Minute by Minute (Games & Diversions #3) Read online

  Her face is cast downwards towards her expensive shoes—as if something were permanently fascinating on the ends of her Manolos.

  She looks around the café in search of something until she finds it. It’s a seat beside a man I hadn’t noticed. He sips coffee behind a raised newspaper. The second he lowers it to greet the woman, I gasp softly.

  The man’s hair is as red as the blush on my face, and I recognize him immediately.

  Mrs. Kittredge turns in response to see what has grabbed my attention.

  “Ah!” she exclaims when she sees who is seated at the other table. She clasps her hands together.

  “Oh, I must visit that table before we’re done. Ms. Stark is such a lovely young woman. She worked for us briefly when our studio was on the other side of…”

  But I hear nothing else.

  The rest of Mrs. Kittredge’s words are overpowered by the sudden ringing in my ears. I am unable to process anything over the sound of my own pulse, and shock is playing a symphony inside of my skull.

  Holy shit.

  “Knight” in Shining Armor

  No one ever won a chess game by betting on each move. Sometimes you have to move backward to get a step forward.

  –Amar Gopal Bose

  Day 4—1:58PM

  Casa de Griffin

  LUKAS

  A mid-day slump hits me hard at the strike of two.

  A caffeine craving at noon turns to mania two hours later, and soon I am practically begging for a hit of caffeine, ogling the various cups that sit errantly on neighboring desks with an eye that is green with envy.

  I need a break.

  With Chris back at Voyager and Foxx still out of the office, I walk solitarily to the local Starbucks with my eyes on the ground and my head in the sky as I try to figure a way around the issue dealing with the Voyager hack.

  It isn’t easy.

  I spend half the day recovering what had been hidden by the hack while Chris and Foxx were out of the office, and though I uncovered what was left of the missing files, I honestly don’t feel any better than I did when I walked in.

  In fact, I feel like shit—a temperament only exacerbated by the even shittier weather.

  The grey day has deepened into black, and where the rain fell in a steady shower merely hours ago, it now falls from the heavens in heavy sheets—huge blankets of water that smother the very air in my lungs.

  No longer in my suit, I saunter out of my building in soaked black gym wear, the thick humid air making it difficult to distinguish between my own sweat and the condensation outside.

  Exhausted does not even begin to describe how I feel.

  I walk to the streets outside, and I am overcome with sudden mental and physical fatigue, the effects of my brain and body workouts both putting the brakes on an internal engine that is clearly overrun.

  God, I can’t wait until I go home.

  My stomach flutters when I realize that I get to go home to Elena. One thought of her cupcake-scented skin, and suddenly, my cock turns into steel.

  Even casually dressed, she is beautiful, a sight to see when sashaying around in my oversized work shirts and sandals.

  Like this morning.

  Her shoulder-length hair constantly shifts in sexy disarray, and even now, when her eyes are sad, they are clear, blue pools of emotion, just as sheer and fucking breathtaking as the day that I met her.

  And when she comes…

  God, when she comes…

  Those blue eyes come completely alive, and all the fire that usually resides in that hot-tempered mouth of hers shoots straight to her irises.

  Amazing irises. Fucking unreal irises.

  On anyone else they would be nothing but oval-shaped balls of cells and nerves, but on her, they are swirly, sky-blue kaleidoscopes.

  They shift from hot to cool; flame to frost, with the flip of a switch… or a touch to her clit…

  A kiss to her clit… a slow lick to her clit…

  Mmmm. My mind continues to wander.

  Elena has the type of pussy that begs to be licked—the type of plump, pink lips that almost smile at you, inviting you in… in every way.

  I half-smile to myself. As I pass under the covered bridge outside of the building, it turns into a smirk.

  I’ve had her pussy in every conceivable way.

  And when she’s in my hands, there are so many more ways that I’ve yet to fuck her, so many other ways that I swear I could create.

  Because each of these positions is a different knob on her perfect little body, and I have appointed myself the captain at her helm, pushing and pulling the controls to turn her on at my will.

  Nothing has ever given me more pleasure.

  And it is the very thought of that pleasure—and the realization that I may not have it anymore—that distracts me as I hike across the walkway towards my car.

  In the throngs of a full-blown fantasy about Elena’s orgasms, I don’t even open an umbrella, choosing to brave the downpour on the short tour to where I parked.

  Even at a normally busy lunch hour, the street is empty, and the few sounds that drift across the cement are not enough to distract me from my vivid daydream.

  But the darkly clad man on that empty street is.

  To say that he doesn’t blend in would be a lie… because he does. Almost too well. I don’t even see him.

  At least, not at first.

  A sudden movement—a flash—out of the corner of my eye catches my attention, and I discover quickly, almost embarrassingly, that I am not as alone as I thought I was.

  I’m walking in the middle of the rain, with a dick harder than brick, and probably muttering to myself in front of a complete stranger.

  But my embarrassment turns quickly into apprehension as I watch the man approach the parking deck where I am headed and disappear under the cement cover.

  He’s by himself, but seems to walk with a dogged purpose.

