Wicked Need (The Wicked Horse Series Book 3) (3 page)

I was so exhausted
last night I didn’t
take a very close look, but while Rand was getting my luggage out of
my car, I went to the bathroom and my attention was caught by a
framed photo. It was pushed into the back corner of the second shelf
from the top. It caught my attention because of one of the most
recognizable logos in the world displaying prominently in the
background.

Five circles.

Three on top. Two on
the bottom. All interlinked.

Each a different
color. Blue, black, red, yellow, and green.

I halted as I
recognized the Olympic rings, but more importantly, I recognized Rand
standing on a tiered podium, right in the middle and on the highest
dais. Both arms were raised high in the air in victory, with one hand
clutching a bouquet of flowers and the other raising his index finger
pointed upward to the sky.

Around his neck, a
large, round gold medal hung on a thick white ribbon.

I was stunned.

Rand was an Olympic
medalist?

My eyes roamed
around his small living room again, taking in the ski equipment. Back
to the photo where he was wearing a heavy, puffed overcoat on the
stand done in pristine white with the American flag patched over his
left breast.

Holy fuck. Rand won
an Olympic gold medal.

I didn’t
say anything when he came back in as he dropped my luggage next to
the couch and said he had to jump in the shower and head to work. So
I made eggs, my gaze flicking periodically to the shelves of trophies
and medals, wondering what else was in there.

Now I look over
Rand’s
shoulder as he hunches over his plate, shoveling the food in, which
makes me suspect he might be late for work. My eyes come to rest on
the photo I studied earlier.

“You won an
Olympic gold medal?” I blurt out, dying to know more about him.
I mean… he’s always just been Rand. A gorgeous, sexy man
who’s tremendously talented with his cock, mouth, and fingers,
but past that, I know nothing about him.

His eyes rise up to
meet mine as he finishes chewing the eggs in his mouth. After he
swallows, he swipes his lips with the paper towel I laid next to his
plate and gives me a wolfish smile. “That
was five years ago in Vancouver. Won the gold in the Super Combined
as well as two silvers in the Super G and Downhill.”

My mouth hangs
slightly open in astonishment. “Three
medals?”

He nods, gives me a
wink, and takes another bite of his eggs, seemingly not interested in
touting his accomplishments to me. But I’m
amazed I didn’t know this about him. “Did you compete in
last year’s Olympics?”

I can’t
say he gives me a look of sadness. It’s not even bitterness.
Maybe just a fondness for what will never be again, but he lays his
fork on his plate, wipes his mouth again, and says, “I was
going to. Made the U.S. Ski Team, but about a year prior to the start
of the Games, I took a bad fall at an event in San Sicario. Injured
my right knee pretty badly. Tore three of the four major ligaments in
my knee.”

“They couldn’t
repair it before the Olympics started?” I ask, feeling terrible
he lost such an amazing opportunity.

Rand shakes his head
and stands from the table. I get a flash of the golden skin covered
in coarse hair on his thigh with rippling muscle, and for the first
time, I notice scars on his right knee.

“Wasn’t
the first time I injured that knee. I competed in the 2006 Games when
I was nineteen. Took a bad spill on my first run on the Super G.
Knocked me out completely. So I had surgery to repair the damage and
built myself up for the 2010 Games. Luckily, my knee held strong and
I picked up a few medals along the way.”

I stand up from the
table as well, taking my plate and following Rand to the kitchen
sink. Before he can start to rinse his own, I take it from his hands
and say, “I’ll
clean up. You go get ready for work.”

Our fingers touch as
he gives up the plate and I swear I can feel the touch down to my
toes. So innocent yet so powerful. When Rand turns toward his
bedroom, I can’t
help but ask, “You don’t seem all that bitter about
losing out on those opportunities.”

He turns to me with
a wide grin. “Yeah,
well, I guess I choose to focus on the successes I had while I was
competing. And I always knew it was a fleeting career that could be
cut short at any time. It’s too dangerous and was bound to
happen anyway.”

“Do you still
ski?” I ask, even more curious about this man.

He nods. “Sure
I do… for pleasure only. And I don’t get crazy or
anything. You stick around when the snow starts falling and I’ll
take you out. You ski?”

I shake my head.
“Never
been.”

“Then we’ll
have to do it,” he says, and it almost makes me believe he
means that. As if he expects me to be sticking around long enough to
see the snow. Granted, the weather is getting colder and there have
even been some scattered flurries, so it won’t be long, but I
have no clue where I’ll be come wintertime.

In fact, I know
absolutely nothing and it scares the shit out of me.

“I don’t
even know your last name,” I murmur, pathetically aware that I
know Rand is an Olympic medalist, but I don’t know something as
intimate as his complete name. I’ve let this man fuck me and
I’ve sucked his cock, but I have no clue what his last name is.
That makes me feel small and filthy.

“Bishop,”
he says softly, his head tilted to the side. “Rand Bishop. It’s
a pleasure to formally meet you, Cat Vaughn.”

Shaking my head, I
correct him. “Lyons.”

“Lyons?”

“My maiden
name. It’s Lyons. I’d prefer not to have Samuel’s
last name attached to me anymore.”

He nods with an
understanding smile. “Cat
Lyons. There’s a redundant name for you, right?”

