On Thursday I had discomfort when I sat down and bruises around my neck. It was winter so no one questioned my turtleneck, and I spent all day in my office with instructions to be left alone.
I cited being too busy for anything else, which wasn’t exactly a lie. But it was more to the point that no one would notice my breath catch every time I moved in my chair, and so I could touch the heated finger marks on my throat in private.
Reliving the pain, the ache.
The lingering memories of his body in mine I could still feel.
It was utter bliss.
He’d fucked me so good.
I wasn’t sure about the second time, being on my back underneath him. It was not my favoured position. I felt awkward and vulnerable, and he seemed to realise this. He’d stripped off his sweater and then, so it didn’t feel too intimate, he held me down and proceeded to fuck me.
I got to see his clenched jaw, the determination on his face to prove how worthless I was, that he could use my body for his own pleasure and disregard me when he was done.
His muscular torso, his bulky arms and strong hands . . . testament to the marks he’d left on my neck, to the bite mark he’d left on my back.
My blood warmed at the thought of it.
And he’d kissed me. Well, he’d smashed his mouth to mine and forced his tongue inside.
I should be embarrassed to admit that was the tipping point that made me come. I’d been close the whole time, but with his hand around my neck and his massive cock buried to the hilt, and then his tongue?
But I wasn’t embarrassed.
I refused to feel shame for whatever turned me on.
I knew it wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, and most men I’d encountered weren’t up for how rough I liked it.
But Marshall had no problem with it.
The bonus of him hating me, I guess. The silver lining of my father ruining his father’s business—a transaction I had no part in—but he hated me for it all the same. I couldn’t say I blamed him. My father ruined a lot of people’s lives.
I wasn’t excluded from that.
No one was.
I wondered briefly if I should tell Marshall about the marks on my throat. Should he know? Probably. But I could only imagine he’d probably freak out, apologise profusely, and promise to never do it again.
And I wanted him to do it again.
What if he freaked out to the point where he called off our arrangement altogether? What had he called it? Enemies with benefits?
It would be the gallant thing to do, perhaps even the right thing to do. And Marshall Wise would do the gallant thing.
So no, I wouldn’t be telling him.
My office phone buzzed and my assistant’s line lit up. “Mr Tye, your sister is here to see you.”
I refrained from sighing. “Okay, thank you. Send her in.”
A few seconds later, Brooklyn walked in. She was the picture of elegance and grace, her dark pant suit was well fitted to her too-thin body, her camel-coloured coat matching her expensively bleached high ponytail.
She walked straight in and sat down opposite me. “Morning,” she said.
“You should have called.”
“You’d have told me not to come.”
“For good reason. I’m busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
“And so are you.”
“I make time for you. Unlike you, since you returned from Melbourne.”
I sighed, then. “Nice coat.”
“Thanks. Nice turtleneck.”
“Thanks. Can I get you a coffee?”
She relaxed a little then, even afforded me a smile. “No.” And then she swung her axe. “I spoke to Dad.”
I rolled my eyes. “Before we get into this, are you on his side or mine? It helps to know where thine enemies lay in wait.”
She smirked, her pale pink glossy lips softening her face. “Your side. Always.”
I smiled back at her. She was perhaps the only person in the world who truly understood me. Not that she knew everything about me.
Not that anyone did.
Except for the men I’d asked to hate-fuck me.
Except for Marshall.
“So,” she said. “Dad?”
I sat up straight in my chair and regretted it immediately. I didn’t quite hide the wince from the sharp reminder my arse gave me.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, overdid it at rugby training,” I lied.
“Why on earth you volunteer to be pummelled into the ground by sweaty men, I’ll never know.”
If only she knew . . .
“Yes, what did father dearest have to say about me this time?”
Now it was she who rolled her eyes. “Nothing really. Just how no one stacks up to his god complex. The usual. He was wondering if bringing you back here was the right move.”
What?
“It was his idea,” I said.
“I know.”
