Misconduct(47)

I pulled away from him and turned around, breathing hard.

It wasn’t easy to say no to something you wanted, but I was taught that while some mistakes can be overcome, others should never be made. In our hearts, we always know what’s right and wrong. That’s not the struggle.

The struggle is wanting what’s wrong for you and gauging whether or not the consequences are worth it.

“I like your kid,” I told him. “And I love my job. You’re in the public eye. We can’t do this.”

By now my arms hung at my sides, weighing a thousand pounds. I wasn’t tired, but for some reason I felt exhausted.

He tipped his chin down at me and inched forward.

“Easton, you’re coming home with me,” he stated as if it were a done deal.

My weary heart pumped harder, begging me to agree. If you don’t give in, you’ll always want him.

Go home with him. Get in his bed. Self-destruct, because some rides can’t be stopped.

But I couldn’t.

What if things turned bad? I couldn’t just not see him.

And New Orleans might be a large city, but there were almost no degrees of separation from you and the stranger on the street. Someone – anyone – was bound to see us together, and it would be only a matter of time before we were found out.

No.

I looked up at him, speaking softly. “Take me home, please,” I told him. “To my house.”

His eyes narrowed and his jaw hardened, but I didn’t wait for an argument. Spinning around, I dashed across Royal and continued walking down the quieter side street, toward the parking garage.

The rain had drenched my clothes, and I folded my arms over my chest to ease the chill seeping through my skin.

I could hear his footsteps behind me, and I walked quickly to avoid any further discussion, speed-walking past a hotel entrance and continuing down the sidewalk.

If he pressed me further, I knew I’d be tempted to give in.

But he hooked my elbow, bringing me to a stop as I twisted around to face him.

“I like you, okay?” he said, letting his gaze fall and looking like it was hard for him to admit that.

He stepped closer. “I like you a lot, and I don’t know why, because you’re f*cking miserable to me half the time,” he mused. “You rarely smile. You never laugh, but you love to argue, and for some reason I want you around. I want you to know things about me, and I like telling you shit. Why do I feel like I’m in the wrong here?”

I bowed my head, hoping he wouldn’t see the smile his words had caused. He was absolutely right. I was a miserable person half the time, and it was odd that he liked me as much as he did.

And in a different situation, maybe I’d give him a shot. Maybe.

“Marek?” I heard a voice boom through the storm. “Is that you?”

Tyler and I pulled away from each other, and I peered around him, seeing the group of men standing underneath the canopy of the hotel entrance we’d just passed.

Tyler twisted his head, his face immediately turning stern at the sight of the four men in suits, smoking cigars.

He took my hand and walked us back to where the men were standing, and I noticed he kept me slightly behind him instead of at his side.

“Blackwell.” Tyler’s deep voice sounded impatient.

Mason Blackwell – whom I recognized from TV and his involvement with city council – looked completely at ease and in good humor, something I’d never seen from Tyler.

His black tie was loosened, and his hand rested in his pants pocket. He wore an easy smile, and I could smell the odor from the cigar hooked under his pointer finger as he grinned at Tyler.

But from Tyler’s rigid stance, I could tell he wasn’t as comfortable with Blackwell.

“They’ve instituted curfew on the Westbank,” he told Tyler. “But the party still goes strong over here.”

His white teeth disappeared as he brought the cigar to his mouth and puffed away.

A few young women, dressed in short cocktail dresses, came bursting out of the hotel doors, giggling and stumbling, before they stopped at the group of men, each cozying up to a different gentleman.

A young brunette, her hair a shade lighter than mine, put her hand on Blackwell’s chest as she hugged his side, looking intimate.

Tyler cleared his throat. “How’s your wife, Mason?” he asked, hints of both amusement and disdain seeping out of the comment.

Blackwell’s hand was in his pocket, so I didn’t notice a wedding ring, but the young woman’s left hand was draped over his shoulder, and she wasn’t wearing one.

Blackwell stared at Tyler with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and the tension in the air between the two men thickened.

His gaze shifted from Tyler, finding me at his side, slightly behind him.

“Hello?” he greeted, cocking his head and letting his gaze rake down my figure.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth and he half grinned at Tyler. “I envy you,” he said, bringing the cigar up to his mouth. “For once.”

My stomach rolled, and I swallowed, tasting something bitter. Perhaps the cigar was a turnoff, or maybe it was his blatant arrogance, but I felt a sudden urge to shut him up.

Mason held out his hand to me, a lascivious look in his eyes. “Mason Blackwell,” he introduced himself.