More Layers: Book Two Layers Series Page 2

  I wish she would look up. I need to float in those ocean eyes. Fuck me! What the hell am I doing? I came here for closure not to reopen long closed doors and rekindle lustful desires. Yeah right, who the hell I’m I kidding? Five, ten, twenty, one hundred years could pass and I’d still want and need her more than my next breath. What the fuck am I going to do?

  * * *

  Alexia Grant

  Of all the elevators in the entire world—okay in Vegas—he had to step into mine. It’s been 2.498288843 years. 30.90015130 months. 130.357142857 weeks. 912.5days. 21,900 hours. 1,314,000 minutes. 78,840,000 seconds, since I heard his voice and my heart stopped then shattered into a 5.698 million pieces. No matter how I calculate it (years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds) or how hard I try not to calculate it in my head and wish the numbers away—I can’t. It’s like telling your lungs not to breathe or your blood not to flow. Not possible unless you’re dead.

  Holy hell, he looks...hot! No breathtaking. My heart...skips a beat, then another. Oh my God, what’s with the long hair and the goatee? Is he trying to kill me? It’s getting warm in this elevator, don’t you think? Beads of sweat are now running down my back. Oh hell, please stop. Fuck, too late. Fucking beads of sweat are now taking up residence between my ass cheeks.

  Do I dare sneak another peek? I do. I look up. Thank fuck he has his head back and his eyes are closed. Shit! Now the hairs on the back of by neck are rising. Oh man, double shit—goose bumps and sweat. It’s been 936.5 days since I’d last laid my eyes on him and he can still make me hot and give me chills. I look back down at the elevator floor. God, please don’t let him see me behind this hellnormous man, who happens to be my bodyguard—Lee. Yes, I said bodyguard. We’ll get into that later.

  I’m not ready to see or talk to him. I thought I was but...I’m not. I knew it was going to happen...but I need more time. Maybe another 12.135863024 months. Shit, our best friends are getting married, and I’m moving the Grant Headquarters and my family to New York. How in the hell I’m I going to stand near him at the wedding when I can barley breathe? How the hell am I going to live in the same city, or even on the same continent?

  * * *

  After I returned to London I wanted to hate him for taking my already damaged heart and breaking it into millions of pieces. But, damn, it’s hard to hate someone when a part of them is renting out space in your belly.

  No, I don’t hate him. I don’t even hate Mia. (Most days.) It takes a hell of a lot of energy to hate. And now that I’m a mom and a CEO, I don’t have any to spare. Goddamn, how do women do it? How do men do it? Single parenthood is a bitch. All parenthood is a bitch. Life is a bitch. But that bitch parenthood kicked me in the ass and said, “Grow the fuck up!” and I have. I had to.

  That bitch has taught me a lot of things about life and myself. She taught me this thing called “forgiveness.” Have you heard of it? It’s fucking awesome. It’s not a cure-all but it helped me heal some of my old wounds that kept on bleeding out and messing up my life. Yeah, I’ve forgiven my parents (for the most part) for being such fuck-ups. Parents (or grandmothers) aren’t responsible for all the bad things you do, and the bad decisions you make throughout your life. But by God, they can sure drive you crazy and start you down that path of messed-up stupidity.

  That bitch also taught me about the harms of judgment. This one hasn’t been easy for me. Every one judges, but when you become a mother; you warp speed into a new breed of judger. You become the mother superior of the Parental Supreme Court.

  Like I said, I’ve tried hard not the judge but sometimes it’s damn near impossible not to. Sometimes as a PSC judge you need to give yourself a pardon for your own judgments. For example, I tried hard not to judge the mother at the park whose kid ate dog shit. She didn’t even blink one eye. I, on the other hand, all but had an epileptic seizure, and I’m not epileptic. But good God...dog shit! And I’ve tried hard not to judge my grandmother, Lizbet. Even though I know her style of parenting (buck the fuck up, you’re a Grant) fucked up my dad, Alex, and pushed me over the edge. How could it not? And as for my mother Marie, well, she was an orphan raised in foster care. So, I’ll give her an inch or two; let’s call it an early parole. There’s a reason I’m telling you all this forgiveness and judgment stuff. That reason is standing just feet away. I hope that when I tell him he has sons, he’ll let that bitch parenthood teach him a thing or two about forgiveness and the harms of judgment.