“Moving into the construction industry was his idea. You know, in his quest for global domination. If his projection figures aren’t what he was hoping for, he should have hired better analysts who’d tell him the truth instead of fucking yes-men.”
She smiled. “I know that. Everyone does.”
“Except him.”
She nodded and sighed. “Anyway, I just thought you should know that was today’s morning-meeting rant.”
Ridiculing his son in a meeting with his board of directors. Nice. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
She sighed and was quiet for a moment. “How’s it going here anyway? Glad to be back?”
I wasn’t sure why my mind leapt straight to Marshall Wise, as if he was the one good thing in my life. I shook my head. “Uh, yeah. It’s fine. Lleyton got me straight back into rugby and training. It’s helped.”
“Don’t miss Melbourne life at all?”
I didn’t have to even think about it. “Not really.”
“And how’s Enzo? Did he handle the move okay?”
That made me smile. “He doesn’t care where he is, as long as his bowl is full.”
“Good.” She studied me for a long second, and I recognised the look of guarded sadness in her eyes. So similar to my own. Before either of us could say anything too meaningful, she stood up. “Have lunch with me on Sunday. Just you and me at my place. One o’clock.”
I’d have preferred dinner, given my plans for Sunday morning now revolved around a long soak in a very hot tub. But this was Brooklyn asking, and I could never say no. “Okay. One o’clock.”
Her smile was bright before she schooled it away. We’d never been good at showing emotions. For anything or anyone. “There’s a new Nepalese momo place that has the best dumplings in the city, apparently. I’ll order in.”
“Perfect.”
With a nod and a swish of her ponytail, she was gone. How she could walk, let alone glide, in those heels, I’d never know. But she was the picture of poise and refined grace which most people mistook for conceitedness. Much as they mistook the same in me.
If only they knew it was an artfully mastered emotionally detached state of being from having one fucked-up childhood.
After all, people tended to leave you alone if you appeared unapproachable.
Despite all that, I felt better after her visit. We weren’t close, not by any stretch, but now that we were both adults, perhaps I could make more of an effort. She was basically the only family I had.
Technically, I still had both parents, but I wasn’t sure I could call them family.
Whatever that word meant, I wasn’t completely sure.
I skipped lunch and managed to get a great deal done with zero interruptions, but I couldn’t ignore my stomach forever. By four o’clock, I was starting to feel a little ill and shaky, so I wandered into the staff breakroom in search of something . . .
To find none other than Marshall Wise laughing with Olivia from accounts. Olivia saw me, ducked her head, and made a run for the door, but Marshall stood there leaning against the counter with his feet crossed, stirring a cup of tea.
He smirked at me . . . until he saw my face. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. Just need something to eat.”
He put his cup down and then thought better of it and handed it to me. “Drink this. I just made it. White tea with two sugars.” He turned and opened a cupboard door and produced a pack of plain biscuits and a small bag of grain crisps. “Have these. When did you eat last?”
I shrugged and was about to tell him I’d had coffee for breakfast after missing dinner last night too, but I stopped myself when I realised it wasn’t any concern of his. I sipped his tea instead and was surprised by how good the sugar was.
I normally didn’t have it, but it made me feel better almost immediately. I opened the biscuits and nibbled on the end of one, then washed it down with more tea.
“I just got busy,” I said, feeling bad for not replying.
He seemed concerned and crossed his arms, waiting for me to finish the biscuits, apparently.
He was wearing his work pants, his dirty work boots, a company T-shirt with a flannel jacket. It bugged me that he made construction work so sexy.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, finishing the second biscuit.
“Had to drop off some invoices,” he replied. “Got talking to Olivia.”
“You two seemed cosy.”
I regretted saying that the second it was out of my mouth.
He smirked and took back his half-drunk tea from out of my hands. He sipped it, smiling. “I’ve known her for years, and believe me, she knows she’d be wasting her time trying to grease my wheels, if you know what I mean. I drive in the very gay lane.”
I shot him a glare, then went to the fridge in search of something else. Some juice, maybe. I found none. “Christ.”
