Cuffed by His Charm: A Dirty Little Secrets Novel Read online

  “No.”

  He smiles, and it almost reaches his eyes. “Well, I do have something to ask you. You know my good friend Micah?” I nod, and Gabe adds, “He came to Ryder’s headquarters yesterday. That’s why Ryder and I left you with Alex. I guess he’s been trying to get ahold of me, but couldn’t reach me.”

  Instant guilt roars through me, but is momentarily muted when Gabe continues. “He’s actually invited us to attend his wedding tomorrow night in Napa Valley. It’s nothing big or lavish; it sounds like it’ll be small, intimate.”

  I shift up a little farther on the couch, but keep the ice pack in place. “Are you sure they want me there? I mean, won’t all your friends be there?”

  His expression softens, as does his voice. “They all want to spend time with you on a more personal level, aside from seeing you in the pub. Don’t think otherwise.”

  I’m not convinced, and I think he can see that in my expression, since he brushes his fingers across my cheek and adds, “We all agree none of this is your fault, Kenna. No one blames you.”

  But I feel to blame . . . for all of it. “Do you want me there with you?”

  “Micah is my closest friend in the world, of course I want you there.” With a smile, he slides his knuckles across my jaw. “There is nothing I want more than to solidify your presence in my life.”

  “Well,” I say, nibbling my lip. “Will they care if I have a horribly gross black eye?”

  His mouth twitches. “No, they won’t care. But to be honest, your bruise will look worse on day three anyway.”

  “I guess that’s a positive in all this.”

  “There is no positive in any of this,” he mutters.

  I stare into his exhausted eyes, and somehow even though everyone keeps telling me this isn’t my fault, it all feels like my fault. “I’m sorry, Gabe.”

  “What are you sorry for, sweetheart?” he asks softly.

  “This. The fact that you look so exhausted,” I tell him, shifting the ice pack to avoid the icy bite on my skin. “I wish I could make this all go away.”

  “It will go away, McKenna.” His hand slides up and down my leg, stopping to give my thigh a firm squeeze. “And stop thinking about me. Right now, I’m only thinking about you.”

  Something passes between us then. It’s in his eyes, the protective way he’s watching me. He rises and slides his arms underneath me, gathering me close to his chest. After which, he brings me into the bedroom then gently lays me down in the middle of the mattress. With no heat in his eyes, he grabs the end of my yoga pants, and I lift my hips as he pulls my pants off. I shift upward a little, getting my head comfortable against the pillow, and he pulls the sheets back then places them over my bare legs.

  I notice the throbbing behind my eye has lessened some, the painkillers doing their job, while Gabe strips off his shirt in that fast way men do. His pants are gone a second later, and then he’s sliding into bed next to me. He tucks me in close against him and whispers, “Be still.”

  There in the safety of his arms, I let the darkness take me.

  Chapter 11

  Gabe

  Bright and early the next morning, the ringing of my cellphone drags me out from the shower sooner than I would have liked. With things on edge as they are, I can’t miss the call. I grab a towel off the heated rack on my way to the vanity and wrap it around my waist. When I glance at the screen and discover who’s calling, I grumble, “Fuck.” I’m in no mood to talk to my mother with all that’s going on, and especially because it’s a Monday. She always seems more herself on Mondays than she does on Fridays. Partly because she’s just spent time with her squad of spoiled, self-absorbed friends.

  I click the speakerphone on my cell and greet her, “Good morning, Mother.”

  In her high-pitched voice, my prim, proper, and overly stuffy mother, Alice O’Keefe, replies, “You have one second to explain yourself, Gabriel.”

  I reach for another towel, rubbing my head, removing the excess water from my hair. “If I knew what you wanted to know then I could explain myself.”

  “First, a sex club,” she snaps. “Now, this. Do you know what you’re doing to me? The stress and embarrassment you’re causing me?”

  I’m on immediate alert now, and I don’t need her to say anything more. I toss the towel over my shoulder and open the browser on my cellphone, navigating to the Gotcha! website. The screen loads . . . dammit!

