My left-hand throbs with pain as I stare at the little blue house nestled against the shoreline, a perfect postcard image of coastal tranquility. The ocean breeze carries the scent of salt and possibilities, making my head swim more than the painkillers coursing through my system.
Morgan pulls into the narrow driveway, the Mercedes looking almost comically luxurious next to the modest beach cottage. It's nothing like her sprawling mansion, just a simple single-story with weathered blue siding, a white picket fence, and a single-car garage. The crash of waves is audible even through the closed windows. The beach literally steps from the back door.
"This is nice," I say, unable to keep the surprise from my voice. Somehow, I'd expected another showcase of wealth, not this charming little slice of beachfront nostalgia.
This is much more my speed.
"Disappointed?" Morgan asks, cutting the engine. There's something vulnerable in her question that catches me off guard.
"No, not at all," I say quickly. "It's beautiful. Just... different from your other place."
Morgan's face softens as she gazes at the cottage. "I bought this before I made it big. It was all I could afford back then." She unbuckles her seatbelt, turning to face me fully. "I've had offers, developers wanting to tear it down for something bigger, but I could never sell it."
The confession feels intimate, somehow like she's sharing a piece of herself I hadn't glimpsed before. I find myself wondering what other layers exist beneath her carefully maintained facade.
Morgan takes my good hand, helping me from the car with surprising gentleness. "Come on, let's get you inside."
I follow her up the weathered stone path, noticing the carefully tended flowers bordering the walkway. She fumbles with the keys, a nervous energy radiating from her that I've never seen before.
"It's been a while since I've been here," she admits, finally getting the door open.
The moment we step inside, I'm struck by the stark contrast to the exterior. While the outside is quaint and modest, the interior is pure luxury. Gleaming hardwood floors stretch through an open-concept living area. Plush white furniture faces a wall of windows overlooking the ocean. A kitchen with marble countertops and high-end appliances occupies one corner. Everything is pristine, elegant, and unmistakably expensive.
Morgan watches my reaction with an expectant smile, her green eyes sparkling as I take it all in. She drops her purse on a side table and turns to me, arms outstretched as if presenting a gift.
"Excited for our first vacation, lover?" she asks, her voice dropping to that sultry tone that makes my stomach flip.
The word 'lover' sends a jolt through me. Right. That's what we agreed to in the car. A vacation romance. A trial run at being more than employer and employee.
"It's... wow," I manage, my injured hand throbbing in time with my quickened pulse. "I wasn't expecting this."
"The outside keeps the tourists from getting too curious," she explains, slipping off her shoes. "But I like my comforts."
She moves toward me with that feline grace I've come to associate with her, closing the distance between us until I can smell her perfume. Her fingers brush my cheek, feather-light and gentle.
"How's the pain?" she asks, her eyes scanning my face with genuine concern.
"Manageable," I lie, not wanting to seem weak. In truth, my hand is pulsing with a dull, persistent ache that the medication barely touches.
Morgan's eyes narrow slightly, her lips curving into a knowing smirk. "Manageable?" she repeats, her tone shifting from concerned to playful accusation. "Your face tells a different story, Adam."
Before I can respond, she places her hands on my chest and gives me a gentle push. I stumble backward, landing on the plush white couch with a soft thud.
Morgan follows, lowering herself onto my lap in one fluid motion. Her weight settles against me as she cups my face between her hands. Without warning, she captures my lips in a hungry, demanding kiss. Her tongue slides against mine, claiming me with an intensity that leaves me breathless.
When she finally pulls back, her eyes are dark with desire and something else, a challenge.
"My boyfriend wouldn't lie to me about how much pain he's in, would he?" she whispers against my lips, her breath warm and sweet.
Heat rushes to my face. Boyfriend. The word feels both thrilling and terrifying. I look down at my bandaged hand, shame washing over me for trying to appear tougher than I am.
"It hurts really bad," I admit, my voice barely audible over the sound of waves crashing outside. "Like, constantly throbbing."
Morgan's expression softens, her lips curving into an approving smile. She runs her fingers through my hair, the gentle scratch of her nails against my scalp sending pleasant shivers down my spine.
"Thank you for telling me the truth, Adam," she says, pressing a softer kiss to my forehead. "Good boys tell the truth, you know?"
There's something in her tone that makes me feel both small and cherished like a child being praised for good behavior. It should feel condescending, but instead, a warm glow spreads through my chest at her approval.
She slides gracefully from my lap and disappears into what I assume is the kitchen. I hear water running, then the sound of cabinets opening and closing.
I sink further into the plush cushions, feeling a wave of exhaustion wash over me. The events of the day, the accident, the hospital, the confrontation between Sarah and Morgan, have left me drained both physically and emotionally.