  I tell myself, Ignore him. You’re horny; you’re on edge, and if you don’t watch it, you’re going to start seeing things, reading things that aren’t there. Maybe even get your dumb ass locked up…

  Like last week.

  I almost approached a man in the grocery store that looked like Gregory Sears. I just about hassled another Sears look-alike before even taking a second glance.

  I’m losing it.

  And with Elena in my house, I’ve only become more desperate, my determination to find the bastard responsible for her accident shifting into anxiety…

  Obsession…

  Paranoia.

  And after Elena’s run-in?

  It is abundantly clear that there’s more than one psycho prowling the streets, and the second just happens to be me.

  Don’t follow this guy. Leave him the fuck alone, and keep it moving.

  I decide to slow my gait, choosing to put more distance between myself and the unsuspecting stranger—a guiltless guy who is probably just on his way home to some (hopefully) beautiful woman.

  Like I am… for the very first time in my life.

  My thoughts fall back to the beautiful blonde that I know is waiting for me.

  And if she weren’t in so much pain, I’d give her a homecoming that she’d never forget.

  I’d stroke the ache I see in her eyes away—replace it with pleasure. I’d kiss those swollen lips that she has bitten nervously again and again for the past forty-eight hours.

  So many things I could do to her… would do to her… that I just can’t.

  I can’t comfort her in the way she really needs. I can’t tell her the truth about Ana’s accident.

  And I sure as hell can’t fuck her into forgetting.

  Even I’m not that big of a bastard.

  I shake the memory of Elena’s body off, tightening the hold on my duffle bag from work. I look up… and what I see makes my fingers tighten painfully around the strap.

  The man. The stranger. He’s still here.

  He’s in the parking deck.


  He’s walking towards my car…

  His hood is removed from his head now. He walks slowly around my car with an air of arrogance, his brown hair matted to a nondescript appearance.

  It’s too far to see his face, too dark to distinguish his features. I pick apart his exterior from a distance, and, to tell the truth, I’m not doing such a great job at it.

  I’m pulling at scraps that haven’t materialized, connecting the dots that aren’t there.

  Is he a friend or a foe? Family or enemy?

  With caution, he brushes his fingers along my car, and I swallow a lump that goes down like a razor blade.

  Strange. This man exudes the entitlement of an acquaintance but the aloofness of a stranger.

  Coworker, maybe?

  Fuck! What’s wrong with my eyes?

  I should be able to see from this distance.

  I’m getting closer to him, and I’m frantically trying not to overreact. And with the way I feel right now, whoever he is better pray to God he’s not a foe.

  I can see him better now.

  He’s taller. He’s lean. He pats something white across his hand.

  He leans over, pulls up my windshield wiper and places a white square beneath it.

  Another note?!

  And with one small gesture, this stranger has just acquired the greatest enemy he has ever known.

  I bolt towards him, pursuing him with a vengeance that has surpassed my anger.

  The man glances up… sees me—all one hundred and ninety six pounds of brawn and flesh barreling towards him like a bullet on crack.

  Furious. Desperate. Hurtling towards my target.

  The man yelps—a frightened sound that excites me…

  He starts to run, but it’s too late.

  I’m on his ass before he can even protest.

  Head down, shoulder lowered, I tackle the man as if he were a dummy, slamming his body to the cemented ground.

  Bam!

  We hit the floor.

  His body takes the brunt of the blow, and I feel the whoosh: the sudden expulsion of air that rushes from his lungs as he makes impact.

  That impact is nothing compared to my fists.

  I slam them against the man’s face in rapid succession, beating down and across as if he were a human bass drum.

  He raises his arms to cover his face, and still, I pound him with punches, my anger and frustration fueling a force in my hands—hands that feel no pain—hands that know no end.

  I am relentless.

  “Stop! Stop! Please stop!” the man screams.

  And I wouldn’t… if it weren’t for the absolute defeat that I now hear in his voice.

  I release my fingers from their fists and grab him by his hair. I yank the brown, mangy mess.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  The short wait is killing me.

  Is it Sears?

  I’ve finally caught the prick in the fucking act.

  “I’m…” he sputters. “I’m… I’m only parking security!”

  The words shock me into silence.

  I grab the man’s wrists, pulling downwards. His nose is busted, his large nostrils gushing blood onto his darkened collar.

  The top buttons of his coat are open, and I make out the beginning of a white letter—a white “S” that almost teases me from beneath the cloak.

  Security.

  The fucking meter maid.

  I let him go, pushing myself off of his crumpled body with a thrust that lands me on my feet.

  I’m relieved… embarrassed… and absolutely disappointed.

  The security guard lies there in pain for several seconds, moaning on the floor.

  Through my confusion, I extend a hand to him, which he hastily rejects.

  He stands to his feet, wobbling—cowering the second he catches my eye.

  I try to explain.

  “Look, I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry for…”

  “Not yet you aren’t!” he interrupts me sharply. “You’re going to hear from my lawyer, buddy. No one should get that mad over a parking ticket!”