  * * *

  I take another quick peek. Shit. I think he’s looking my way. I step closer to Lee, all but spooning his muscle-man fine ass. If he takes a step back he’ll either knock the air out of me or crush me to death. Maybe that’s not such a bad idea. I look down at my feet wishing that the elevator floor would swallow me up or that Siegfried and Roy (are they still alive and living in Vegas?) or David Copperfield were standing next to me and could make me disappear...vanish into thin fucking air.

  It’s so hard to look at him and yet it’s friggin’ hard not to. But then again, I haven’t really ever stopped looking at him. My sons, (his sons) are the spitting image of him. They have the same wavy, dark, black-brown hair; the same cleft chin and cheeky grin, and the same intense dark- chocolate eyes. They tilt their chin up when they’re fed up with me. Whine and tell me I talk too much, and yes, God help us all—they gift me often with “The Brow.” And you know it. I hate the fucking brow.

  Yes, they look like their father but they’re my sons, too. So, needless to say, they’re not your typical kids. At 2.588220397 years old, (or if you are one of those parents that prefer to tell everyone their child’s age in months—32.136157071 months old) they can read my reports, are nearly fluent in English, Spanish and French, have near photographic memories, and take in everything like a sponge and place it on their little shoulders.

  I take another quick peek and thank fuck his eyes are closed again. What the hell is he doing here at the Four Seasons anyway? He’s supposed to be staying with the others at the Venetian. If Nick told him where I was staying, I’ll de-ball him. Jules won’t be too happy about that, but it will have to be done.

  The elevator stops and a man steps out and a woman steps in. And of course, the bitch in heat sees him, moves next to him and then presses herself up against him. This forces him to step away from her and closer to me. Holy baby Jesus, give me a friggin’ break. Now I can smell the man pheromones. It’s freakin’ hot in this elevator but I know without even looking my nipples just hardened. In the last two plus years, I’ve accomplished many things in my professional and personal life, but there is one thing I haven’t been able to do and that’s stop wanting him. I think of and ache for him every day. I ache to see that cocky cheeky grin and feel it press into my hair. I ache for the feel of his heart beating against my breast. I miss the way he rolls his eyes at me and pleads for me not to think. And God help me I miss “The Big Guy.” Dear Lord, how I ache for his cock, to feel it thicken and lengthen, then release inside me.

  There were days (months) that I thought I would go crazy because I needed him so much. Fuck me. There is nothing like pregnant horny. Nothing! I had a dozen vibrating orgasmic pleasuring devices charged and ready at all times. I now have carpel tunnel. When my belly got too big to touch myself, I humped the furniture. That’s when I got tennis elbow. (And what’s up with that? Why do they call it tennis elbow, when you can get it without putting your elbow anywhere near a court?)

  Everything is his fault. He impregnated me with not one but two babies, turning me into a crazed nymphomaniac. Then the asshat cheated on me with his ex-fucking wife, forcing me, the crazed nympho, to use self-pleasuring devices that gave me carpel tunnel. Breathe. Then, because I was impregnated with his two (one 8.3 pound, 22-inch son, one 8.5 23 inch son) sons, I got too big to touch or even see my clit, which forced me, the crazed nympho, to hump the arm of a chair, causing it to topple over and me with it. Thus, landing on my elbow and hyperextending it, then voilà—tennis elbow.

 
So take that, Jaxson Chase Ryan, you goatee-sporting, long hair bobbing, pheromone reeking, tight chino wearing, attention seeking, vagina teasing, hot body flaunting, arrogant airing, lying, cheating bastard. Phew...I feel so much better.

  The elevator stops two floors before the lobby. Then, no...hell no, the other five occupants in the elevator exit. Why the hell aren’t they going down to the lobby? The doors close leaving just the three of us. Christ it’s hot. I’m sweating like a whore in church. I lean my forehead on Lee’s shoulder. He misunderstands me and steps aside. I look up. Our eyes meet.

  “Fuck me.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  Cheeky Bastard

  Alexia

  He takes a step forward and Lee steps in front of me.

