End Game (New York Stars Book 1)

𝅘𝅥𝅮 𝄠 I Wanna Be Yours – Joel Sunny, Arctic Monkeys

“‘STILL, for you, I’ll watch it a thousand times. 🙂 But… please, don’t hold me to that.

Liam.’”

Mike tilts back in his lounger and pulls the tab on a can of pop as he finishes listening to me read the last entry in my journal, one that I wrote after Gracie left earlier. “You want to talk about the concert?”

“No.”

I eye the Coke.

God, I’d kill for one right now.

Mike is my therapist.

Despite my move to the US when I requested we work outside of his office hours, he agreed to stick with me so long as he could talk to me in his La-Z-Boy at home.

I wasn’t about to argue, not when opening up to him was impossible. I don’t want to have to go through that again with someone new.

“How are you?”

Scraping a hand over my face as I contemplate the answer to his question, I eventually say, “I feel bad.”

“Why?”

“For Gracie.”

Mike scratches his jaw—I can hear his stubble rasping against his nails. The noise is worse than if he scratched them down a chalkboard. “You write about her a lot.”

“The diary entries are addressed to her,” I defend.

“Yeah, but you could write about anything and you don’t. You always write about her. Plus, you consistently talk about her. Did you know that?”

“She’s an active part of my life.”

Mike hums. “I’m your shrink, not hers.”

“I know that,” I mumble.

“Why do you feel bad for her?”

“She’s studying for her MBA.”

“On top of being your full-time assistant?” His brows lift. “That’s a lot of work. She must be very proud of herself.”

“Yeah. I’m proud of her too. Her family isn’t though.”

Mike takes a sip of coke. “From what you’ve told me about your billet family, they’re very kind, warm people.”

“I think that’s why I feel bad,” I mutter instead of answering his question. “I guess I didn’t realize how things were for her.”

“In what way?”

“I know how close the Bukowskis are, but it’s like Gracie’s an outsider. I was talking to her about her graduation ceremony this morning—”

“That’s not until May. Doesn’t she have two sets of exams to pass first?”

“Yeah, but this is Gracie. I mean, she’ll ace them.”

“Your faith in her is cute.”

“Fuck off, Mike.”

He slurps his Coke. Noisily.

Jerk.

I narrow my eyes at him. “I probably paid for that Coke.”

“You probably did,” he agrees with a shit-eating smirk as he smacks his lips. “And it’s so good.

“You want to talk about why you’re struggling with your diet at the moment?”

I huff. “No.”

He heaves a sigh. “So, why were you talking about Gracie and her graduation ceremony?”

“It just came up in conversation.”

“You need to be taught how to flirt with a woman,” he says with a snicker, “because you’ve clearly been relying on your status to reel the chicks in for too long.”

I don’t want to talk about the show and how pathetic I felt for not being able to attend and how terrible it was to waste her gift when Gracie saves every cent she has.

“Anyway, she was saying that she won’t be inviting her parents which means she won’t even tell them it’s happening! Can you imagine?”

“Why won’t she tell them?”

“She thinks they won’t be interested.”

“Would they be?”

“I—” Pinching the bridge of my nose, I admit, “I don’t know for sure and that makes me think they wouldn’t.”

“So, what’s the problem then? She’s correctly assessed her situation and is making smart decisions that will protect her state of mind.”

While I know he’s right, the whole situation doesn’t sit well with me.

I rub my bottom lip with my thumb. “I just assumed I’d be going to the ceremony but then I realized that wasn’t a given.”

“Your fame tends to overshadow everything else in the vicinity,” Mike muses. “Maybe she—”

“No, she didn’t think I’d make the time for her.”

He’s silent a moment, then he admits, “That is sad.”

I clear my throat. “I offered to grow my beard to try to hide my identity.”

Mike, who’s heard crazier stories about the stunts I’ve pulled to stay under the public’s radar, inquires, “Are you sure you’re going to be able to cope with that?”

I wish that were a dumb question. “It’s a beard.”

