The Forgiven: The End Game Series (Book 5) Read online

  The end of the wraparound bar was vacant, probably because a big-ass illuminated plastic two-scoop cone advertising June Creek’s own ice cream brand stood in the way.

  “This cone reminds me,” he told her when he brought her behind the cone. The prop’s white-gold glow caressed one side of her. Partially in light, partially in shadow—that was Meg exactly. He held her still, against the bar, with a firm hand on her middle. “I haven’t had dessert yet.”

  “I can go for a strawberry dipped.”

  Remy smiled and his anticipation climbed as she ordered a cone and turned to him again when the bartender was called to the opposite end of the bar.

  “I heard if you eat dessert standing up, the calories don’t count,” Meg said.

  “What’s the caloric value of this?” Remy’s fingers moved aside the fabric between her thighs and she instantly tensed up.

  “You’re not fucking me here. My friends eat at this bar.”

  He put the Stetson on her head, kissed the smear of strawberry ice cream on her lips. “Mmm.” Off went the panties, and he stuffed them in his jeans pocket. “I’m your friend.” He nudged her legs apart. “Why can’t I eat at this bar, too?” He sank to his knees.

  “Remy…” was the last word to pass her lips before his mouth found her. Music swam around them, the lighted prop exposed them even as it hid them, and she rocked to the rhythm of his tongue on her pussy, leaving her slick and yielding for him.

  “Look at me when I’m fucking you.”

  Meg cut her moan short and it sounded more like a sharp, erotic squeak. But she watched his fingers tunnel deep and withdraw, watched his eyes as they watched her.

  Returning his mouth to her mound, he drank in her taste and sucked on her pink clit until she started to quake.

  “Hey, there you are, Meg,” someone said, and there was the sound of high heels on the plank floor.

  “Oh, God, no,” he heard Meg gasp, and she fumbled to shield herself with the hat and fight the orgasm.

  But she was already coming, and a final slow lick of her wet cunt had her crying out and crushing the ice cream cone in her fist.

  And with a stunned “Whoa!” Honey Sutherland caught him going down on Meg in a bar called Dusty’s.

  Meg shook, her body boldly riding the sensations as she floundered to explain why Remy was on his knees with his face smothered against her freckled pussy—besides the obvious truth.

  “As y’all were,” Honey said, snickering as she retraced her steps around the perimeter of the bar. “Welcome home.”

  Chapter Twelve

  True to her word, Meg helped coordinate Veronica and Simon’s wedding. Within a week of her return from Texas, the Villains’ training camp had a day off, and the team’s quarterback discreetly arrived at the courthouse to marry his bride in a simple late-afternoon ceremony that had brought Meg to tears.

  For the first time since she’d traded princess stories for her mother’s law books, she believed a relationship full of love but void of lies was a real, tangible thing.

  “Thank you,” Veronica said to Meg, holding her bouquet out of the way so they could hug. Simon stood near the judge’s chambers where the newlyweds would make a quiet exit to a waiting car. “Arranging this, being here, transforming the place. The flowers are incredible.”

  The floral arrangements were her gift to the couple. Though short notice, the extravagant Bonita Gardens of Texas order had arrived this morning, and a few courthouse employees Meg called friends had been happy to help put it all together.

  When the room was cleared, and Meg left alone with nothing but an abundance of flowers and her thoughts, she smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her pale blue pencil dress. “It’s all changing.”

  The lives of her friends, her relationship with everyone who loved her in Texas, her feelings toward Remy.

  There was no question that she was irretrievably in love with him. He’d told her not to love him or forgive him, but she had gone ahead and taken both actions.

  Because no one and nothing controlled her heart, she realized. It functioned independently of someone else’s warnings and her mind’s reservations.

  As with the flowers she’d nurtured growing up, she could either feed her heart what it craved, or see it wither. Take a risk or stay on the shelf.

  In the parking lot Meg slid into the Ferrari but picked up her phone before turning the key.

