Provocation (Explicitly Yours 3)

She dumped her things on the cloudlike comforter and went directly to change the temperature. Johnny had always kept the thermostat low, complaining about the heat even on the mildest Los Angeles nights. The men in Lola’s life were oversized children who’d chosen themselves over her time and time again. And yet they always seemed to come out on top—Johnny had half her money and a new plaything. Beau had blonde girls at his feet. Her dad was off somewhere, not taking care of anyone, the way he liked it.

Lola got to her knees and opened the minibar. She downed three bottles of liquor, one right after another, making a mental note to pay for them later in cash. Who did she have? Herself. She wasn’t an abandoned daughter. She wasn’t Johnny’s girlfriend or Beau’s conquest. Nobody would tell her where she was going or how to get there anymore. She wouldn’t give them that control. She drank three more bottles and crawled over to the hotel phone. She picked up the receiver and angrily punched in the number for Hey Joe.

Johnny answered. “Hello?”

“You weren’t supposed to cheat. Ever. But why her? She wasn’t even a blip on my radar.”

“I—”

“I don’t even care,” Lola said. “That’s bad, isn’t it? He hurt me more. I’m sorry if that makes you sad. I saw him with a woman today, a fucking blonde.”

“I think you have the wrong number.”

“I thought he liked brunettes.” She frowned, her mind playing catch up. “What? Is this Hey Joe?”

“No. You called a home number.”

Lola hung up and lay on the carpet. Life hadn’t been that fair to her, but she didn’t remember ever feeling like this. To still be so deeply in love with someone who’d gone out of his way to hurt her was more than one person should have to handle. She thought she should cr

y—it seemed like a healthy reaction. Nothing came. She stared up at the ceiling, forcing her eyes to stay open until they watered, until one salty drop slid from the corner of her eye to the edge of her lip. She wondered how much she’d have to drink for her tears to taste like vodka.

The sun set, painting the room orange. It was vivid and majestic, different from any sunset she’d ever seen. Or maybe it just seemed that way from upside down, drunk, eleven stories above the city.

She groaned. It wasn’t enough, but she couldn’t seem to move from that spot to get more alcohol. She closed her eyes, and the sunset streaked neon against the backs of her lids. Her hands and armpits were clammy, the hair at her temples damp with sweat.

Who was she to be angry with Johnny, though? He didn’t even know the depth of her sins. Her sins—fucking the enemy and enjoying it. Letting the enemy close enough to break her heart. Loving the enemy.

Beau had a soft side. She already missed that. She even missed his hardness. Despite all the reasons not to, she’d come to trust him. Only a monster could invent a scheme to hurt someone so thoroughly. Only the devil himself would actually go through with it, though.

Beau’s room was only five floors up from Lola’s. She would’ve requested a room above his, but it seemed he was always at the top. The devil shouldn’t get to live at the top, hiding in plain sight, moving people like pawns. The devil should have to suffer—just as his victims had.

8

Beau shut his eyes in the backseat of Warner’s town car and pulled his necktie loose. The dinner conversation at tonight’s event had dragged more than usual. Bids for his attention had been pushier too. In those situations, he was grateful to have Brigitte by his side. Unfazed by their earlier argument, she’d been her charming self all night.

“How’d it go?” Warner asked from the driver’s seat.

Beau opened his eyes and blinked off sleep. It wasn’t like Warner to chat, so it took him a minute to figure out if he’d dreamed it. He sat up a little. “What?”

“The event. Was Brigitte okay? I was afraid you might snap earlier.”

“Oh.” Beau nodded a little. “She’s fine. She was great, actually. Nothing puts her in a better mood than getting me riled up.”

“It’s because she cares.”

“All right.” Beau didn’t know what else to say. It wasn’t really Warner’s business, except that it was, because he was always there, observing. Beau just wanted to sleep, but Warner was glancing at him in the rearview mirror like the conversation wasn’t over. “It’s good for business anyway,” he added.

“What is?”

“Brigitte, when she’s happy. She’s my secret weapon.”

Warner grinned, a rare sight. He seemed satisfied with that and looked back out the windshield.

These events were prime hunting grounds. Old, rich men were weak for Brigitte’s candid, often crude remarks—always delivered in a French accent. When Beau needed capital for one of his companies, he and Brigitte were a team that was hard to refuse. Usually.

Tonight, she’d dropped off buttered-up men at Beau’s feet and strutted around like a lion after a fresh kill. Beau, on the other hand, had been distracted. He’d mixed up two of his companies and called an important man by the wrong name. There were things on his mind, though—like the woman he’d glimpsed in the reflection earlier.

Once, before they’d sat down to dinner, Beau had caught himself looking around the room for Lola, ridiculous as it was. She could be anywhere, though, including right there in that room. He still had no idea what’d happened to her once she’d walked off hotel property, and it was making him more and more agitated.

Warner turned the car into the Four Seasons’ circular driveway and stopped to let him out. Beau reached for the door handle.

“I know you doubt yourself, but you’re good to her,” Warner said.

Beau looked to the front of the car. “Lola?”

“Brigitte.” Warner frowned, his forehead wrinkling. “You’re more patient than you think. She just loves having your attention.”

Beau hesitated, somewhat embarrassed he’d thought Warner was talking about Lola. “Right. Well. It’s been a long day—”

“Goodnight, sir.”