“Yes, and the last time you had a beard was because you weren’t allowed to shave, weren’t allowed to wash, and were kept in unsanitary conditions… Does she know what you’re going to be doing for her? Does she understand the sacrifice you’re willing to make? Because, buddy, if she did, you’d have her hook, line, and sinker.”

“I’m not going to tell her that I can’t have a beard because it’s a trigger, Mike. Cibole.” I roll my eyes at the prospect.

Mike frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“What, my Québécois?” I mock. Then, when his frown deepens, I mumble, “What’s to understand?”

“She’s one of your oldest friends. You’ve trusted her to organize your whole life. From what I can tell, the only thing she doesn’t have access to is your internet browser history. So, why can’t she know this?”

I’m not sure why his question has me tapping my fingers against the kitchen counter where I set my laptop up earlier.

“I need a beer.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.” I release a breath. “Or white bread.”

Mike snorts. “Get an apple.”

God, I’d kill for a smoked meat sandwich from Schwartz in Montréal.

My jaw aches with how badly I grit my teeth.

“Hmm, this is new. I was aware of your struggles with food, but comfort eating? Have you gained any weight?”

“No. If anything, I’ve lost some. And stop humming,” I grate out, rubbing a hand over my hair.

Mike arches a brow. “Why are you agitated?”

I can already feel the tension in my throat spreading wider, locking out the ability to answer him and making my temper surge.

“Liam, it’s okay to be annoyed about the limitations you’re experiencing in the aftermath of the kidnapping.”

“It was three years ago,” I snap. “I should be over this by now.”

“You were tortured, Liam. For cash. Because of your fame. Because of your money. Because of your skills. And you still use these skills, and money, and fame to get by. Your lifestyle hasn’t changed—that’s why you’re scared about your security. Hence the issues with that motorcycle club last year.”

I can sense his disapproval at that. To be fair, I was lucky he didn’t report me to the cops or something, if shrinks can even do that.

My fingers dig into my eyes as I mutter the one truth that I can get out, “I don’t want her to think that I’m weak. I can’t even go to a show. That ticket must have cost her a fortune and we had to stay in. What the hell can I offer her if I can’t even leave the apartment unless it’s for work?”

Maybe I’m the one with my head in the sand.

Maybe she doesn’t want me.

Maybe she’s been letting me down gently and I’m too bullheaded to see it.

“You’re not weak. You’re a survivor. If anything, what happened to you affirmed that.” Mike falls silent for a moment, then he soothes, “Inhale through your nose. Hold one, two, three, and four. Then exhale. Long and steady. One, two, three, four. And again.”

He breathes with me until I can sit up, until my jaw unclenches and I’m not digging my fingers into my eyes.

“I like her.”

Mike cuts to the heart of the matter, “You’re sexually attracted to her?”

Stiffly, I nod.

“Words.”

“Yes,” I bite off.

“That’s the first time you’ve admitted that outside of a journal entry.” He purses his lips. “You’re wooing her. No man goes stationery shopping in his free time unless he’s looking to get laid, never mind one who has your issues with public spaces, so what’s the problem?”

“Kow would probably kill me,” I murmur, my tone dispassionate.

“Kow would go to jail if he did.”

“If Kow didn’t, the others would.”

“It’s a legal requirement of all brothers to make that vow.”

I snort. “In which province?”

“The world…” He studies me. “Not that you care. I can tell. You’re—”

“‘Wooing’ her,” I concur.

He smiles. “It’s good that you’re interested in her. You’ve been celibate since the abduction, haven’t you?”

Looking away from him, I nod.

“That’s what we call progress, Liam. Especially as she was important to you throughout the hostage situation, wasn’t she?”

Again, I nod.

“She got you through it, no? And I’m going to need words, Liam. No more nods.”

“Yes, she got me through it.” I blow out another breath—a harsh one. “She’s the only thing that—” I grunt, then I hear the door buzzer. “Wait a minute, Mike.”

“It’s not as if I charge by the hour,” he shouts, but I ignore him as I head to the intercom. When I see her standing there, my brows lift. “Did you lose your key?”

Her jaw works.

Then…

Tabarnak.