  Eddie had called. She missed the family already. He was probably following up about the autographed practice ball she’d promised him. Omar Beckham had offered it to her before her trip out of town, and she had yet to pick it up to send to her football-crazed kid brother.

  “¿Bueno?”

  “Hola, hermanito. Calling you back. Is this about the football?”

  “No, not that. Look, Meg, I’m just going to say this. Maybe I’m too much like Papá or it could be Mamá’s right and I have a long way to go until I’m ready for the Esposito family business, but there’s something you gotta know.”

  “What?”

  “They’re lying to you.”

  “Who? Eddie, come on—”

  “Everyone’s lying. Mamá and Papá know Remy Malik’s the one who shot you in that messed-up bust. They know about Antony Grimaldi. Mamá put you under her protection when she hired Remy. He’s working for her.”

  “What?”

  “Swear to God,” Eddie said. “I might be an asshole for telling you, but I had to. The way you were acting with him at the reunion… I don’t know, it looked like you have it bad.”

  Because I do and I can’t hide what a fucking fool I am.

  “I had to tell you, Meg. I’m sorry.”

  “Shh, está bien.” It wasn’t, though. But maybe she was too much like their mother and found it easier to lie.

  When she hung up, Meg drove home. She parked on the curb, not in the driveway beside Remy’s pickup. Next door, Aggie was in her front yard setting up sprinklers, but as Meg got out of the car, the woman trotted across the lawn.

  “Meg, hey. I wanted to give you these.” She pulled a small envelope from her shorts pocket. “I won a country club raffle for a pair of tickets to the erotic arts festival next month. To be honest, it’s rather highbrow for me and I’m not seeing anyone. I thought you and your sexy man of mystery might go instead. So, here.”

  Meg eyed the envelope. The sexy man of mystery wasn’t hers. He’d never been. Paddling through her grief until she could form words, she said, “Thanks, Aggie.”

  Going directly to the guest room’s walk-in closet, Meg looked around. It was a work in progress, coming together in such a way that she could see its potential. It was very much like her…

  She was unfinished, messy, complicated. But she thought Remy’s patience and attention to her was a labor of friendship, if not some form of love.

  It wasn’t, though. The closet remodel was just a solid, a favor, a job. Being with her was the same for him.

  “How was the wedding? Any paparazzi get in the way?” When she didn’t immediately answer, Remy turned to study her through goggles. “You okay?”

  “The wedding was fine.”

  “Good.” His smile was a rare thing, and while it had the power to arrow straight to her core and make her feel laden with desire, today it only danced on her pain. “Better step back,” he said, going to a sawhorse. “Don’t want shavings to get all over you.”

  “My neighbor gave us tickets to see an erotic festival. I shouldn’t have accepted them, since we’re not going.”

  “Yeah, of course we won’t go if you don’t want to. Check this out. The transformation’s happening. Tell your shoes they ought to have a home in another few days.”

  “Leave it,” she whispered, but he’d begun sawing and didn’t hear. “Leave it! Screw the closet.”

  “What the hell?”

  She sobbed, but there were no tears. Going to the guest room, she almost sat on the bed before she reme
mbered the first night they’d had sex in this house. “I know Mamá’s your client. I know she’s had eyes on me, even though she swore she wouldn’t spy, and that she hired you.”

  Remy followed close, but he didn’t make the mistake of touching her. He whipped off the goggles and got in front of her. “Anita and her people are worried about you, damn it. When she presented the job, I told her no at first. I thought the best thing I could do for you was stay the hell away—”

  “How right you were. What did she tell you? That I can’t fend for myself? That you owed me your protection because of Arizona?”

  “She said I was the best man to keep you safe.”

  “How much is the firm paying you? Tell me, how much am I worth to y’all?”

  “Stop—”

  “Oh, I want to know. And the sex? How was that negotiated into the deal? Are you paid bonuses for having to endure fucking me, or is that a perk for you, Remy?”

  “The sex is because you and I want it. Don’t ever say it’s something other than that. I can’t shake you, and I’ve tried.”

