish the task remotely, and with any other employee, he would’ve fixed her problem that way. But at the thought of seeing her, slivers of excitement stirred to life in his chest for the first time in two weeks.

Definitely a glutton.

Achilles ground his teeth together as he tried to focus on the computer monitor in front of him. And not on the woman behind him. Which was damn difficult to do when her lavender-and-cedar scent taunted him with what he’d once tasted but could never allow himself to have again.

Next time, he didn’t care if he had to text her a PowerPoint. He wasn’t coming up here to this office.

“What’re you doing again?” she asked, leaning over her his shoulder.

Not breathing wasn’t an option. Dammit. “Locating your autorecovery folder to see if your documents are in there.” His fingers flew across her keyboard. It sounded simple, but there were multiple steps required. He worked in silence, and in minutes found the folder. “What are the names of the files?”

Mycah pressed closer, her lush hip brushing his arm. He locked down a growl and forced himself not to flinch from the glancing touch that had lust blazing a path straight to his cock.

Employee. She was his employee now.

Off-limits.

Besides, she’d made it perfectly clear that their night together had been an aberration. For him, it had been, too. Because he’d been looking for a one-night stand and instead it’d ended up being the most intimate, emotional connection he’d had with someone in a very long time. And if that wasn’t sad as fuck, then he didn’t know what beat it.

Sadder still because he couldn’t wrangle control over this need for her, even knowing she was a liar.

And not because she preferred to keep their relationship professional.

He hadn’t misled her when he’d said he understood her reasons. He also hadn’t meant to reveal all that he had about his mother, yet it didn’t change the fact that he did get it.

No, she was a liar about the why.

And the why was always the most important.

“Damn, you are good,” she breathed. “Those right there.” She tapped the monitor. “‘Release Policies and Procedures.’ ‘Operations Agenda Quarter One. Grisham Inc.’” She exhaled and it ended on a short burst of laughter. “Thank you, Achilles. I was a nervous wreck thinking I would have to re-create all of those files.”

“You’re welcome.” He quickly pulled up the documents, then opened and saved them. “You should be fine now.”

Shoving back her chair, he rose, but a small, delicate hand on his forearm might as well as have been a steel manacle, it stopped him that effectively. He stared down at that slim, long-fingered hand with its neatly polished nails. Branded. The heat, the intensity—it dug past flesh and seemed to scar. He fully expected to see the imprint of her palm on his skin when she removed her hand.

Yet he didn’t move.

Because masochist that he was, he enjoyed the pain of the burn.

“Achilles,” she murmured, hesitated. Then, as if remembering she still touched him, glanced down and lowered her arm. Didn’t matter. The phantom imprint remained behind. “I was just about to, uh—” she stepped back, rubbed her arms up and down “—order food. Would you like to have dinner?”

He stared at her. Noted that she wouldn’t look at him.

“Doesn’t dinner cross the professional line you’ve drawn?”

That brought her head up, those gorgeous curls falling away from her face. And when her espresso eyes narrowed on him, something like satisfaction flared bright inside his gut.

He recognized it.

Had experienced it often when he’d grown big enough to fight back. And win.

The light of battle.

“Not when we’re just two colleagues sharing a meal,” she said evenly, though her gaze clearly ordered him to fuck off.

Did it make him perverse to be delighted by that visual middle finger?

Maybe.

But it was probably the lesser of two evils.

The second evil being his hard dick kicking against his zipper.

“One, we can never be ‘just two colleagues.’ Not as long as I’m me. People won’t allow that.” He planted one hand on her desk, fingers splayed wide, and gripped the back of her office chair with the other. Leaning forward, he said, voice low, “And two, you’re a much better actress than I gave you credit for if you can sit across from me, talk about office gossip over chicken Parmesan and pretend you don’t know how it is to have me swallow your moan as I push inside your body.” He slowly shook his head. “Sorry. I’m not that good an actor.”

Her eyes dilated, the pupils nearly engulfing the irises. “So you don’t need friends?” she asked.

“Not you.”

She barely flinched at the blunt answer, but he caught it. And part of him—the part that hadn’t been cauterized in that jail and by the equally harsh life lessons that followed—almost reached for her. Almost cupped her jaw and thumbed the patrician slope of her cheekbone.

