Flawed ~ Kim Karr Page 7

  The scream escapes my throat before I can even drag my head up and terror rivets every part of my body. Even after I realize who it is, running footsteps echo in my mind. By the time my eyes lift to see Enrique leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his six-man security team is already in the hallway with their guns pointed in our direction.

  “Lower your weapons,” Enrique orders.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. We heard a scream,” the one next to Smith answers.

  “I startled Miss Hart. Nothing to worry about,” Enrique tells them, with his own peaked curiosity shining through his words.

  “Just taking precautions, Mr. Cruz,” Smith responds.

  Other than Smith, I haven’t bothered to learn any of the other five’s names. They don’t stay long enough. Enrique fires them at the bat of an eyelash and the next day a new one, who has already been groomed, shows up.

  I don’t look their way as I stand draped in my towel with wet hair, but I can hear them turn and leave.

  “Smith,” Enrique calls, circling his hand in the air, that ring flashing as he does.

  “Yes, sir,” he answers promptly.

  “Has Miss Hart’s security arrived?”

  “No sir, not yet, but I expect him within fifteen minutes.”

  “Okay, leave us alone and wait outside until he arrives. When he does, send him up here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I hear the door close and Enrique moves forward. My heart is a caged bird in my ribcage and wants nothing more than to escape.

  He takes a step closer and touches my face. Softly, he caresses his thumb across my cheek. I lean into his touch, surprised it actually brings me comfort. “You’re early,” I whisper.

  “Gemma!” The coldness in his tone startles me.

  My gaze jerks up, worried he knows I snuck out, that I was attacked, knows about everything. “Yes?”

  “Why did you lock the bathroom door?”

  I stifle every nerve twitching inside my body and place my hands on his chest, lowering my gaze. “I wasn’t expecting you to come early. I’ve been a little nervous ever since you told me you’ve been receiving threats, and taking silly precautions, I guess.”

  He tilts my chin to meet his eyes. “And why was the alarm disarmed?”

  “I watched the sunrise from the balcony. I must have forgotten to rearm it,” I lie.

  “Do I need to punish you to make you remember?”

  I shake my head, thinking yes, but saying no.

  “Don’t forget again,” he warns, “Or I will.”

  “I won’t forget. I promise.”

  This surprisingly pacifies him. “You should have told me you were scared, angel. I would have had one of the men stay with you.”

  “Yes, I probably should have. I just felt silly.”

  “My Gemma,” he says, “My angel Gemma, you don’t need to be worried. No one knows about you. They don’t know where you live or who you are to me.”

  “But last week you said—”

  He cuts me off. “I had a bad day that day. Sometimes my lack of sleep causes me to believe things that I shouldn’t—to be almost paranoid.”

  I swallow, relieved at the direction the conversation has taken. “Did you get some rest?” I ask.

  Ignoring me, he licks his lips. His eyes ravaging me like a starved man. “I missed you, is what I did.”

  “And I missed you,” I tell him.

  His hands run down my sides and he tugs my towel free. I expect him to take a step back to gaze at me like he always does. But he doesn’t. Instead his lips move to my neck and his tongue drags up it, and then shocking me, his hands go to my waist, lifting me up.

  Repulsion and confusion fill my mind.

  When he presses me against the wall, I purposely wrap my legs around him, knowing touching is one of his triggers.

  As soon as I do, he lowers me back to the floor. I knew he would. Still, he’s allowing himself to get further and further away from his convictions. What I’m realizing is, I have to reciprocate my affection quicker if I want him to stop sooner. My eagerness seems to spur his guilt.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, already knowing he’ll blame me for his actions.

  He takes a deep breath and lets it out. Then he leans down to my ear and whispers his confession. “Gemma, you’re the most beautiful woman I have ever seen—exquisite, flawless. Fighting temptation is a virtue I struggle with every time I see you. Staying faithful to my wife is becoming very difficult. You have to help me.”