  Meg shrugged. “So we have great sex. We get along that way. But it doesn’t change the fact that my mother has once again interfered, and she handpicked you to guard me. It was my right to fall in love with you again on my terms, not because of her meddling.”

  Remy froze. “You love me?”

  I don’t want to. I don’t want to be your fool.

  “I can’t do this anymore, Remy. Call my mother, tell her the job’s canceled. I’m sure she won’t care if you keep the money the firm paid—”

  “I’m not getting money.”

  “What, then?”

  Anguish surged in his eyes. “Anita and your uncles, they’re helping me get to Pote.”

  Pote. Damien Pote was a drug lord who kept himself mobile and his operations fluid, and had managed to escape numerous convictions over the past fifteen years of his reign within America. He employed less influential drug-traffickers and terrorists to carry out orders.

  “Was Pote involved in your cousin’s murder?”

  “Anita’s informants say he was.”

  Meg hurt from head to toe. “So this was about Raphael, from the start. It’s about that ring, Remy, and this obsession you won’t drop.” And it dawned. “You lied to me, when you said you’d given up the hunt. You’re still Archangel.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s too late for apologies.” She wiped her face, shook her head; everything was still havoc. “I’m going to leave for a while, give you time alone to get your things.”

  “Freckles, don’t—”

  Tuning him out, Meg got in the Ferrari and drove.

  * * *

  Full squad practice had been especially punishing today. Eleven hours after reporting to the main building’s cafeteria for a team breakfast meeting, Omar felt as though someone had hacked at his muscles with a dull pickax. The media had invaded and the owners were guests at the facility. On the sidelines of the practice field, J.T. Greer and his wife had assessed each roster member and coach behind their reflective sunglasses and almighty attitudes.

  Mediocrity wouldn’t make the cut—not this season. Last year Omar had celebrated a championship win, but that didn’t mean his job was secure. So today special teams had pushed hard, and he’d pushed himself harder. Ignoring the brutality of the practices and the spite spewing from short-tempered coaches as everyone reviewed the taped practices on a projector that magnified the players’ every mistake, no matter how minuscule, Omar had battled for his job.

  The Villains performed a miracle last season and had trading leverage. To keep his name on the roster, he needed to show the special teams coordinator, the head coach, the GM and, above anyone else, the owners that when it came to the kicker position, they already had the best.

  The team wasn’t down to fifty-three players yet, but that would change soon after the men pissed and results came through. Teammates had talked about the coaching staff’s reluctance to cut too many should they need to make adjustments for league and franchise policy violators.

  But Omar figured that at this point, the Greers’ roster was next to finalized. Some of the men sweating and bleeding through reps wouldn’t step on a game field in a bloodred-and-silver uniform, and some wouldn’t play a single professional game.

  Anxious to protect what belonged to him, Omar had trudged from one end of hell to the other and back. Now he was going home—not for another stupid-ass party, but to kick back with a friend.

  Natsuko’s crossover Buick wasn’t in his driveway, but a black Ferrari was.

  “I was just about to leave,” the driver said, getting out and coming around the back of the sweetest luxury ride he’d ever seen.

  “Meg?” Omar could no longer remember how many times he’d invited her to his place. Each time she turned him down. She went to charity stuff, showed up at clubs, accepted invitations across the roster—but when it came to anything one-on-one, she was impossible to get. A man who wasn’t sprung would’ve quit messing with her, but she had something more than hotness, a superb set of tits, and a rockin’ ass that compelled players and staff to stare.

  “Hi. I stopped by for the practice ball. I should’ve called—”

  “Hold up, hold up.” He got out of his truck and met her at the rear of the car. “I like this, coming home to this. Seeing you here. You’re…”

  Omar paused, waiting for her to interrupt or twist away the way she’d been evading him the entirety of training camp.

  “What am I?” she prompted in that sexy accent.

  “Crying.” Another step forward, and still she didn’t bolt. “Where’s your man?”

  Meg shook her head, and he caught her jaw in his hand, settling his mouth on hers.