  Last night I knew there would be an article about McKenna and me in the tabloid this morning, and there would also be a picture. Truth is, I didn’t think it would be this bad, and there’s a lot I don’t like in front of me.

  Gabe O’Keefe likes it rough! Signs are so does his new lover. But our sources tell us that friends are beginning to be concerned for her safety.

  My pulse races, pumping my blood rapidly through my veins at the photograph of McKenna and me outside the strip club last night. She’s in my arms, and I’m examining the mark on her eye. Her other fingers are holding the side of her face. The photograph below that one is a close-up of her face, showing the red mark that Tommy gave her last night.

  Fury burns in my blood, and my voice is rough when I speak again. “Are you suggesting, Mother, that you believe I’m capable of hitting a woman?”

  “No, of course not,” my mother replies, voice hard. “But, Gabriel, what are you doing in a strip club, and why does that woman have a clear injury on her face?”

  “You need to stop looking at these damn tabloids,” I tell her, frustrated at myself for not being diligent enough to check for paparazzi when we left the club. McKenna was all I was thinking about last night. Her safety, not mine. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, nothing in these magazines is real.”

  “You are clearly at the strip club,” she points out.

  “Clearly,” is my response.

  Silence falls, and she snorts disapprovingly. “This is damaging to your image. You’ve become the talk of the town, even in our inner circle. I’m tired of having to defend you. It’s embarrassing. These stories are horrific.” She pauses, then her voice becomes snappier. “Is this girl even real or has she been paid for?”

  I sigh and rip the towel off my shoulder, draping it over the sink next to my cell. “Yes, McKenna is real. She’s a bartender at the pub, you’ve met her.”

  As I reach for my gel on the cabinet next to me, my mother adds, “Well, anyway, you must stop the tabloids’ sudden interest in you. Go and pay them off, even threaten to sue them. Do whatever you have to do to make this go away.”

  I can’t blame her for caring what others think of her son. She comes from a different time, a different world even, and she was born into old money. Her family, the Lockwoods, lived a privilege life, and she had been born and raised to be a socialite. The opinions of others are all that matter to her. And that was the very reason I had kept Afterglow a secret. I like what I like, and I’ve never been ashamed of that, but I kept my silence to protect my mother.

  Though my life is mine. “I will not pay a cent to that tabloid.” And because I know her well, I add, “And neither will you.”

  “Gabriel.”

  “No, Mother.” I glare down at my cellphone. “They’re selling lies and selling me out. We will not be paying them a goddamn cent. Do you hear me?” That’s where I stand on this. Yes, I could both pay and threaten to sue them, but I want to win this battle, and I plan to—after we get Evan to safety.

  A long moment passes and then Mother finally huffs in defeat. “Fine, I hear you,” she quips. “Tell me about this girl then so I know how to answer people. What is her last name? Does she have connections that I can speak of?”

  “I refuse to answer that question, Mother,” is all I say, scooping up some gel and rubbing it between my hands.

  I can almost see my mother’s frown as she warns, “You remember who you are, Gabriel?”

  “Of course, I do.” I’d lived through a world of expectations growing up. But it was when
I decided to hire a CEO instead of running O’Keefe’s myself that I broke free from my mother’s restraints. That choice is still one we can’t discuss to this day without her experiencing a slight meltdown. “You never will let me forget,” I add, spiking up my hair.

  Her heavy sigh sounds like static over the phone. “Will you deal with the tabloids in some manner to make this go away?”

  “I’m handling it,” is my final reply, as I turn on the water and wash my hands.

  Another huff. “I’m still not pleased about this at all, Gabriel.” A pause. Then, “Here, your father wants to speak to you.”

  There’s rustling on the phone line as I dry my hands on the towel. When I move to pick up my boxer briefs, my father’s warm voice fills my bathroom, “Gabriel, son, how are things?”

  Where my mother is cold, my father, Arthur O’Keefe, is the opposite. Wise, kind, proud, he’s everything I hope to be at his age of fifty-nine. “Things have been interesting,” I say with a snort.