She starts crying.

And I feel like my heart is going to explode.

I shift into panic mode. The only thing on my mind is getting to her, making sure she’s safe, and bringing her back to me.

I hit the buzzer to let her in but I run out, barely remembering to take my keys with me, and head to the elevator before she can call it down.

On my way to her, my brain is more focused on the fact that she didn’t appear hurt other than her tears, because if she was hurt…

Well, I’m related to the goddamn mafia.

I text my bodyguards.

Me: Gracie was hurt. Do you know anything about it?

The doors open onto the lobby, and she’s not surprised to see me standing in there because she immediately hurls herself at me.

That’s when I notice a few things.

One: Her knee has a bad graze on it, one that’s already bruising.

Two: She stole a hoodie from me at some point today because it’s hanging to her knees. Even if it’s torn and ripped now, she looks adorable.

Three: She doesn’t have her purse. That purse is as big as a suitcase because of all the goddamn stationery she carries around. Everywhere. Which means the purse is gone. And the tears are…

Fuck.

The tears are for the stationery. I’d bet last season’s championship ring that she’s not crying about anything else, which means she’s been mugged.

Some motherfucker dared target her.

“Who did this to you?” I demand, but I don’t expect an answer as I hold her, cupping the back of her head to my chest. When she starts shivering in shock, I call out to the doorman, who’s hovering in the lobby. “Call the cops, Quentin, please.”

“They’re already on their way, sir. I’ll direct them to your apartment if you’d like to take Ms. Bukowski with you?” He wrings his hands. “Miss, please don’t worry. I know someone in the NYPD and they’ll get your stationery back for you.”

Gracie, who didn’t even cry when Bambi’s mom died, sniffles and turns to him. “Do you think so, Quentin?”

“I do.”

“T-T-Thank you for being s-s-so kind, Quentin.”

“I appreciate it,” I tell him before hustling her into the elevator. “I can buy you some more.”

She peers at me then, her bottom lip wobbling. “We can’t spend another thirty-five hundred on p-pens, Liam. That’s f-fiscally i-irresponsible.”

Fuck.

I’m going to have to do it.

I will.

I need to.

I’m only a goddamn man and no one can resist that much temptation.

Fuck waiting. Fuck patience.

She needs me.

I lower my mouth and press it to her trembling one.

The quiver stills.

A breath rushes out and drifts over mine.

Then gently, so fucking gently I’m not even sure it’s happening, she kisses me back.

And the doors close.

Startled, she pulls away to stare at me.

My tone is low, throbbing with unrestrained and unfiltered need for her. “If you need thirty-five hundred dollars’ worth of pens, you can have them. Okay?”

“Why is everything about thirty-five with you?” she mumbles, swiping the sleeve of my hoodie over her cheeks.

Ignoring her, I plead, “Don’t cry, mon p’tit chou. Please.”

Her eyelashes are little spikes from the tears gathering there. “Why not?”

“Because it kills something in me to see you cry. You were never made for tears, minou.”

She swallows then wipes at her cheeks some more. The sleeve is gathered between her fingers, tucked to hold it in place. “This is embarrassing.”

Whatever I expected her to say, it isn’t that. “Why is it?”

“Because I was on the news for stopping some jackass with my fists, then I get mugged and fall apart?! God, Kow will never let me live this down.”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

“You won’t tell him?” she whispers.

As I hit the button for my floor, I assure her, “I won’t.”

If he ribbed her, I’d have to kill him and he is my best friend.

But he wouldn’t. He’d be more likely to read her the riot act.

Still, her words are just further confirmation of the communication issues she has with her family.

At my promise, she bites her lip. “Thank you. F-For that, for the pens, for being nice.”

As the doors open, I guide her into the apartment and toward the kitchen, ignoring her last words to ask, “What happened?”

Nice.

I’m not nice.

Dippin’ Dots at the stadium are nice.

Unaware of my train of thought, she grumbles, “I can’t believe he got away with my purse.”

Though I’m irritated by her choice of adjective, that she’s sounding more like her regular ornery self comes as a relief.

“There’s more to life than a purse.”