Just then, my assistant rushed past the door. “Shayla,” I called out.
She stopped and came back, surprised to see me, clearly. “Oh. Yes?”
“Can we please order some small bottles of juice or lemonade to have on hand for whoever . . . ? And maybe some of those oat and yoghurt bars. Some fresh fruit.”
She nodded. “Yes, of course,” she said and was gone.
When I looked back at Marshall, he was fixing another cup of tea. He turned and handed it to me. “Have this.” Then he opened the crackers. “Need me to hand feed you?”
I glanced around. We were very much alone, but still . . .
I took the crackers and ate one, the salt bursting on my tongue, and washed it down with more tea. I was about to thank him for making it—his concern was polite but not necessary—but he spoke instead.
“Nice sweater,” he murmured behind his cup of tea. “I didn’t realise the Steve Jobs look was in this season.”
So much for his concern.
“Thanks. It’s to hide the bruises on my neck you gave me.”
I also regretted saying that the second it was out of my mouth, but his reaction almost made it worth it.
He choked on his drink and coughed. “Are you serious?” I peeled back the tight-fitting neck and his eyes widened. “Holy shit.”
I sipped the tea and ate another cracker. “Don’t be sorry,” I added casually. “Because I’m not.”
He seemed to consider something for a second. “Well, I dunno what’s more concerning. That I’m not sorry, or that I find it incredibly hot.”
Not the reaction I expected from him, and it pleased me.
“Hm. Anyway, it’s not something we should be discussing here.”
“Ah, yes, your rules. In my defence, I didn’t come here to see you and I had no intention of paying a social visit. You came in here all pale with your hands shaking, so I was just making sure you didn’t die. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“My blood sugar drops when I forget to eat,” I added lamely. “It’s nothing serious.”
“Forget to eat often?”
I rolled my eyes. This was not a conversation I was having with him. Why was I having a conversation with him at all?
“Thank you for the tea,” I said, taking a step towards the door and stopping dead in my tracks.
Because there in the doorway, in his grey Italian long coat and his cold eyes, stood my father. Shayla stood behind him, shaking her head and mouthing sorry, which meant he more than likely just strode past her desk without even acknowledging her.
“Surprise visits always pay off,” he said. “I’m not keeping you busy enough, I see.”
I heard Marshall make a huff of disgust, and without a word, he walked out, staring my father right in his face as he went past. No greeting, no smile, just a sneer and a death stare. Right in my father’s face. A lesser man would never . . .
I could have laughed.
Maybe Marshall Wise wasn’t so bad after all.
My father stared after him, no doubt about to ask for his name and employment position, which I had no intention of giving him.
“I wasn’t feeling well,” I said, putting myself into my father’s firing line instead. It worked because his laser stare zoomed in on me. “Thought I’d try a cup of tea. Shall we go into my office?”
I’d been in a bad mood since the run in with my father on Thursday. On Friday, I’d asked Shayla to screen all calls, hold all meetings, and basically make me unavailable to everyone. Including my father. Not that he called or cared.
But by Saturday, I was looking forward to rugby. And to also getting railed afterwards, but running hard and playing a physical game was exactly what I needed.
We were playing against Burwood, and we’d had a great first half. We were up by twelve, and I’d had two try assists and I’d had a good run of metres and made plenty of tackles.
It felt good.
The physical output, the burn in my legs and my lungs.
Twenty minutes into the second half, Lleyton threw me a short offload, and I took off. I dodged their inside centre and tried to fend off their fly half. He grabbed me around the legs, and as he was taking me to the ground, a swinging arm came and collected me.
I don’t remember leaving the field.
I came to in the dressing shed with the team strapper and the medic peering down at me. I was on my back, I couldn’t see very well, and I tried to sit up, but the medic stopped me. “Stay there,” he said. He was holding something to my eye, and it stung.
“You’re okay, Tye,” the strapper said. “You got coat-hangered, that’s all.”
“How’s your neck?” The medic was peering into my eyes. “Do you have any pain?”
