Shattered Dynasty by Ava Harrison
19
Payton
Devil.
Anti-Christ.
Lucifer.
All better names that are much more fitting than Trent Aldridge.
He is evil personified.
Okay, maybe that’s dramatic, seeing as other than mess with my life, he hasn’t killed anyone, namely me, yet. Yet being the operative word.
Something whispers in my brain that he has nefarious plans for me. Actually, not something.
Him.
He literally says this to me.
Which is why I don’t trust him at all.
But there is something that doesn’t make sense. I understand his anger. His dad neglected him and paid attention to me. His dad left his family for mine.
I represent the source of his pain.
Yet something else is simmering beneath the surface. Something I’m too afraid to identify.
Oh, I’ve identified a lot. Who am I kidding?
I know he was sporting wood when he left my room after I so smartly undressed in front of him.
Finally got him to shut up. But damn if he didn’t turn the tables on me last night in the kitchen with nothing on but gray sweatpants. Those things should be outlawed.
Shit. I can’t be thinking of him like that now. Not when I need to get ready, but instead am hot and sticky and in need of a shower, desperately.
Damn it.
I march into the bathroom, swing the glass door open, and turn the shower on. The water cascades down on me, engulfing me in its heat.
It reminds me of the type of rain that one would dance in as a child.
It awakens my senses and helps get me ready for the day.
The water is peaceful, calming, and I wish I could stay here forever.
But unfortunately, I need to get out, and when I do, I’ll have to see him.
Those eyes.
They’ll mock me. Tease me. Glare at me with hate. Why do they have to be the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen? And why, when he stares, does my body go warm?
When he touches me, every nerve ending comes alive.
Can I hate someone and crave their contact at the same time?
My body heats, but not because of the water that batters down on me, but from the way he makes me feel.
Needy.
So fucking needy all the time.
What would it be like for a moment to put away the animosity. To pretend we weren’t enemies?
I reach my hand out, pouring the liquid soap onto my skin and scrubbing.
The suds of the soap trailing down between the valley of my breasts, making my nipples pebble.
Thoughts of Trent have my legs shaking with a pent-up emotion.
I close my eyes, imagining the man I hate is here.
Imagining him touching me.
My hand slips down my chest . . .
Past my navel. It slides to the place I wish he was, and with a flick of my finger, I pretend it’s his tongue.
My touch is now his touch.
All rational thoughts leave my mind as I envision a world where Trent Aldridge worships me. Where I chase my high on his lips.
My hips buck, my pulse speeds up, and then I crash down from above, full sated.
Shit.
Looking down to where my legs are still parted, my back goes ramrod straight.
I did not just orgasm to fantasies of Trent.
You keep telling yourself that.
Grabbing a towel from the hook, I scrub at my body, trying to rid myself of the memory of what I just did.
How am I ever going to look at him?
You’re not.
Once I’m dry, I get dressed.
Taking a deep breath, I place my hands on my skirt and straighten it.
He never did tell me the dress code for tonight.
I’m not sure where he’s taking me.
It could be a soup kitchen. Or maybe he’s taking me to a hospital to play with children.
I have no clue, which is why I am wearing a pale-blue cotton dress that falls right above my knee.
It’s casual.
Yet cute.
It isn’t dressy or showy and blends well with almost any situation.
On my feet are ballet flats in a bright white.
Again, simple.
I can run if I need to.
Ready for whatever the devil will throw at me.
He said five o’clock, but I’m ready at four thirty.
I have no desire to piss him off right now.
Been there. Done that. Have the receipts—or in my case, the callus on my palm from cleaning his gym—to prove it.
It’s bad enough that he has me reading about Jung. It’s not that I don’t like his writings, but I am swamped with school, and the idea of presenting in front of Trent and his staff, people I see every day and technically work with, is humiliating.
Since I’m ready, I go in search of Trent.
First, I check the kitchen, but when that’s empty, I walk down the hallway to his office.
Nothing.
Next, I find myself walking toward the room I think is his bedroom.
Heaven forbid I’m tardy.
I’m too tired to fight with him today.
It was a long day at school, longer with the new extended commute. I’m exhausted, and I didn’t sleep.
Last night was a shit show.
Tossing. Turning. Anxiety.
And then him.
As much as he hates me, I see the way he looks at me. It’s changed. There’s lust underneath the anger. Pure need.
The worst part is, as much as I despise him, I like the way the looks make me feel.
It drives me insane.
I need to get my head out of my ass and stop enjoying his heavy, wanting stares while he destroys my life.
Shaking my head, I try to bring myself back to the present as I lift my hand to knock on his door.
Just as my hand is about to connect, the door swings open, and I stumble forward.
I lose my balance and fall.
I brace for impact.
Instead, I collide right into a hard body.