Like that kiss.

Which you haven’t mentioned.

Fuck.

“That’s because you’re rich. I’m not. I had a lot of stuff in there,” she snaps.

“Whatever you need replaced, I’ll replace.” I shrug. “Simple.”

“For God’s sake, Liam. Didn’t anyone tell you never to diminish a woman’s possessions? Sure, you can buy more, but each item in that bag probably holds a memory. That’s impossible to replicate.”

“Who the hell said that?” she demands, twisting around in the kitchen to see who’s with us.

“Shit,” I mutter, genuinely having forgotten that Mike was on a video call with me. “Gracie, meet Mike. Mike, this is Gracie.”

Gracie peers at my computer. “You’re the therapist.”

“I have many other labels,” Mike says serenely. “I don’t just answer to the capitalist title that’s been assigned to me, much as I was assigned a number at birth like I’m cattle instead of a human being.”

“Mike, cut the spiel. Now isn’t the time for it.”

He harrumphs. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Gracie.”

“It is?” she asks, her tone loaded with distrust as she glances at me, clearly surmising that she’s been one of the topics of our conversations. “I hope you’ve only heard good things.”

“Now that I can’t say,” is Mike’s cheerful reply. “However, I can tell that you’re distressed. What happened?”

“I was mugged. The bastard got away with my purse.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you all right?”

“Just a little shaken up.”

The renewed cocktail of fear flooding my veins has me grabbing her and starting to check her over for cuts and bruises. “Aside from the knee, where are you hurting?”

“Knocked my elbow,” she grouches but levers herself onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. I say ‘levers’ because she’s obviously hurt something else but isn’t willing to say what.

And I don’t just think it’s her pride either.

“I’m going to get the first-aid kit. Mike, keep her company while I’m gone.”

“It’s your 1%er dime,” he yells as I leave the kitchen and stride into the bathroom.

I listen to them talk but tune out the moment I lean into the vanity. My brain’s a mess, and it has nothing to do with yesterday’s hit to the head.

She was mugged.

And…

I kissed her. She kissed me back.

Yet… crickets.

Still, she was fucking mugged.

When I look into the mirror, deep in my eyes, I notice something that’s been missing for too long though.

Life.

It might just be a spark now, but Gracie never does anything by halves. Soon, it’ll be a forest fire if she doesn’t put it out.

And she didn’t earlier; she kissed me back.

If she really is ready for more…

I scrape a hand over my jaw as I come to a split-second decision—no more waiting, no more patience.

I need her.

In my life.

In my apartment.

In my bed.

I want her under me and over me.

I want to sleep with her.

I want to eat with her.

I want her in the stands. Not as my PA but as my girl.

I want her in my jersey. God, Cibole—naked.

Fuck, I just want her.

All of her.

Every short-assed, curvy inch of her.

So I need to win her. No more patience, no more long games. I’m good at winning and I need this victory. It’s what I do for a goddamn living—

That’s when my phone vibrates with an incoming message.

The bodyguard on duty today, Jonathan, has replied:

Jonathan: We have security footage of the incident. We’ll forward it to the police in charge of the investigation.

Me: You need to put more bodyguards on her. How did your men miss this?!

Jonathan: We have bodyguards on her when you’re together.

Me: WHAT?! Make that make sense.

Jonathan: You’ll have to speak with the company about scheduling issues. You’re our client, sir. Not Ms. Bukowski.

Me: Not anymore. Make it happen. She gets a 24-hr shadow from now on.

Jonathan: Fine, sir. The contract changes will be sent over tomorrow.

Me: Good.

I feel like throwing my cell at the wall. How the fuck did my security company misunderstand a direct email about her having a bodyguard?

That’s when the buzzer sounds at the door.

What’s with all the interruptions in today’s life-changing moments?

Still, knowing her, she’ll try to get it, so as I grab the first-aid kit, I call out, “Gracie, keep your ass on that stool if you don’t want me to swat it later.”

As her shocked gasp at my words echoes down the hall, a smile curves my lips despite my agitation.

Liam 1 – Gracie 0