  “I’m trying, but it’s hard for me as well.” I swallow and attempt not to think too much about the warped game he is playing. What kind of game I don’t know, but I need to figure it out so I can stay one step ahead of him.

  His eyes bore into mine, but yet again, he doesn’t step away. Instead, he stays close and hovers his lips over mine. “Sometimes I want to give up the fight.”

  My body reacts strangely to this—my lips part, my pulse races, and I can feel my nipples harden. I close my eyes, remembering there was a time I would have done anything to gain this man’s affections, to trace the lines of his fit body, to feel the touch of his lips on me, to know him intimately.

  His fingers slide down my silhouette and his touch drags me back to reality. Reminds me those feelings are long gone and of the repulsion I feel toward him.

  He presses his forehead to mine as his hands rest on my ass and then he does something he never has. He pushes his raging erection against my body. “Feel how much I want you?”

  I nod yes while choking back the vomit that threatens to gag me at the thought that he might just take this further.

  Right here.

  Right now.

  “Do you want me?” he asks.

  I nod again.

  He stands still without another move, not forward or back.

  Spurring him on is the only way to stop him. So with trembling hands, I sell my soul to the devil. I place my palms on his chest once again and begin to run them down the fine fabric of his shirt. “Can I touch you?”

  Silence hangs between us.

  One beat.

  Two.

  Three.

  I start to worry that this time I may have pushed him to a point of no return. I hope not. Pray not.

  Standing like a statue, he’s deep in contemplation. Oh God, is his body going to win out over his mind this time?

  I hold my breath.

  With a slight sigh, he removes his hands from my naked ass and takes ahold of my wrists, pinning them above my head. “It’s not time yet, my Gemma,” he breathes.

  I force air from my lungs.

  He drops his hold on me and his fingers pinch my chin forcing my eyes to his. “Soon, very soon though, I promise. My life coach tells me purity is not very far away. He feels you're close.”

  His life coach is a staff member of The Powers of the Higher Mind, which I’ve come to conclude is a cult-like association where brainwashing takes place. I attend classes there twice a week and meet with his life coach privately each time because I have to. He’s always asking me a million questions. I wish I knew how to navigate Lamar Trentworth, but he’s one person I can’t seem to crack. I can’t tell what he thinks of me, and I hate it.

  Feigning disappointment, I sigh. “I understand.”

  This game may be getting too dangerous for me. After spending so much time with him and his life coach, I almost understand Enrique’s warped sense of wanting me pure before he fucks me—it’s so he doesn’t feel so bad that he’s cheating on his wife.

  How screwed up is that?

  The problem is I don’t know exactly what gauges my pureness—the fact that I haven’t fucked another man since we entered into this arrangement? That I understand the values of his precious higher mind philosophy? Or something else entirely? I just don’t know. I never ask, though. I’m not sure I want to know. The reality that I might become pure enough for him to take me is too daunting.

  “Gemma?” he whispers,
breaking my thoughts.

  “Yes?”

  “Is your fear the real the reason you locked the bathroom door or is there another reason?” he asks.

  I blink in confusion, stifling my terror that he knows I left.

  “Were you perhaps satisfying your needs?” he continues.

  “No,” I choke out in relief.

  “Good,” he breathes. “You know I want you to save your pleasure for me.”

  I meet his eyes. “I know.”

  “I’m sorry I haven’t had the time to give you that, but I hope that changes soon.”

  “It’s okay. I understand.”

  He finally takes that step back I’ve been expecting him to take for a while. “Good. Now let’s go in the bedroom where the light is better, so I can really appreciate you.”

  Just as I start past him and begin to pad down the hall, his hand forcefully squeezes my shoulder.

  “Please keep that covered. It mars your beauty.”

  I turn to look at him. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Cruz, I should have concealed it before I left the bathroom.”