  The uniformed parking maid hobbles away, and I watch him with regret, feeling guilty and disoriented by the entire melee.

  This day is turning into a shitshow, and somehow, somewhere I became the clown at the center. I turn to my car, grabbing the guard’s ticket.

  $100 for a parking violation?!

  I crumple the ticket, chuckling softly in near hysteria. That parking maid beat me worse than I could have ever beat him.

  But soon the laughter stops… because I realize that in all my research, in all my attempts to put the pieces together—harassing perfect strangers and combing through possible connections—I, to this day, still haven’t made any moves in this sick, twisted little match.

  Whoever the true culprit is, whoever threatened Elena on the street and put Ana in the hospital—Greg or not… is still somewhere out there…

  And right now, they have complete control of this game.

  No Dice

  Luck is not chance; it's toil. Fortune's expensive smile is earned.

  –Emily Dickinson

  Day 4—5:47PM

  Tampa City Streets

  ELENA

  Five missed calls, two unanswered texts, and one shaky voicemail later, and it appears that all the progress Lukas and I have made in the past three months has gone to shit.

  He hasn’t ignored me like this since a week before Kat and Foxx’s engagement party… when I had to text him via Skype…

  When we had strangely hot cyber-se…

  God… I can’t even say the word.

  It was one interesting night.

  And if I’m asked about that night on my deathbed, that one statement will be all I have to say of it.

  But now it’s different.

  At least, I thought it was.

  Several hours later, after witnessing the strangest rendezvous in Le Petite Café, it seems that Griff and I are right back where we started—with me virtually chasing him all around, trying to get a hold of him to no avail.

  And frankly?

  I’m tired of the constant pursuit.

  Still…

  I can’t unsee what I saw in that cafe, and if there’s anybody that should know about it, it should be Lukas.

  As a last ditch effort, I call his work number. It’s the only move that gives me any sort of hope.

  The phone rings twice before someone answers.

  A woman.

  “Lukas Griffin’s office,” she says.

  “Hi, may I speak to, uh… Mister Griffin, please?” I answer, feeling triumphant.

  But my bubble is burst.

  “No, ma’am. I’m sorry, but he’s not in at the moment.”

  “Well, do you know where he is, then?”

  The woman hesitates.

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “It’s important that I get ahold of him.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t give out Mister Griffin’s number to, uh… strangers.”

  The way the woman says ‘strangers’ catches me off guard and I hear a hint of something—some sentiment that seems strangely similar to snark.

  My teeth clench in frustration.

  “I’m a friend of Lukas’s.”

  “So, this is a personal call? Not business?” she says, undercutting me.

  “I’d rather discuss that with Mister Griffin.”

  “We don’t transfer personal calls to our execs here at Tripping Out!, ma’am, so if there is something with Mister Griffin that you’d like to discuss, I’d suggest that you call Mister Griffin’s cell phone.”

  She pauses.

  “That is, if you are personally close enough of a friend to actually have Mister Griffin’s cell phone number,” she remarks smugly.

  I almost can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  For an employee at Tripping Out!, this woman is awfully protective of Mister Griffin’s affairs, and the tone that she
is taking with me is downright possessive—snooty, at fucking best.

  Makes me wonder how many friends (or flavors) Lukas really has running around.

  “What is your name, may I ask?” I inquire of the woman.

  “Sarah,” she spouts with several Bostonian elongated “a’s.”

  “I’m an executive secretary for this company.”

  “Ok, Sarah…” I patronize. “I shouldn’t have to prove to you that I am a close friend of Lukas’s, and as far as ‘stranger’ labels go, I wouldn’t exactly call the woman that is staying in Mister Griffin’s home a stranger.

  “So,” I continue snidely, “if you could do me a really big favor and tell me where he is right now, I won’t have to come to the office and make a very big scene.

  “And by ‘big scene,’ I mean ‘tear everything and everyone at that office apart with my bare hands to find him.

  “So, I’d say you have two very interesting options here, Sarah, and if I were you… I’d pick Option B.

  “Is that “friend-ly” enough for you?”

  ***

  Mise En Place, one of Tampa Bay’s premier restaurants, is a restaurant meant for lovers.

  It is a restaurant with the sort of grown-up, sultry atmosphere that makes unemployed dancers from humble upbringings like mine feel inadequate—makes them feel like children that have merely been playing the role of adult while others—like rich, magazine execs like Lukas— actually live it.

  It is one of the many playgrounds of the wealthy—a place where moguls who have “made it” and the beautiful women on their arms dine on six-course meals—meals that I can’t afford no matter how many of my piggy banks I break.

  So when I step into Mise, after convincing the host to let me fill in for a last-minute cancellation, I feel sorely out of place.

  My clothing is simple; my hair is unstraightened.

  The nude heels I wear are Target-brand, and besides the gloss that I have on my lips, I have not one stitch of makeup on my face—a fact that I completely regret the second I walk into its honey-lit interior.

  It’s that feeling that I’m in over my head again.

  Ever since I got involved with Lukas, it’s a sentiment that’s followed me—clinging to my clothes, shrouding me like smoke.