“What do you mean you hurt everywhere?”
“Calm down.” I slowly sit up beside him and wince with the effort. “He kicked me in the ribs a couple of times so they’re a bit sore today. And I have a headache. Probably from being slapped.”
“I want to fucking kill him.” The words are said with perfect calm, just as matter-of-factly as if he were giving me a weather report.
“I got to do that,” I reply. “It was an accident, but I can’t say that I’m sorry. Does that make me a bad person?”
“No.” He shuffles to the opposite side of the bed, and I see a glimpse of his tight, bare ass before he slips on his jeans and turns to me with them still unfastened. His dark hair is rumpled from sleep. His eyes not quite awake. And seeing him like this does things to me.
Sexy things.
I clear my throat and look away.
“I have to unpack,” I say and stand to escape the room.
“Wait.”
I turn back to him and see he’s gazing at me with a lazy grin. “I’m going to eventually tumble you into this bed and have my way with you, Ivie. But not while you’re hurting, and not until I’ve had time to kiss the hell out of you first.”
What in the hell am I supposed to say to that?
I start to speak, but it just comes out as a squeak, so I clear my throat and just say, “Okay.”
“You unpack. I’ll make breakfast. Do you like French toast?”
So much for going gluten-free. “I love it.”
“Excellent.” He pulls a black T-shirt over his head, covering up all that glorious, tanned skin and those abs, so I turn to go unpack. “Ivie?”
“Yeah?” I turn back to see his hot, dark eyes roaming up and down my body.
“Nice night thing.”
I glance down at my simple red sleep shirt. It says Knocked Out on the front. There’s nothing particularly sexy or interesting about it.
“Huh?”
He just grins, and his eyes fall level with my butt. I realize that it barely covers my round ass.
He’s been staring at my black panties and bare cheeks.
So, with a sassy turn, I let him enjoy the show.
Shane’s laughter follows me down the hall to the room that he offered me last night. I like Shane’s home. It’s simple. The kitchen is glorious, and I would love to work some magic in there. I love the farmhouse vibe.
Joanna Gaines would be proud.
But it’s evident that a bachelor lives here. There are no little touches like pretty towels, decorative rugs, or pieces of artwork hung here and there.
As wonderful as this place is now, it could be truly beautiful.
But it’s clean, it’s safe, and for now, that’s all I really need.
I start by unpacking my tote bag. I have all of my bathroom supplies in here, so I just take it with me to the restroom and unpack my razor, special hair mask, and other shower needs. I used my shampoo and conditioner last night but didn’t bother to unpack the rest.
I set up the sink with my favorite soap, toothbrush, and toothpaste, and all of my skin-care bottles—which is more than most people use, but I work at a medi-spa. Having flawless skin is important and healthy.
I toss the empty tote into the closet and move onto the suitcase.
I’ve had this thing for as long as I can remember. It’s the same one I had when I fled my father’s house all those years ago. I’ve added other luggage here and there over the years, but this one belonged to my mother, so I’ll likely keep it until it’s nothing but rags.
I tuck my jeans into an empty drawer in the dresser and hang my shirts in the closet, then stow my undies and bras in another drawer. I only brought a couple of pairs of shoes and lay them in the bottom of the closet.
When the suitcase is empty, I zip it shut, pick it up to stow it away, and hear a rattle.
“Did a button fall off of something? That would be my luck,” I mutter as I unzip it and glance inside.
But I don’t see anything.
I pick it up and shake it.
Still rattling.
The lining of the bag has several tears.
“Something must have slipped through.” I unzip the liner and reach my hand in, feeling around. When I come up with a small, black flash drive, I scowl.
“Oh.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t want to.”
“I do not care what you want, Laryssa.” Father just flicks his wrist as if he’s batting at an annoying fly. “You’ll do as I say without question.”
I want to stomp my feet. I want to yell at him and tear my hair out in frustration. Why won’t he listen to me? Why is he so awful?
I’m so sick and tired of being his errand girl. Of going into scary places with mean people and men who like to cop a feel as I walk past them, just to drop off these stupid things.
How important can this be, anyway?
I turn and stomp away, pissed and hurt that my father can’t show me even an ounce of kindness.
Rather than take this where he wants me to, I reach into my tiny closet for Mommy’s suitcase and tuck it away inside. I don’t want to go to that place again.
It smells, and the men look at me in weird ways that make me feel dirty.
I’m not going.
Father won’t know. It’s not like he’ll ever find out that I didn’t take it.
I secure it back in the closet and then slip my feet into my shoes, making a hasty escape out of the dirty little house we live in. I’ll go down to the diner where they’re nice to me and let me eat all of the ice cream I want.
I shake my head and stare down at the flash drive in my hand.
“Shane!” I run out of the bedroom to the kitchen, where Shane’s just plating up our breakfast.
“You’re just in time.” He smiles as he glances up, but when he sees my face, the smile fades. “What’s wrong?”
“This.” I hold it up and stare at him in horror. “I think this could be something.”
“What kind of something, Ivie?”
I swallow hard and wish with all my might that we didn’t have to have the conversation about to come.
“I guess it’s time to talk,” I say.
“Okay. Am I about to lose my appetite?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” I set the flash drive on the counter, unable to hold it anymore. “My birth name is Laryssa Pavlov. My father worked with some kind of government intelligence agency in Bulgaria, and when I was very small, we moved to the US. I don’t remember being in Bulgaria. My mother died when I was four. My father raised me, so to speak.”
I sit and stare at the French toast and then decide…fuck it. I’m hungry. I’m going to eat. So, I start slathering it in butter and syrup and keep talking.
“I don’t honestly know what he was into. I was his minion. Not his daughter.” I take a bite of bread and sigh in happiness. “He made me run errands for him in New York. I had to deliver things, usually like that”—I point at the flash drive with my fork—“to men who were creepy and handsy.”
“Handsy?”
I look up at him. “They liked to look, and they liked to grope. And my father didn’t give a shit. Anyway, I was fifteen, and I hated him with every fiber of my being. I hated having to do his bidding. I didn’t know what he was into, but I knew it was illegal, and if I got caught, I could get into trouble. So, I told him, flat-out, that I wasn’t going to do it anymore.”