He kept asking me question after question, but the only thing it accomplished was annoying me.
“I’m fine,” I said. “How’s the game? How long have we got to go?”
The strapper laughed but the medic shook his head. “You’re not going back out there. You gotta pass a head injury assessment with a fifteen-minute clearance. The game’ll be over by then. Just relax.”
He took the swathe away from my head and I could see the bloodied gauze. He inspected it. “Shouldn’t need stitches. I’ll put a clip on it. But you’re gonna have a helluva black eye.”
My eye was already swollen. When he’d taken the swathe away, I still couldn’t see any better and it was because my eyebrow was now twice its normal size.
Great.
The medic did what he had to do: flushed it, cleaned it, stuck a butterfly clip on the cut, and wrapped my head. And by the time I’d cleared the concussion tests and he let me leave, I only got to see the last few minutes of the game.
We won, but it was bittersweet.
Their number four got the remainder of the game in the sin bin, and I got a swollen eyebrow, a bleeding cut, and a cracking headache.
But I wasn’t averse to a little pain.
Nothing a few post-win celebratory drinks at the pub wouldn’t fix, anyway.
I’d only intended to have one or two. I needed to get home and get myself ready for my nine o’clock appointment with a different kind of pain.
The bar was pumping; music was loud, laughter even louder, and I knew before we’d even walked in that the Ryde boys were there. They’d played Newport and had to literally drive past our pub to get back to theirs.
And from the noise, I could safely assume they’d won.
I saw Taka first. He was hard to miss. The man was a mountain. And, of course, wherever Taka was, Marshall was never far away.
He was standing there, a beer in his hand, laughing at something. He wore jeans and that woollen sweater that suited him so well; it was a creamy brown like his hair, it was soft and cosy, well-loved.
And then he saw me.
He tried to hide his reaction, and maybe no one else would have ever noticed. But his jaw ticked and his eyes hardened. Now, he’d looked at me with the hatred of a sworn enemy a thousand times. I was no stranger to Marshall’s contempt.
It was my favourite thing about him. The man hated me.
But this look was different.
I still had the bandage around my head, and I could only see out of my right eye, but I saw that look just fine.
I just didn’t know what it meant.
Lleyton handed me a beer and I tried to laugh with them, but the truth was, my headache was kinda bad, and I couldn’t focus. The beer didn’t help at all.
I stood up and Lleyton grabbed me. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just gonna take a piss.”
I weaved my way through the crowd, earning a few comments and nods from the Ryde team about my bang up. I finished at the urinal and washed my hands, then looked at myself in the mirror. I’m sure the bandage wrapped around my head made it look worse than it was, and I considered taking it off when someone decided they needed to wash their hands in my sink.
I knew from his scent, from the way he brushed up against me, and the warm timbre of his voice who it was.
“Who did that to you?” Marshall asked. He shook the water from his hands and met my gaze in the mirror. “Who was it?”
That hatred, the barely contained loathing, was in his eyes all right. It just wasn’t aimed at me.
I wasn’t sure what to make of that.
Before I could answer, someone walked in, and Marshall walked out without so much as a backward glance.
I went back to the tables my team was at, but I didn’t even sit down. “Hey, guys, I’m out,” I said. “Gonna Uber it home.”
They half-heartedly protested, but they kept looking at my eye as if they understood. I ordered a ride home, pocketed my phone, and clapped Lleyton’s shoulder.
“I’ll call you in the morning to see if you didn’t die,” he said.
“Yeah, thanks.” I gave them a wave as I turned to walk out.
“And don’t worry about Burwood’s number four,” Connor yelled. “Bastard’ll get what he’s owed.”
I glanced at Marshall on my way out and I knew he’d heard that. His smile told me he’d heard it just fine.
The air outside was bitingly cold and it kind of helped with my headache and my throbbing eyebrow. I only had to wait a few minutes for my Uber and when I climbed into the dark backseat, someone slid in right next to me.
Someone with a familiar scent and soft woollen sweater.