  He smiles and loosens his grip on me. So easy to appease. I continue toward the bedroom. He doesn’t like the tattoo on my shoulder and insists I cover it up with makeup, which I typically do.

  As soon as we cross the threshold to my room, the sunlight floods in. Enrique removed the blinds and the curtains when I moved in. He said they restricted the natural light.

  Out of habit, I traipse across the room to stand in front of the window, where he likes me, but he doesn't take a seat on the bed, where he always does. Instead, he stops at my easel with the blank paper on it and stares at the pencils and charcoal for a long while.

  “Why aren’t you drawing?” he asks.

  “I’ve been busy at work,” I tell him, and it’s true, but not the real reason.

  Accepting my answer, he heads toward the bed and sits. Leaning back, he places his palms on my white sheets and his eyes sweep me as if I’m his drug, as if seeing me naked heals his wounds.

  It’s like the first time I saw the Mona Lisa or Starry Night in person and I knew I’d never be the same, only I’m flesh and bones, not a masterpiece. I stand there, breasts pushed forward, arms at my sides, waiting for further instructions.

  After a long while, he sits forward and lifts a finger to his chin. “Come closer,” he beckons cocking his head to the side.

  I take a step forward.

  “Closer.”

  I take another step.

  “What happened to your lip?”

  My hand flies to it and I can feel the slight swelling from the ruckus earlier. “I don’t know,” I lie again. Lies. Lies. Lies. I hate them all. “I must have bitten it when I screamed.”

  He stands up with a look of disgust on his face. “I have to leave. Get dressed in what I laid out for you. Your new security will be here shortly to take you to Santa Monica.”

  “Santa Monica?” I question.

  “Your contact is there.”

  “Am I going to a gallery?” I ask.

  “Not exactly,” he tells me, hesitantly.

  “What does that mean?”

  He gives me a look that demands no more questions and strides toward the door.

  “I’ll figure it out,” I whisper more to myself than him, and I can’t help but wonder why I’m using some broker two hours away instead of someone local.

  Without turning around, he tosses over his shoulder, “Gemma, I have some business to attend to out of town. I’m not sure how long I will be gone. But the next time I stop by I’d like you ready for me. I’ll text you with what I want you to wear and what else I require.”

  Of course he will.

  No matter how I feel about him, I can’t let him leave this way. I have to try to turn things around. “I’m sorry about today, Enrique,” I call out in an attempt to soothe him, but he slams my bedroom door before I can finish my apology.

  I guess whatever high he gets from looking at me doesn’t materialize when I’m flawed.

  Well, fuck him.

  I almost needed him today.

  Almost.

  I won’t make that mistake again.

  There is no doubt that I’ll get the silent treatment from him for days, and although normally I’d revel in it, I’m not doing so today.

  I can’t help but feel time is running out.

  With all my heart and all my soul I have to fight back the outburst sitting on the edge of everything I am.

  If he discards me before I accomplish my goal . . . I will have nothing.

  Chapter 11

  I Like Me Better

  Caleb

  THE BUILDING LOOKS like one of those museum cases used to display royal jewels and shit like that.

  Even with sunglasses on, I have to raise my hand to the wall of glass to shade my eyes and stop from squinting.

  Just to be certain I’m in the right place, I read the address again, “700 Front Street,” and then look down at the piece of paper in my other hand. Yeah, I’m in the right place, and it’s anything but demure, that’s for sure.

  It’s not the same location I was ordered to last night at five. Yet, it still breathes money from every corner, just like his estate.

  The ultra-modern designed building speaks volumes as to the extravagant lifestyles it accommodates—six floors and six residents. A lot of building for so few. Pretentious, self-righteous, spoiled, arrogant—these are just a few words to describe what stands in front of me.

  Presuming this is going to be a cakewalk, I drive under the covered space that serves as the ground floor of the complex. It houses at least twelve private garages, and aside from the entourage of black SUV’s and my shit box Jeep, there isn’t a car in sight.