  Dad laughs. “Your mother has kept me up to date on things in San Francisco.”

  “I’m sure she has.”

  “Yes, Alice,” Dad says clearly to my mother, who I can hear rambling in the background. “Yes. Yes. Yes, dear.” A pause. Then, “Alice, please give me a minute to talk to the boy.” Another few seconds pass, then Dad sighs. “Sorry about that, son. Your mother is beside herself with these stories.”

  “The stories are irritating.”

  “I imagine they would be.” A softness reaches his voice when he adds, “I’m not sure how much I can do not being in San Francisco, but if you need me to help, I’m here.”

  My father, who had taken over the helm of Lockwood, the world’s fourth largest chemical company, has always been supportive. He’d been the one to tell me to move to San Francisco and do my own thing, instead of what my mother wanted, which was for me to train beneath my father to take over the family business.

  I grab my workout pants and step into them, telling my father, “Beyond the fact that the stories are exasperating, it’s not hurting business or becoming too much trouble.” Even as I say the words, I’m aware that might change.

  This tabloid is implying that I’m abusing McKenna. Regardless that it’s not true, the public loves a witch hunt. I’m aware how a scandal like this could ruin my reputation. And just like that, I can’t help but see the amusement in all this. For years, I’d been worried that the tabloids would print true stories about me, embarrassing my family and putting a stain on my life. Yet, right now, I’d rather they told my dirty little secrets instead of these terrible lies being printed.

  I settle the waistband of my pants around my hips, adding, “Believe me, if these stories become a bigger problem, or are keeping customers away, I will deal with this tabloid.”

  “Good enough for me,” says Dad. “You know, I’ve got a friend out there in San Francisco who deals with entertainment law, Ross Sterling. You might want to reach out to him. He’s got a grudge against the tabloids and would love to work alongside you, I’m sure.”

  “Why a grudge?” I press my hands against the sink, staring down at my phone.

  Dad’s chuckle is well amused. “Ross found himself in this tabloid once. It didn’t end well for his marriage, but he didn’t have enough evidence at the time to threaten them. Since this reporter is talking abuse now, you might have a stronger case.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, and I will. Because once this shit is all over with Evan, and I know McKenna is safe, I will deal with the tabloid. “Would you perhaps reach out and let him know that I might be calling, explain the situation?”

  “Of course, not a problem at all.”

  I roll my head, easing the muscles. “Any further advice for how I deal with this?” I ask my father.

  “Just get it put to bed,” he says. “Neatly, and as quickly as possible. These things have a way of spiraling out of control.”

  “I think it’s already done that, don’t you?”

  “It can always get worse, son.”

  “Now that’s not a settling thought.” I snort.

  “No, I suppose it isn’t,” my father says gently. “But it’s nonetheless true. You need to get on top of this, or find out why they’re hounding you. There must be a reason.”

  I happen to know those reasons, but (a) the conversation would take hours and (b) my father doesn’t want to hear all my dirty little secrets. Some things are better left unsaid. “I’ll stay on top of it.”

  “That’s all we can ask.” A pause. Then, “All right, now that I’ve pleased your mother with the conversation I didn’t want to have,” says Dad, a smile in his voice. “I see that this girl is special to you.”

  I pause, staring at myself in the mirror, seeing the dark circles beneath my eyes that are slowly becoming darker every day that goes by. “Why do you think that?”

  “Because I’m your father. I see the way you’re looking at her. I know that look, and I’ve never seen that look on your face before.”

  In the truth that’s always been between, I state, “Yeah, Dad, she’s special.”

  “Will you bring her home to see us?”

  I pause, considering that. Life feels uncertain now, definitely rocky, but where it came to McKenna life felt entirely certain. “Yes,” I decide, “when life is calmer, I’ll bring her home.”

  “Then I’ll look forward to it. Be well, son.”

  McKenna

  “Yeah, Dad, she’s special.”

