The Bastard (Filthy Trilogy 1)

“Get in,” he repeats.

“I have a meeting,” I say. “That union thing I was talking to Isaac about. I’m on my way there now.”

“I know. I’m going with you.”

He’s going with me? Do I want him to go with me? Yes. No. “The thing is,” I say, “you can’t go with me. The union contact wants a one on one with me.”

“To grope you and make you miserable. I get that, which is why I’m going with you. Now, get in.”

He wants to protect me from being groped? I want to be protected from being groped. “If you come, he’ll be difficult.”

“I’m good with difficult people,” he assures me. “I had a year of practice with this family which for all their faults, have served me well.”

“You’re in a Jaguar.”

“Quite the statement car, don’t you think?”

“Like your ink?”

“Like sending the princess to bring the bastard home.”

“That’s not how that played out,” I say.

“No?”

“No,” I say.

“Get in the car and tell me.”

“We make Kingstons,” I counter. “Let’s take my car.”

“For the love of God, woman. Would you just get in?”

“Fine,” I breathe out. “I give up. I’ll get in.” I open the door and he grabs my briefcase and sets it in what little backseat there is in this version of Jag. “A hundred-thousand-dollar F-TYPE,” I say, claiming the seat next to him, the earthy, clean scent of him teasing my nostrils. “Impressive ride considering you just got into town.” I reach for my seatbelt which doesn’t want to move. “Well, except for the seatbelt.” I yank hard and Eric catches the belt halfway across my body and the two of us end up holding it, a warm blanket of intimacy surrounding us.

“The dealer warned me that the belt can snap back,” he explains softly. “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

But I will, I think, and not by a belt or this family. By him. He will steal my breath and own my body, and then leave. I can’t stop it. I don’t think I even want to try. He slides the clip into place, his hand intimately brushing my hip as the belt snaps together, but he doesn’t move away. His eyes sharpen. “You have to be careful with shiny, new things. They look pretty but sometimes they bite.”

He’s not talking about the belt or the car. He’s talking about me. He’s telling me he doesn’t trust me and yet he’s here.

He settles back in his seat and places the car in drive while I decide that I’m back to generally confused with this man. “Starbucks, right?” he asks.

“How do you know where my meeting is being held?”

“Anything you say in that building is being monitored.”

“By you?”

“As of today, yes, but that place has been wired to the hilt for years from what my people can tell.”

My heart lurches and I rotate to face him. “My office?” I ask urgently. “Are there cameras in my office?”

He pulls us to a halt at the exit to the parking lot and glances over at me. “Yes. Your office.”

I hug myself and face forward. “I change for the gym in there a few times a week. I don’t even want to think about what that means.” He pulls us onto the highway and starts the short, two-block drive to the coffee shop. “I don’t know if the idea of Isaac or your father watching me freaks me out more.”

“I wish I could comfort you, but I’m the bastard child of a father who was having an affair.”