Almost apologized, even knowing she, an illustrious Hill, didn’t consider him worthy enough of the word friend.

“Do you need anyone?” Mycah murmured.

The no hovered on his tongue, abrupt and definite in his head. But he couldn’t utter it. Because as loud as the no roared in his mind, a small voice whispered underneath that it was a lie.

“Achilles—”

“Oh, honey, I’m so glad I found you,” a feminine voice purred.

Surprise rippled through Achilles, and he stiffened, shifting away from Mycah and glancing toward the office door.

Mycah’s mother.

He didn’t need an introduction for her identity to be confirmed. Even if he hadn’t done a deep dive on Mycah after the interview, it would’ve required only one glance at the older woman to determine their relationship. Though instead of her daughter’s riotous curls, she wore her dark brown hair ruthlessly straight, they shared the same oval-shaped, chocolate eyes, elegant facial features and wide, generous mouth. The same smooth, brown skin. There were subtle differences, too.

A calculating hardness in her mother’s eyes that Mycah hadn’t yet adopted.

Faint lines fanned out from the older woman’s mouth, as if she spent an inordinate amount of time with it pursed in disapproval. Which was a shame.

One day, would Mycah wear the same lines? Carry identical shrewdness in her gaze?

He glanced at her, and a weight settled on his chest. So heavy he fought the urge to rub it away.

“Mom.” Mycah briefly met his gaze, and he caught a flash of emotion that on anyone else he would’ve labeled concern. But that couldn’t be right. Why the hell would she be worried about him? “What are you doing here? At my job?” she asked, an edge in her tone.

Her mother laughed, a delighted, charming sound that grated across his nerves.

“To see my daughter, of course. Is that any way to greet your mother? Your friend will think we’re heathens.” She strode farther into the office, her arms outstretched.

If Achilles hadn’t been studying Mycah so closely, he might not have noticed her hesitation, but he did observe the pause before she crossed the room and briefly embraced her mother, air-kissing both cheeks, then stepping back.

“That’s much better,” her mother admonished, brushing at the shoulder of Mycah’s pale green shirt. “Getting you to return a phone call is a minor miracle, so you left me no other choice but to come hunt you down.” Then, as if remembering Achilles’s presence, she switched her attention to him with a warm smile. “I’m sorry for just barging in and interrupting. I’m Cherise Hill, Mycah’s mother. And you are?”

“Achilles Farrell.”

Recognition glinted in her dark eyes, and unease crept down his spine. Instinct warned that his identity hadn’t come as a surprise to her.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Farrell. You and your family have caused quite a stir these past few months.” She approached him, her arm extended.

His chest tightened, everything in him repelling at the idea of grasping that hand, but despite the rumors circulating about his nature, he did have manners.

Enveloping her hand in his, he lightly squeezed it, then released her. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Hill.”

“Hmm.”

She studied him, and manners or not, he returned the favor. He knew her type, had come in contact with it even before arriving in Boston. If she expected him to cower and fidget underneath that analyzing, patronizing inspection, well, life was full of disappointments. The days when he bent for any man or woman were long gone.

“Mom, I’m sorry you had to come all the way downtown. But what is it that you needed?” Mycah pressed, drawing Cherise Hill’s focus away from him and back to her.

Why did he get the sense that she had that maneuver down to a fine art?

“Well, like I said, if you’d have returned my or your father’s calls, you would’ve known that we are planning a dinner party for a week from tonight.”

“A party,” Mycah repeated, tone flat. She crossed her arms, and Achilles frowned at the gesture that didn’t strike him as annoyed but rather reeked of self-protection.

“Yes, honey, a party.” Flint slid into Cherise’s voice. “And consider this your official invite. And you, too, Mr. Farrell.” She whipped around, aiming another of those hostess smiles his way, the warmth of it belied by the hint of frost in her gaze. “We would absolutely love if you joined us.”

“Mom—”

“Thank you. I accept.”

The words leaped out of him before he could cage them or consider the ramifications. But he didn’t rescind them. Even when he noted the flicker of satisfaction in Cherise’s eyes.

Even when he caught the glint of disquiet in Mycah’s.

A glutton.

He was most definitely a glutton for punishment.