  I’m standing outside Gabe’s bathroom door, absorbing that declaration with a world of guilt pressing onto my shoulders. The meaning behind those words, the softness in Gabe’s voice, I’m affected down to my bones.

  While I shouldn’t have eavesdropped on his conversation with his parents, I’m too frozen to move. In all this, in everything he’s done for me, I’m the one hurting him now, whether he wants to admit that or not. And now he’s crossed a line we can’t uncross. He’s discussed me with his parents. Things aren’t casual; they’ve just become serious. I should be happy, but I’m not, and therein lies the problem.

  I hurry out of his bedroom to avoid getting caught, and soon, I’m entering his kitchen, inhaling deep, struggling to right my world that’s spinning ever faster out of control. I never wanted any of this to happen. Here I stand now torn between what I know I need to do and what I want to do.

  “McKenna.”

  I gasp and spin around and blink, finding Gabe staring at me, clear concern in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything,” I whisper, eyes watering.

  He frowns, and then slowly, cautiously, he approaches me. Not a second later, I’m in his arms, and he hoists me on top of the counter. At eye level now, he steps between my legs, studying my face. “Please explain.”

  I glance down at his naked chest, barely able to look at him. “What did the tabloid article say about us?”

  His finger tucks under my chin, bringing my gaze to his. By the firm set of his mouth, I see that he doesn’t want to show me. Eventually, he reaches for his phone in his pocket, clicks a button, and then hands me the phone.

  I swallow the emotion bubbling up as I read the text implying that he’s abusing me. I take in the photograph of us, a clear injury by my eye. But it’s not that I can’t look away from, it’s the way I look in the photo, it appears like I’m recoiling from his touch. I know that’s not true, but the rest of the world doesn’t.

  My heart clenches as I look at him. “Did your mother see this?”

  He nods, slight wariness crossing his expression. “Yes, she saw the article, but she believed me when I told her that the story isn’t true.”

  That should be good enough. I place his cellphone next to me on the counter, and then ask, “What about your father?”

  Gabe studies my face and then shakes his head. “My parents love me, and they know that I would never hit a woman.”

  While I know that’s true and anyone who knows Gabe won’t believe this
story, my heart still feels the blame. “The world doesn’t know you like your friends and family know you.”

  He scoffs. “I don’t give a fuck what the world thinks of me.”

  “Liar,” I retort with a scoff of my own. “You very much do care about how you’re perceived in the public eye. If you didn’t, then why did you hide that you owned Afterglow.”

  He cocks his head, eyebrow winging up. “Because I care that what I do affects the people I love. My mother doesn’t need to know how I like to fuck, McKenna.”

  “Okay, while I believe that.” I gesture to the phone on the counter, “this is worse, Gabe. This story makes you look really, really bad.”

  “I’m well aware how this story makes me look,” he tells me, voice hard. His eyes, though, are gentle and concerned when he adds, “At the same time, I can’t keep worrying about how everyone sees me. It’s gotten me nowhere but constantly worrying about something I have no control over.” He pauses. Then, he cups my face. “Yes, before I was torn up about all this because it affected my friends, too. I wanted to know who was behind it all. Now I know who’s responsible.”

  I can tell he regrets his words immediately, because of the way I cringe.

  His eyes begin to narrow as he studies me, and then sighs, pressing his hands against either side of my legs. “All right, that’s quite enough now. Stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  He points to my face. “That guilt you’re feeling. I’ve tolerated it so far because I understood. But all this shit is not your fault. You need to see this. You need to stop blaming yourself.”

  “I can’t help but blame myself.” The guilt is still there for last night. In fact, I realize now, it’s even worse today.

  His expression goes hard. “You will stop thinking this is your fault.”

  I shut my eyes, fighting off the tears. “I know that none of this is my fault directly, and that the blame rests on my brother.” I reopen my eyes and stare at him deeply, seeing Gabe for the amazing man he is. “Regardless, it is my brother. My family has done this to you. And I can’t let this damage your life any more. We need to be more careful. This can’t happen again, Gabe. It can’t.” A tear escapes my eye, sliding down my cheek.