  The exhaustion camp had left behind cracked, and adrenaline pushed through. The ghetto boy with no prospects had grown up, was getting paid big money, and had a woman like this. It was the ultimate dream, and he was living it.

  Pulse thundering, skin heating, he pressed close and kept her in place with a hand molding tight to her ass.

  He was hard and wanted her to know it. Palming her tits, whispering into her mouth, he told her what he’d do when he had her naked…what she’d feel when his dick was deep inside her.

  “Yes.”

  Her answer flooded his mouth, and shit, why wait to get her inside on a bed? The hood of a Ferrari was good enough.

  “No regrets?” he said, harshly, because there would be no teasing and games now.

  “Uh-uh.”

  Did he taste confusion on her lips? Resistance? He wasn’t certain, but she was suddenly unresponsive in his arms, until she moaned.

  Wait. Or was that a sob?

  “What is this?” someone shrieked behind them.

  Meg pushed at him with one hand and steadied herself with her cane as he turned to see a Buick on the curb. The driver’s window was down and Natsuko’s head poked out.

  “Nat,” he said, watching her fling herself out of the car and stomp to the other side. A car bulleted past and he almost lost his shit, but she darted safely back then threw open the passenger door.

  Emerging with a wine bottle and one of those insulated bags she used whenever she brought over dinner, she deposited the items on the ground and shouted, “Take this so I don’t feel like an idiot for preparing a lasagna from scratch. Go back to fucking her against a car now.”

  Was she pissed? “Why are you yelling?”

  “We had plans tonight.”

  “Chilling in front of the TV. We can do that anytime.”

  “No.” Natsuko looked from him to Meg. “You’re the woman from the Mirage. I thought Omar would leave you alone, since you have someone. But…he must be really hard up.”

  “Hey,” he warned her, “back the hell off. Quit sweating me, like you’re my woman or something.”

  She drew back as if he’d hit her, and he realized he’d
never wanted to see that expression on her face. Natsuko was fiery, tough, a scrapper—but apparently, she could be hurt.

  “No, I’m not your woman, Omar. Just your friend. I think you’d rather have enemies than friends.” She started walking, backlit by the last rays of sun melting on the horizon. Her long black hair moved through the wind like whips; the sway of her narrow but feminine hips drew his eye.

  “She’ll be all right.” Would she? If Omar went to her stucco house and waited beneath her window, would she give in to a smile and come back to him?

  Was he wrong to ask that of her?

  “I think she’s hurting,” Meg said. “Coming here was an epic mistake. So was the kiss. Now two more people are casualties of the craziness that’s my life. I’m leaving.”

  He picked up the lasagna and wine. “Wait, Meg—”

  “Omar, I can’t be what you need. And you keep looking after her car.” Meg withdrew an envelope from her purse. “If you apologize and make it clear to her that I’m not in the picture, I think she’d appreciate sharing this with you.”

  It wasn’t until after Meg fled and Omar sat alone in his mansion eating the meal his pissed-off friend had put together that he opened the envelope. Tickets.

  An erotic festival. With Natsuko Kato?

  * * *

  Remy was packed, keys in hand, but he’d be damned if he walked out the door without seeing Meg once more.

  She loved him. What the hell was he supposed to do with that? Five years ago their hearts had been aligned, but when he’d infiltrated her world in Las Vegas he hadn’t assumed—or wanted, for her sake—to reclaim the love that could bend and break them both.

  Meg’s family had called on him to protect her, but all he’d done was reopen the wounds he left on her heart.

  In the guest bedroom, he surveyed the unfinished closet remodel. It was a simple game of geometry for him, should’ve been completed days ago, but so many times he’d let Meg and her busy hands and sexy talk lead him off task.

  He loved her to distraction and was beyond saving.

  Remy sensed her return before he heard the front door open. Swaggering into the kitchen, following the music of her footsteps and the tap of her cane, he lingered in the entryway as she rinsed her mouth over the sink then took a handful of jelly beans from the jar.