  “Is there a problem, sir?”

  “No. No problem. I just want to talk with Ms. Grant.”

  Lee steps aside. “You know this guy?”

  “Yeah...I know him. Lee Johnson, meet Jaxson Ryan.”

  Lee gives Jaxson a thorough once over. “So this is Jaxson Ryan,” he comments with attitude.

  Jaxson holds out his hand. “Jaxson Ryan.”

  “Mr. Ryan,” Lee says as they shake hands.

  Jaxson gives him a hesitant smile.

  The elevator doors open and we step out and into the lobby.

  Jaxson puts his hand on my shoulder.

  I flinch from his unexpected touch.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to...”

  “It’s okay...it’s just...”

  He sighs. “You don’t need to explain—I get it.”

  He does? “How did you know I was staying at the Four Seasons?”

  “I overheard Jules telling Nick.”

  “Of course you did.” Jules! You and your big, fat mouth.

  “Can we talk?”

  “Jaxson, I...”

  “Please. Just for a few minutes.”

  I step back. Having him so close makes me feel...unhinged.

  “Jaxson, this isn’t a good time. I’m meeting everyone at the Venetian. Aren’t you supposed to be golfing with Nick and Henry?”

  “Nice to know you’re so interested in my whereabouts.”

  Bastard. “I’m not, I just didn’t want to...”

  “Run into me?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Sorry to inconvenience you.”

  What’s with the fucking attitude? “You’re not inconveniencing me.”

  “Maybe not, but I’m making you uncomfortable.”

  You have no idea. I look at my watch. “Jaxson...not a good time.”

  He gives me “The Brow.”

  Lee smirks. The boys give him “The Brow” all the time.

  “Alexia, we need to talk.” He gives me his pleading puppy-dog-eye look—the same one his sons give me and I fall for it every damn time.

  “Okay, I agree we do but...”

  My iPhone rings out “She’s a super freak. Super freak.”

  I take it out of my bag. “Jules,” I tell him.

  He laughs.

  My heart skips. Dear God, how I’ve missed that laugh.

  “Sorry. Can you give me a sec?”

  He nods.

  “Jules,” I answer.

  “Where the fuck are you?”

  “Well, hello to you, too.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m on my way. We’re just now leaving the hotel.”

  “You’re still at the Four Season?”

  “Yes. We got...hung up.”

  She sighs. “I need a drink. Why don’t Marco and I meet you and Lee at the pool?”

  “Fine, see you in a few.” I disconnect and drop my phone back into my bag.

  “I only need a few minutes,” he says.

  I bite my lip, while trying to figure out how I want to play this. If this is going to happen, it’s going to be on my terms, and my turf.

  “Okay, I agree that we need to talk. Our best friends are getting married, and I’ll be living in New York, and our paths are bound to cross, and...”

  I look at my watch because I can’t look into his eyes. I just can’t. “Can we meet here, later this afternoon, around four?”

  Jaxson takes a step closer and Lee latches onto his elbow.

  “Fuck man. I’m not going to hurt her.”

  I nod for Lee to let go. I know he won’t hurt me, physically, anyway.

  He nods toward Lee. “Is it possible, for us to meet without Mr. Universe?”

  “Yes. We can meet without Lee. I’ll have him meet you in the lobby at four.”

  “I’ll see you at four. You better not ditch me, Lex.”

  “I won’t ditch you, I’ll be here at four.” Dear Lord, how I want to ditch him and his attitude.

  He nods at Lee, turns and walks away.

  Lee and I watch his fine ass as he makes his way through the Four Season’s lobby.

  Lee snickers. “So, that was Jaxson Ryan.”

  I elbow his rock hard abs and wished I hadn’t. Ouch! “Smart ass.”

  * * *

  “What does he want to talk to you about?” Jules asks me as we position our loungers by the pool.

  “I’m guessing he wants to talk about you and Nick, and or, maybe the fact that I’m moving back to New York. He seemed upset...mad. If anyone should be mad, it should be me. Maybe he’s mad because I hired a lot of former Ryan employees. But you’d think he would be happy about that.”