Morgan returns a moment later, balancing a small plate of crackers in one hand and holding a glass of water and a white pill in the other. Her expression is gentle as she sits beside me on the couch.
"Here," she says, offering me the pill. "This should help with the pain."
I eye the medication warily. "That's not an opiate, is it?" The question slips out before I can stop it, my mind flashing to stories of addiction that started with innocent pain management.
Morgan's face contorts with disgust. "No, Ew! I'd never let my lover get addicted to drugs. That's disgusting." She holds the pill closer for my inspection. "It's basically just bigger ibuprofen."
I smile, relieved by her reaction, and take the water from her hand. Our fingers brush during the exchange, sending a small jolt of electricity up my arm despite my medicated state. I pop the pill into my mouth and wash it down with a long gulp of water.
"Thank you," I say, setting the glass down on the coffee table.
Morgan settles beside me, her thigh pressing against mine as she offers the plate of crackers. "You should eat something with it. Doctor's orders."
I dutifully take a cracker, suddenly aware of how hungry I am.
"Sorry, it's just crackers," she says, watching me eat. "I don't keep much food here since I'm rarely around. We'll order something in a minute."
Morgan's hand finds mine, her fingers intertwining with my uninjured ones. The gesture is surprisingly tender, almost shy, compared to her usual confidence.
"I'm really glad you're here with me, Adam," she says softly, her green eyes searching mine. "When I saw all that blood in my kitchen, I thought..." Her voice catches, and she looks away, blinking rapidly.
"Hey," I say, squeezing her hand. "I'm okay. It really seems like it won't be an issue long term."
Morgan blinks away what might be tears and composes herself quickly. Her lips curve into a gentle smile as she pulls out her phone, the screen illuminating her face with a soft glow.
"What kind of food are you feeling?" she asks, thumb hovering over the screen. "I know a few places that deliver out here."
"Anything is fine."
Morgan tilts her head, studying me with those piercing green eyes. "Let's get you some soup. That would be good for healing." Her voice takes on that nurturing tone I'm becoming increasingly familiar with. "What kind do you like?"
"Chicken noodle is always good," I say, unable to suppress a small smile at her mothering. "Something classic and simple."
"Perfect choice," she nods approvingly, her fingers tapping against the screen. "I'll get some crusty bread too. You need your strength."
As she places the order, I find myself watching the way her red hair catches the fading sunlight streaming through the windows. There's something almost ethereal about her in this moment, relaxed, focused on taking care of me, her usual glamour softened into something more approachable.
The domesticity of the moment strikes me. It feels surreal after the chaos of the hospital, yet somehow right. I can't help but imagine us doing this again and again, sharing meals, watching sunsets, building something together that goes beyond our initial arrangement.
It makes me feel happy.
—
Lana's Point of View
I slam my hand down on the hood of my car, ignoring the stinging pain that shoots through my palm. "FUCK!" The scream tears from my throat, echoing against the imposing gates of Morgan's mansion. For three hours, I've been sitting here like some pathetic stalker, waiting for any sign of movement.
Nothing. Not even a security guard has come out to tell me to leave.
I slide off the hood and pace in front of my car, my freshly washed hair whipping around my face in the evening breeze. The clean clothes I changed into at Sarah's apartment now feel stiff and uncomfortable after hours of sitting in this same spot.
"She's not coming back tonight," I mutter, kicking at the gravel driveway. "That manipulative bitch probably took him somewhere. I can't find him."
My phone shows no new messages, just the last text I sent to Morgan three hours ago: I'm waiting at your house. I've showered and changed outfits. I'm talking to Adam tonight one way or another.
Tears of frustration burn in my eyes.
The sun has long since disappeared behind the hills, leaving me standing in the gathering darkness. My reflection in the car window shows a woman I barely recognize, eyes wild, hair disheveled from running my hands through it repeatedly.
"She's hiding him from me," I whisper, my voice cracking. "She's fucking hiding the love of my life."
Something inside me snaps like a rubber band stretched too far. I slam my hand down on my hood again, harder this time, welcoming the sharp pain that shoots up my arm.
"I SWEAR TO GOD I'M GONNA KILL THAT TWO-FACED BITCH!" I scream into the night, my voice echoing off the mansion's stone walls. Birds scatter from nearby trees, startled by my outburst.
My breathing comes in ragged gasps as I yank open my car's back door. My hands tremble slightly as I reach under the seat, pulling out the hard-shell case I purchased on the way here. The weight of it feels significant, purposeful.
I did not think I'd need this.
I pop the latches and lift the lid, revealing the matte black revolver nestled in protective foam. The metal gleams dully in the faint moonlight as I lift it carefully, testing its weight in my palm. It feels right somehow, like an extension of my rage.
"It's time to go learn how to use this thing at the range."
[A/N: This world has no waiting period to buy guns in California. samy day license too.]