Page 12 of Protecting His Brat
“You’re worse than my maid.” She grumbles more under her breath but hops down and puts the grapes back where she got them. Then turns around to lean against the fridge. The dress she has on today is tight above the waist, pushing the tits I love to fondle up high on her chest. Below her waist, it is flowing and hangs to her mid-thigh. It’s a deep, clover green which sets off her brown hair and eyes.
Since our first night together, Lacy spends her days insisting we’re not going to have sex anymore and her nights climbing my dick like it’s the fucking stairway to heaven. I haven’t slept in the unfinished guest room for almost a week. Turns out Lacy is a cuddler. During the day, she keeps the walls forged by her shitty childhood and even shittier father tall and impenetrable. But at night, she snuggles with me as close as she can.
If only she’d allow herself give into our obvious chemistry during the day.
“So, are you going to answer my questions?”
I shrug, cross my arms, and narrow my eyes at her. “What does it matter how I make my money? All that matters is I have enough to keep you in bacon and kale, not to mention ninety-dollar bars of goat’s milk soap. You obviously never asked where all of daddy’s money came from.”
Me and my fucking mouth. The very nanosecond the words come out, Lacy freezes, the teasing smile she’d been shooting at me sliding off her face until she’s frowning with that little crease between her eyebrows. All because I’m an insecure asshole afraid the girl I like is going to treat me differently once she figures out I’m a multi-million record selling, Grammy award winning, famous rock star.
“I didn’t mean—”
“No. You did.”
Lacy dusts her hands off on the skirt of her dress. Not that her hands would ever be dirty. She straightens her spine, tries to keep the hurt off her face, but not quite accomplishing it.
The sadness I put there is killing me. She may be a spoiled rich girl, but I have no right to treat her like that. Especially when she’s just showing an interest in my life. Hell, for the first-time outside bed, Lacy is truly trying to have a conversation that doesn’t start and end with snark. Why am I not jumping at this chance to connect?
“That’s what everyone thinks about me, right? I just took my daddy’s blood money and spent it on a wardrobe the cost of which could fund a small country. All the papers are saying I knew what he’s been involved in. They’re pulling pictures of us from the one awkward Christmas dinner out we have a year. No one bothers to mention that dinner is spent in silence every year. That I’ve never known a thing about the man who spawned me. That he hates looking at me since my mother died, no matter how pretty I make myself. That he shipped me off to boarding school at eight-years-old.”
“Lacy—” I cross the few feet separating us, needing to hold her in my arms.
She backs away. I stop in my tracks. I’ve never forced a woman to do anything, and I’m not going to start now by forcing Lacy to let me comfort her.
“You know what else no one ever mentions in the paper? I don’t need Daddy’s blood money. You wanna know how I make my money?”
I go to answer, but she just keeps going. As if my mouth never opened to tell her I don't give two shits about her money. Or her father’s money. I care about the smartass, brilliant, sexy, horrible cook standing in front of me.
“I went on a couple dates with a famous actor when I was twenty-two. Tabloids got a hold of the pictures of him groping me at a club. They went viral, and overnight, I went from the unknown daughter of a well-known financial genius to party girl and socialite. Never mind that I didn’t want that guy’s hands on me. Or that I didn’t give two shits about the club scene. I went from having a couple dozen followers on Instagram, mostly friends and acquaintances, to thousands-upon-thousands of people looking at my photos.”
Lacy breaks the intense eye contact she’s maintained since starting her story. She glances at her fingers as they weave around the delicate fabric of her skirt. “It was addicting, all that attention after never being given any as a kid. I’m not saying I wasn’t already a bit of a brat when I started getting a little famous. I was. I am. Don’t think I don’t know.”
“Lace, you don’t have to tell me all this.” I force my arms to stay at my sides, but they ache to touch her. To make her feel good. To reassure her that she’s perfect just as she is. Jesus, if anyone knows the addictive qualities of people hanging on your every word, it’s me.
“I know.” Meeting my eyes once again, I’m shocked to see hers are shining with unshed tears. In our time together, I’ve seen her get pissed, I’ve seen her throw tantrums, I’ve even seen her totally defeated. I’ve never seen her cry.
“I haven’t known a whole lot of good men in my life, Scott. But I’d have to be an idiot not to recognize that you are the very best of men. You protected me when I was a stranger. Kept me sheltered and fed even though I’ve been nothing but a little shit to you. You’ve held me at night even when I try to put distance between us. I don’t know how to act around a good man. Have no clue how to process your kindness. But, I want you to know something about me that’s real. That’s more than just me stomping around making demands.”
I nod, feeling like complete shit, because I’m not as good as she thinks. I may not be lying to her outright about my fame, but I’m lying by omission. All the justifications I’ve been giving myself about not wanting her to look at me differently are bullshit.
“When I got famous, I decided I wanted to do something with it. Not just post selfies all day and watch the likes pile up, even though it made me feel good each time a notification buzzed through on my phone. I have a degree in fashion marketing. Before getting insta-famous, I had been working my way up at a fashion house. I started posting about the new designers I discovered through my job. Posting about products I loved but didn’t have huge followings. People started buying the things I liked, simply because I posted about them. Then I started getting offers from companies. They wanted to pay me insane amounts of money to post about their products. I only agreed to the ones I believed in, even if they weren’t the highest paying. Within six months of those pictures being posted, I was able to quit my job, I opened all my own bank accounts, ignored my trust fund, and it’s just been me ever since.”
She huffs this little laugh that is miles away from actually being amused. “That’s the part that pisses me off more than anything. Not only did they freeze the accounts connected to the family money, which I haven’t touched in years. They froze my personal accounts. The ones filled with moneyI’veearned.”
Once she’s done, Lacy stands taller, pride in this unconventional career obvious in her every feature. But also, a little insecurity. Like she’s afraid I’ll put her down for what she does. That will never happen. “Will you let me come closer now?”
She nods. Bites her lip.
In two steps, I’ve got her pressed against me. Finally, my heart and body relax. “I think you are amazing. I like that you know what you want and demand it. I love that you give me shit. I love even more that you give over control when we’re naked. Everything you just told me just reiterates what a strong, amazing woman you are.”
Lacy might not be the nicest person I’ve ever met. She might treat people like they should be getting her what she wants. But I see beneath all that. That is a product of her childhood, of being raised by paid staff instead of parents. And she’s been doing better. Cleaning up after herself. Thanking me. Softening right before my eyes. I can see her past melting away to the person she truly is.
On the tip of my tongue are the words I need to tell her. About my band, my money, my fame. But just as I’m about to spill everything, flashes of the women who came before blind me, and my jaw clamps shut. The users who only wanted me for what I could do for them. Discovering them fucking my bandmates or other musicians when they thought they could do more for them. How they all disappeared when I went to rehab and stopped partying.
Lacy won’t do those things, I know she won’t. But an unreasonable part of me screams to wait. To see how things play out.
Idiot that I am, I listen.
