Attest (Centrifuge Duet Book 2)(16)
“If they turn on each other, then they won’t be certain if it is us who’s knocking them off one by one or one of them taking out potential witnesses before they can cut a deal. It’s all about divide and conquer, Xander. Do try to keep up.”
The front door closes behind her, leaving the scent of her perfume in the air and thoughts of her deceit on my mind. I don’t wait for her car to pull away from the curb before I’m back in the kitchen with my phone in my hands.
A quick search of Google has the information I want.
Harry Marshall. Ex-journalist for the Times. Son of a (now-deceased) participant in round one of the Centrifuge trials. Current investor in the new “wonder drug that’s bringing hope to hundreds of thousands of dementia sufferers.”
“To echo the wise words of Edwin Lowe’s over-excited friend, I’d say this qualifies as Bingo.” With no one to share in my geeky quip about the origins of the game of Bingo with me, I settle for pouring myself another glass of wine. I toast an imaginary companion, sip at the wine, and settle in for a few more hours of research.
It’s time to learn all I can about the players in this game I’ve been unwillingly drafted into.
TEN
“Wakey, wakey, rise and shine.” A soft, perfumed hand trails over my bare chest as coffee infused breath blows over my face. “It’s time to be up and at ‘em, tiger.”
“Fuck off,” I grumble, batting a tired hand in the air to signal my need to sleep some more.
The hand on my chest dips under the covers. It travels a twisted path down my torso, dipping up and down when it encounters my abdominal muscles and then my pubes. There’s a slight hesitation before the warm fingers are wrapped around my morning wood and I’m jolted from my dazed state to fully awake in an instant.
“My,” B purrs with a huge smile. She lets go of my cock, her gaze roaming over my chest then dropping down to my dick. Both are exposed because my blanket now sits pooled on my thighs after my surprise awakening. “What a big boy you are.”
I want to tell her to where to go, but I can see by the expectant gleam in her expression that that is what she wants. Instead, I brush past her when I stand, and naked as the day I was born, I march my traitorous dick into the ensuite. Closing the door behind me with shaking hands, I barely resist the urge to slam it shut. My ass hits the cold door when I slump back against it.
I bang the back of my head twice against the hard wood. “Stupid. Stupid idiot.”
After taking a piss, I attempt to splash cold water on myself. The tremors in my still shaking hands see more of it end up on the floor than on my face. I need to regain control of my thoughts—and my cock. He’s still out there, in the bedroom with B, imagining what it would be like to be buried in her right about now. My brain, on the other hand, is burning under the heat of the humiliation I’m feeling over my dick’s reaction to the She-Devil who’s fucking up my life.
Twice I douse my cheeks and neck in cold water, then look at myself in the mirror. The face that greets me belongs to a stranger. This hard, blonde man with his sneering expression isn’t ashamed of letting her touch him. No, he’s pissed that I’m letting my morals stop him from getting his dick wet after all this time.
“Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Eat your fucking heart out,” I mutter.
Closing my eyes, I count back from twenty in my head before I open them again. This time, the man I find reflected is me. The Xander I know. The one who would rather run his cock through a mincer than let Jax’s crazy, ex fuck buddy be the one who assists him in breaking his current sex drought.
“Do you need me to help you with anything?” Apparently, she can read minds as well.
“No, I’m good.” I flip the shower on to show her that I’m busy. Of course, the hint goes right over her head.
“Well, the offer stands. Just holler if you need me.”
*
Twenty minutes later, I’m showered and shaved and dressed in yet another of my own outfits. This time, it’s one that I regularly wore when I was teaching. I always thought it said professional but approachable while Amber always laughed when she saw me wearing it because old Mrs. Malone, the school librarian, liked to comment on my strong glutes whenever I wore these pants around her.
“I made breakfast.” B slides a plate of French toast in front of me. I make a conscious decision to choose the chair the furthest from hers. Apparently, that tickles her funny bone because she starts laughing and moves her breakfast to the spot opposite mine. “Promise I won’t bite unless you ask.”
Tuning her out is easy when delicious bursts of cinnamon mixed with maple syrup dance across my tastebuds. I’m bloody hungry, not having eaten since the packet of biscuits I devoured early yesterday evening. I check out the time on the clock and discover that it’s ten already. The last time I slept this late, I was a free man with a fiancée. By now, the strict schedule of prison would have demanded that I’d had breakfast, showered, been subjected to a cell search, and sent out to the exercise year for my hour of outdoor time already.
I’m surprised that my body allowed me to sleep this long—obviously I feel safer in this house than I should. Although, the two bottles of wine probably helped. That’s a lapse of judgement that won’t be occurring again. The wakeup call I received this morning is more than enough to drive that point home.