One that catches me and stops my descent with strong arms wrapped around my waist.
I’m frozen.
A large part of my brain tells me I must pull away. But another part welcomes the comfort of his arms. It feels safe. Right. Like two magnets drawn together, and it’s exhausting to fight the pull.
But I have to.
Despite how good it feels.
Despite the fact that this goes deeper than lust, right down to comfort, and that should downright scare me.
One more second.
I want, no I need, one more second in his embrace. I’ll store away the feeling, then I’ll pretend it never happened and I don’t like to be held by him. My eyes close of their own accord, and I give myself the time I need. Until I feel his arms go stiff.
I will myself to break away.
Move.
Move, dammit.
In a minute or three . . .
Finally, he coughs, and it breaks the damn trance I am in.
Using my right hand, I push off him. I try to fix myself, my dress, my hair, and my damn brain before looking up and catching his gaze.
His stare feels different.
It’s as if he’s shaking himself out of his own fog as well.
Which is weird.
Definitely unexpected.
It makes my heart kick up speed, like it’s sprinting toward a finish line in a race I didn’t even know it began.
“Crap. My bad,” I whisper awkwardly.
“Watch where you’re going.” He grunts, and with that, any weird feelings of comfort quickly evaporate.
Why does he have to be such a jerk?
It’s not even worth asking since he won’t give me an answer anyway. Not one that doesn’t involve a heavy dose of snark and misdirection.
That’s one thing I’ve learned about Trent Aldridge. Ask him a question, and he just fires one right back. One that’s even more confusing and makes no sense. Then, while you try to figure it out, he leaves you with a feeling like you have no idea what you’re doing in life.
He’s a condescending, arrogant jerk. Yet, despite this, I need to play nice.
Which sucks.
“I’m ready to go when you are,” I say, taking an extra step away from him and feeling the distance like a punch to my gut.
“Did you eat something?”
“No.” I raise my eyebrow. “Should I? Are we going to be out long?”
I thought we were eating together, but things are never clear with Trent.
“Only a few hours. When we’re done, it’ll still be early. You can eat after.”
“You’re coming with me?” I say, brows shooting up.
His steady gaze drills into me. “What did you think I was doing?”
“Why do you always answer a question with a question?”
“Because I don’t answer stupid questions.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“No witty response.” He laughs, and I think I freeze in shock.
It’s a pretty sound. Melodic, masculine, and just so . . . him.
My brain is too tired to keep up this back-and-forth banter.
“I give up,” I declare. “No matter what I say, you always have to be sarcastic and completely intolerable. You never give me a real answer. You never say anything. You never engage. I’m sick of hearing the questions. I’m sick of the personal attacks. Again, you win. Tell me where we are going, and let’s go.”
To his credit, he doesn’t gloat at my defeat.
Instead, he steps past me and says, “Okay. Let’s.”
I follow him as he leads the way to the underground garage and the fancy car I took, only to round the fancy Aston Martin beside it.
Of course, it’s expensive.
Of course, it’s super clean.
I bet my next task will be to wash it. Coupled with a ridiculous command like clean it with your pinky finger.
I’m shocked—mouth-hanging-open shocked—when he swings the car door wide for me.
It’s not a date.
We are going to volunteer.
We don’t even like each other.
Started out the evening with a mini-argument, to no one’s surprise.
But I’m shocked by his manners. Usually, since he avoids me, fires sarcastic comments at me, and treats me with disdain, I assumed he would make me walk.
“No driver today?” I ask as I sit down in the passenger seat. “Not even a private helicopter? You’re losing your edge, Trent.”
“Michael has the night off. And I like to drive. It’s calming to me.”
File that away in the folder of random facts I find interesting about Trent Aldridge.
That being the only one so far.
Don’t forget the gray sweats.
Trent starts the car, and we’re off, weaving our way through rush-hour traffic.
The city is congested due to the time of day.
Before moving in with Trent, I never came to the city at five o’clock on a workday, but now, the terrible commute is the bane of my existence, too.
It doesn’t seem to bother Trent. He just drives, not uttering a word, until he finally parks. There’s something easy about the way he maneuvers the wheel. Like he’s comfortable in control. I know this, of course, but it’s another thing to see it without being on the receiving end. I find that I enjoy the sight.
Get your head straight, Payton. And whatever you do, don’t think about how you just touched yourself to thoughts of him. Fuck. Head out of the gutter. Look at something else. Think of anything else.
I take in my surroundings as subtly as I can. I’m not familiar with this area or where we are. I don’t know the West Side all that well.
But I’m sure he’ll fill me in with whatever I’m about to endure. Something tells me this is the moment I have been scared of, that he’s finally going to unleash hell on me. Because up until this moment, although it’s been annoying, nothing has been bad.
Eventually, the other shoe must drop.
Something tells me it just did.