Dear Enemy

Pinching the bridge of my nose. “I know.”

“Do you know what she’s gotten herself into this time?”

Nothing much. Just a little grand larceny. “No.”

I hate lying to my mother. Hate it.

My mother makes a sound that’s suspiciously close to a sniffle; I hate her tears worse. “My heart can’t take it, Delilah. If something happened . . . I couldn’t . . . I just lost your daddy.”

Shit sticks. “I know.”

Licking my lips, I glance at the bedside clock. I’ve blown the deadline Macon gave me. Panic floods my system and makes my words brusque. “She’ll come back, Mama. Everything will be okay. I promise.”

My mother expels a shaky laugh. “What would we ever do without you, Dee? My sensible, steady child. I’m fairly certain what’s left of our little family would fall right apart.”

And like that, my course is set in stone.

Macon

SweetTot: Do we still have a deal?

It’s the middle of the night, way past the deadline I have given Delilah. And yet I’d practically lunged at the phone when it buzzed. Now I’m staring at the words as if they don’t make sense. But they do. She wants this. Damn it all, she was supposed to back out.

The deadline was midnight, Tot.

She doesn’t respond, and a pang of something I don’t want to call regret hits me straight through the chest. But then small dots appear.

It’s midnight somewhere. I’m in. Are you?

Such cheek. Fuck. Why does it have to be her? Why is she the only one who’s made me feel truly awake in months, hell, years? Why am I so damn relieved she’s pushing for this?

My heart is doing its best to pound its way right out of my chest. My mind is racing, trying to figure out what the hell to do. Rubbing my hand over my tired face, I reply the only way I can, then toss the phone down as though it were a snake.

My house, 9am. Instructions to follow.

I’ve done it.

What the hell have I done?

Lying in my bed, I stare up at the ceiling and ask myself the same question I’ve been asking since Delilah went all Godfather, making me an offer she knew I couldn’t refuse. Somehow she knew I’d jump at the chance to have her under my thumb.

When I first became famous, I felt like a king. Everyone wanted to please me, and I let them try. Having people fawn over me was a familiar comfort, as arrogant as that sounds. But after growing up in the house I had, positive attention was like stepping out into the warm sun after years of ice-cold darkness.

I’d underestimated Hollywood and the way everyone uses everyone else. I shouldn’t have; I know far too much about manipulation. But I was so starved for something good, something mine, that I let my guard slide. I soon lost count of the amount of times my trust had been betrayed. I thought I could at least see Samantha’s lies and manipulations a mile away. Look where that got me. Now, I’m actually letting Delilah into my life? Delilah, who openly hates me?

But her blatant disdain and attitude is such a relief. It is fresh air. I need to breathe it in deep or suffocate. Or maybe it’s just the devil you know.

Whatever the case, apparently I do not possess a lick of sense when it comes to this girl—this woman. She is all woman now. Her baby softness has melted away, leaving lush curves and elegant lines. Delilah Baker is a ripe peach, with pouty red “fuck me” lips.

“Don’t go there, man,” I groan in the dark. But I am there and can’t escape.

Seeing her walk into my office was a kick to the chest and a hard tug to the balls. She was all jiggle and sway in the best of ways—curvy hips, bouncing breasts, glossy hair floating around her shoulders.

And those red lips, like an exclamation point on the “go to hell, Macon” statement she made with each look my way. I have zero doubt Delilah wanted to nut me the entire time we talked. She never could hide her irritation. But what irritated me, what irritates me still, is her willingness to pay for Samantha’s sins.

I’ve always hated that about Delilah. She would fight me tooth and nail, but with Sam, she would roll over and play doormat.

I can’t exactly blame her in this case. Delilah believes she’s protecting her mother from pain. It’s noble as hell. I’m the asshole taking advantage of it, because I don’t believe for one second that Sam will come back and make amends.

I shocked myself accepting Delilah’s crazy offer, part of my mind screaming to shut the hell up and let the poor woman leave. Let the whole thing with Sam go. But I didn’t. I can’t. I don’t want to examine too closely why I can’t because I’m no longer certain if this is about the watch, Sam, or Delilah.