My father might blame Cane for his accident, but I never did. It was one of my father’s mistakes and he’s gotten into the habit of blaming others for his bullshit. He never takes responsibility.
“I know. Still, if I’d—” I press my mouth to his to stop him from speaking. He groans, and his fingers slide into my hair, gripping me there. He tilts my head back as his tongue presses into my mouth to deepen the kiss.
I never thought I’d be the kind of girl that would enjoy being dominated, but damn, do I love it when Cane does it to me sexually. I get to let go and enjoy while he takes the lead. It’s freeing.
I get lost in the kiss. Cane doesn’t stop until we’re both breathless and gasping for air. His forehead goes back to resting on mine.
“You made me forget what I was trying to say.” I laugh.
“Something about you not hating me.”
“Right.” I smile. “When I lost my mom. I’ll never forget that day. I jumped on Dolly and took off. Had no clue where I was going, but Dolly knew. She rode me right to you.” I close my eyes, thinking about that afternoon.
I didn’t have to say a word. Cane pulled me off that horse and held me close. I don’t know how long he held me while I cried. He never let go until my dad came looking for me, and I had to let him go.
“I miss you running to me.” I open my eyes.
“I don’t know what is happening here.” Or maybe I’m lying to myself.
“I’m trying to make you fall in love with me.”
“Good luck, cowboy.” I smirk. A knock sounds at the door. Cane lets out a curse when Birdie’s voice follows it.
Truth is, I’m not sure I ever truly fell out of love with him.
CHAPTER 9
CANE
The fashion show is as hellish as I anticipated. Sure, it went well, and Birdie’s designs got a shit ton of compliments, but Astor stood out. The flashbulbs did not stop going off for what seemed like a full five minutes when she paused at the end of the runway. Backstage, the number of men that huddled around her, slipping her numbers, looking her over, crowding her space, was way too many.
Birdie had to sit on me to prevent me from punching the lights out of her clients and her clients’ husbands.
“It’ll be over soon. Let her have the attention. Every girl likes to be the center at some point in her life.”
But when one guy wearing a slim-fitting gray suit leans in too close, my patience snaps. I cross the room and slide in between the two. “You need something?”
The suited man gives me a dismissive once-over and continues to talk to Astor as if I’m not standing in front of him. “I was talking to Astor, which, by the way, is a beautiful name. Mine is Kent.”
“And now you’re talking to me.”
The man grinds his teeth. “It’s the twenty-first century, son. We let women talk for themselves around here.”
I open my mouth, but a small hand presses against my waist. I allow Astor to nudge me aside. “This is my man,” she says, patting my chest, “and he gets testy when other guys are around.”
The use of the possessive and the overt touch has the same effect as a tranq. I settle down immediately. “I’m just a pussy cat,” I declare.
“Right.” She scoffs.
“Maybe you need a new man,” the suit suggests.
I lunge forward, and only because Astor grabs my hand does the man remain standing.
“I don’t.” She curls herself around me. “Cane Justice is enough for me.”
At my name, the suit’s face pales. “J-Justice? Of the Edison Justices?”
“That’s right, fuckface. Next time you need a loan or an investment, do not think about calling us.” I grab Astor’s hand and haul her toward the door. I give a brief nod to Birdie, who waves us off.
“Hold up, cowboy,” Astor says as we clear the exit. In the hallway outside of the dressing area, there are still a dozen bodies delivering garment bags, rolling carts of makeup behind them. Smells of hairspray and sweat and steamed fabric fill the air. I can’t wait to get outside.
“You mad?”
“Nah.” She shakes her head. “He was a creep. Kept looking down my dress.”
We both peer into the top of her silk concoction that clings to her tits by sheer will and two tiny straps. “That motherfu—”
Astor giggles.
I shove a frustrated hand through my hair. “Don’t know what’s wrong with me. Birdie could walk out with pasties on and I’d think, welp, that must be fashion, but you show a bit of skin, and I go all feral.”
She pats my chest again, like I’m a wild horse needing to be soothed. “It’s fine, Cane. You’re sweet.”