Anton (Chicago Blaze 1)

Dashing into Janice’s office, I ask if she can cover me.

“Sure, what’s wrong?” she asks as she gets up from her leather chair.

“Just…someone came in and I don’t want to make a scene.”

She nods and heads out to the bar for me. I approach Adam.

“What do you want?”

His gaze moves up and down my body. “I just came in for a drink.”

“Yeah, right. There are lots of places you can get a drink. Did you just want me to know you know where I work? Message received. You can go.”

“You always were a mouthy bitch.”

“Maybe you should divorce me.”

He narrows his eyes. “No one else would ever want you, Mia. I’m the only one who really knows you.”

I’m lightheaded as I wonder what Adam would say in front of all these people. Anything that humiliates me gives him pleasure.

“We can talk outside,” I say, leading the way out the front door.

As soon as he steps outside, I ask him again, “What do you want?”

“Just wanted to see my wife. You look like shit, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

He shifts on his feet. “I’ve about had it with this shit, Mia. You need to come home.”

“I don’t want to be with you anymore.”

His jaw tightens and I freeze, steadying myself for the onslaught I know is coming.

“You were nothing when I met you. Nothing. Just a Southside street rat without a penny to your name. I made you into what you are.”

“Clothes and manicures are just things. And Adam, you don’t want me anymore. You cheated on me—”

He leans in closer, and I instinctively step back. “I’m a professional athlete. I was blowing off steam. None of those women meant anything to me.”

“It’s not just the cheating. It’s everything. We’re better off apart, and you know it.”

He scoffs. “Fuck that. You’ve always been dependent on me and you still are. It’s gonna take more than a blow job to keep getting my money. You need to move back in and be the wife you agreed to be when we got married.”

“I don’t want—”

“You’re damaged goods, Mia. Second rate. No man wants a woman who can’t even give him children, and I’m willing to take you back. You should be on your fucking knees thanking me.”

“No. I told you a year ago I was done, and you just won’t listen.” I turn to open the door and Adam grabs my wrist.

“Let go.”

“Hey,” a guy in a group of college-aged guys walking into the bar says to me. “You okay?”

“I want to go inside,” I say to him, trying hard to keep my voice steady.

“You heard her,” the guy says to Adam. “Let go.”

Adam drops my hand and I hurry into the bar, practically running to the break room, where I cry for a good five minutes.

I feel dirty. Damaged. Deeply ashamed. Adam makes me hurt like no one ever has.

I’m not in a good state to see Anton. It’s a dangerous game I’ve been playing, texting with him and letting him drive me home. If Adam finds out, I suspect things will go from bad to worse.

I get my phone and type out a text to Anton.

Me: I have another ride home tonight, don’t come. Thanks anyway.

I wipe my face off then and go back to work, telling a man who asks what I’m doing later to fuck off.

It’s all an act, though. I’m not one of those strong, take-no-shit kind of women. I’m a joke, barely even holding it together. Adam’s right—if Anton knew who I really was, he wouldn’t want anything to do with me.Chapter TenAntonMia’s bare shoulder is soft and warm beneath my lips. She moans into my ear, sending a shockwave of arousal that hits every nerve ending in my body.

I’m so damn hard. I ache with frustration and desire for this woman. And even though I know this can’t be real, I let myself live out this dream, clinging to every shred my subconscious comes up with.

“Anton,” Mia says, her voice soft and distant. “I want you.”

I want to smell her, taste her, lay eyes on her perfect, naked skin, but the dream won’t give me any of those details. The thick weight between my thighs tells me this is enough, though.

“Anton! I need to take a piss!”

The dream ends abruptly when Uncle Dix summons me.

“Fuck,” I grumble. “I’m coming, okay?”

Not in the way I want, of course. My hard-on is the only part of the dream that was real, and I’d love to linger in bed and imagine the end of my dream, getting satisfaction the only way I have for almost three years now.

Instead, I have to start this day at 4:20 a.m. by helping my cranky uncle out of bed and into his wheelchair.

“Why don’t you just use the bedpan and go back to sleep?” I mumble.