  One of the six security detail muscle-heads, wearing a black suit and earpiece, appears to be waiting for me.

  Getting out of my car, I approach him, surveying my surroundings as I do. I take notice of the staircase next to the elevator and look around for other means to get in and out of the residences. I don’t note any.

  When I hit the platform, the muscle-head looks me over. “Mr. Cruz is waiting for you upstairs, and he doesn’t like to wait.”

  I glance at my watch. It’s eight fifty-seven. “I’m not late.”

  Ignoring me, he hits the up button and within moments the elevator door opens. “Next time, be here early,” he grunts.

  “Will do,” I tell him, because I’m easy going that way.

  I pass by him and hit six. Last night I was informed that Cruz’s mistress lives on the top floor of the building.

  When the car stops and the door opens again, I’m immediately greeted by the remaining five security detail goons. They are all standing guard outside the door to her condominium, and they look like they’re ready to draw their weapons.

  Just as I pass by them, the glossy, white door swings open and Cruz stands in the entryway. His dark suit, tie, and expensive shoes don’t take away from the fact that he is dirt. He glances at his designer watch and then at the guy who I know leads the team. Smith looks at his own watch and nods.

  I guess I’m on time.

  Lucky me.

  “Mr. Holt,” Cruz states as he moves to the side. “Come in and let me introduce you to Miss Heart.”

  “Mr. Cruz,” I acknowledge and follow him inside to a very sterile-looking apartment.

  He puts a hand out, stopping me. “Stay here,” Cruz orders.

  I stand in the foyer and watch Smith step in. He’s quiet as he closes the door and takes his place right beside me. He’s on guard. I’m not sure what the hell I am.

  Turning back and coming right up to me, Cruz exhales a worried breath and says, “Before I bring Gemma out here, I want you to know I received another threatening letter late last night. Until we track down the sender, I don’t want her out of your sight when she leaves here. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir,” I tell him. “Can I see the notes you’ve been receiving?”<
br />
  His eyes narrow. “I’ve already told you they are threats. That’s all you need to know.”

  “It’s just—” I start to protest, but he cuts me off.

  “Will there be a problem doing what I’ve asked?” he dares.

  I have to remember who I am right now. That I am his employee, not an agent. “No problem, sir. I understand completely what is required.”

  “Good. Gemma is very precious to me and if anything happens to her . . . well, just make sure nothing does.”

  “Sir, I’m good at my job. That’s why you hired me.”

  He nods and a slight frown crosses his lips, as if he’s having second thoughts, but then he hands me a piece of paper. “This is where you are to take her today.”

  I glance at the address and before I can ask him the name of the location, he disappears down the hallway.

  The condominium is immaculate. So much so that the large space looks unlived in.

  The furniture is modern and sparse. A large, crisp-white leather sofa centers the room and floor-to-ceiling windows line the entire outer wall, allowing an abundance of light in.

  It’s like a blank canvas except for a painting above the fireplace and another of a café in Paris above the dining room table. Drawn toward the one of Paris, I walk in that direction. When I’m close enough, I read the sign painted on the building, “Les Deux Magots.”

  I think I’ve been there. Before all of this. Before my life became taking down the cartel.

  The piece is unsigned and I find that odd since Cruz is a huge art collector. He only buys signature pieces on the dark web. I’ve tracked so many of them, I’ve lost count. Still, none of them are in sight.

  I stare at the artwork some more.

  The colors are vibrant.

  The feelings it evokes are joyful.

  Still, something about it makes me shiver. The way it’s painted, perhaps. Not precise but yet nonetheless perfect. Like it’s a saving grace. A place that will make everything right.

  Pulling my gaze from it, I glance outside. The windows are uncovered, and therefore a safety hazard. I make a mental note to discuss this at a later time with Smith.

  I hear something. Cruz is raising his voice. He’s clearly not happy, but I can’t make out what he’s saying.