  “He’s an arrogant asshole,” Lee comments as he pulls his lounger next to mine. “I wouldn’t worry about why he’s upset.”

  “I agree,” Jules says, “Jaxson Ryan is an arrogant asswad, and I wouldn’t waste my time trying to figure him out.”

  “I’ll add lying, cheating bastard to that list.”

  “A lying, cheating bastard that’s still in love with you,” Marco adds as he pulls up his lounger.

  “Yeah, right. All men who love me get me pregnant, fuck their ex-wives, and then forget I even existed. It’s that extra ‘something’ that I have. It drives men so wild they can’t wait to sink their dicks into someone else.”

  “Self-deprecating sarcasm doesn’t look good on you, my dear.”

  “Marco, you wound me. You don’t like the way I look,” I faux pout.

  “I think everything you wear looks good on you,” Lee says.

  “Like you would know. You are the only gaywad that I know, who doesn’t have any fashion sense,” Jules adds.

  “Being a little stereotypical, aren’t we, Jules?”

  “No. You truly are the only gaywad that I know, with zero fashion sense.”

  “You two do realize that Marco and I weren’t referring to clothing.”

  “Of course we do,” Jules answers.

  “What’s with you? You’ve been gay bashing all week,” Marco adds.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just...this is my last day of freedom, and I’m hanging with a bunch of gaywads and Mother Teresa.”

  “Mother Teresa? Really? That’s low, even for you, girlfriend.”

  “I’m sorry. I keep hearing the words ‘till death do you part’ in my head and it’s freaking the freak out of me.”

  “Are you forgetting the man whom you will be saying, ‘till death do you part’ to? You’re lucky to have a man like Nick, Jules. I’ve never had any man love me like that.”

  Marco clears his throat.

  I take off my cover-up, pull my long hair into a tighter knot and sit down on my lounger. I put my hand on Marco’s arm. “I know you want the fairytale ending for Jaxson and me, but it’s not going to happen.”

  “I just think there is something that we’re missing. A man that looks the way he did, and probably still does, at you, just doesn’t stop loving. He might be with Mia, but he sure as hell doesn’t love her.”

  “Okay, enough about my nonexistent love life, and fucking Jaxson Ryan. This weekend is about our girl Jules, and her man Nick.”

  Lee pulls off his tee and sits his muscled ass down on the other
side of me. “I almost lost it when Jaxson gave you ‘The Brow.’ He looks so much like JB and Chase, it’s unreal.”

  “Lex cried for a week after JB gave her ‘The Brow’ the first time, because it reminded her of Jaxson,” Marco adds.

  “Yeah, that was a major post-partum week.”

  “Wasn’t that the same week you gave up on the breast feeding?”

  “Yes, Jules, it was. It was the lowest moment of my early motherhood. And you’re not fooling me; I know where you’re going with this—let’s not.”

  She ignores me. “I agreed to help you out, sister. It could have worked.”

  I give her “that look” behind my sunglasses. “I guess, we’ll just never know, sister.”

  “Never know what?” Lee asks.

  Jules sits forwards on her lounger. “I read somewhere that if you have someone like your husband or boyfriend, suck on your tits, it can re-stimulate milk glands. I offered to suck on her tits because she had no husband or boyfriend. No non-gaywad ones anyway. But the bitch turned me down.”

  Lane and my sister Samantha walk up and join us.

  “I heard suck, tits, and re-stimulate,” Lane says. “What did I miss?”

  Sam gifts him with a playful slug in the arm.

  “Ouch! That hurt.” He teases.

  “Yeah, right,” she says as she scoots me over and sits on my lounger.

  Lane pulls up a chair. “No, seriously, what did I miss?”

  “Nothing,” I say.

  He frowns. “Man, I always miss out on all the fun.”

  Sam slugs him again. “Are you saying that I’m not any fun?”

  He laughs then kisses her on the cheek. “Woman, I’d never say that about you.”

  “You’d better not.”

  “Why aren’t you two suited up?” I ask them.

  “We’re going to a spy convention,” Sam says and then rolls her eyes.

  “Spy convention?”

  “That’s not what it’s really called. It’s a security and surveillance...something, something.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I say and laugh at my sister.