The small laugh that
pops out of my mouth is unbidden and feels strange. It makes me
realize I haven’t
had a genuine laugh in quite some time.

Without another
word, Rand turns toward his bedroom and shuts the door behind him.
I’ve
seen him naked many times, but it doesn’t feel weird for him to
seek privacy to get dressed either. I use the opportunity to riffle
through my bags where I find a pair of clean underwear, a bra, and a
pair of jeans, as well as a lightweight cashmere sweater. Standing up
with the items in my hand, I take two steps toward the bathroom, and
then change my mind. If I’m going to see the attorney who has
this supposed will that kicked me out of my home, I need to look more
like the wife of a dead billionaire.

I go back through my
clothes, choosing a black wool pantsuit with flared legs and
double-notched collar on the jacket. Grabbing a pale blue silk blouse
to wear underneath, I leave my black Louboutins in the duffle bag.
I’ll
grab those before leaving.

In the bathroom, I’m
momentarily shocked by my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a
disaster, and I look like a raccoon with the mascara ringing my eyes.
I have to laugh at myself. A silent laugh that I’d dare let
anyone see me looking so wretched. Samuel always demanded I appear my
best, even insisting I attend to my beauty ritual before I came
downstairs to the kitchen for a morning cup of coffee. This meant
shower, shave, full-blown makeup, and artful hair designs, as well as
my designer clothing with the appropriate accessorized jewelry in
place. It was the only way I was allowed in his presence.

I take a moment to
appreciate that I just sat through breakfast with Rand, probably
looking my worst, and yet not once did he even seem to notice. In
fact, several times when he gazed at me, I could see that look in his
eyes that he liked what he saw. I didn’t
miss the hard-on he was sporting either. I wanted to do something
about that, yet for some reason, it seemed important to Rand that I
not feel beholden, and it was equally as important to me that it not
feel like a job. He knew that about me even before I did, and I
appreciate it more than he’ll ever know.

Sadly, my beauty
ritual takes an extraordinarily long time. While I think I have a
great body and amazing bone structure, it still takes a lot of work
to apply the perfect makeup and dry my thick hair before curling or
flat ironing it to get the crazy frizz out. By the time I’m
polished and groomed, stepping out of the bathroom in a mild cloud of
designer perfume Samuel gave me last Christmas, the apartment is
silent and empty but for me.

My eyes drop to my
purse on the table, taking in the white note sitting on top. I grab
it and read, squinting and even stumbling over Rand’s
messy scrawl. I think it says:

Cat,

After you get a
copy of the will from the attorney, come see me at the shop, Westward
Ink. It’s
at the corner of Cache and Pearl. I want to see what it says.

Rand

Several things about
this note hit me at once.

Rand works at a
tattoo shop? By the name alone, it could be a print shop, but I know
it’s a tattoo shop because I’ve
walked by it several times. It sits right in the heart of town, just
a few blocks off the main square. Whenever Samuel brought me to
Jackson so he could get his rocks off by watching me in The Silo, I’d
have plenty of free time in which I was desperate to escape the house
and proximity to his cold, leering eyes. So I wandered around Jackson
and came to know a great deal about all the shops here.

I’m
having a hard time wrapping my mind around this. Does Rand run the
tattoo shop? Or does he just work there? And why? How come he doesn’t
work in the ski industry, which is absolutely booming around here in
the snow months?

The other thing that
hits me—almost with a warm, tingly sensation in my belly—is
that he wants to see the will. That means his interest is deeper than
just letting me crash on his couch, and the warm, tingly sensation
flares a bit. I can’t
remember the last time someone took care of me or wanted to see me
safe and secure. In fact, outside of the initial illusions Samuel
gave me when we first got married—that he was my salvation,
ha!—there’s never been another person in my life who
worried about my welfare.

I’m
inherently distrustful nowadays, especially after Samuel roped me
into a sham marriage and abused me in every way possible. This was
only fortified when I was kicked out of the Jackson home and turned
out in the street.

It would be very
easy for me to suspect Rand’s
motivations, yet for the life of me, I can’t help but believe
he’s a genuine person. As such, after I visit the attorney, I
intend to visit him at his shop and let him read the will with me.

Rand

I got into work
right at ten, which is what time the doors are supposed to open at
Westward Ink. I’m
not a tattoo artist. My reasons for working here are varied, in no
particular order, and really don’t define who I am.

After getting
knocked out of competitive skiing two years ago, I decided to make
Jackson my permanent home. I’d
spent a great deal of time here, skiing the double-black diamond
slopes as part of my training. I liked the locals and the atmosphere.
I also liked the powder that was always in abundant supply. In
addition, Jake Gearhart, one of my closest friends, made this his
permanent home and opened up a ski shop, so I figured… why the
fuck not? This was as good a place as any to settle down.

What I did not want
to do was work in or around the ski industry. It’s
not from sour apples or bitterness over my injuries and the early end
to my career. I wasn’t lying to Cat this morning. I choose to
glory in the fact that I had a great career while it lasted. She
didn’t ask about it, but there’s more to competitive
skiing than just winning races. And I’m really talking about
endorsement deals and sponsorships. Like I said before, I could
afford much bigger and better than the tiny apartment where I live as
I made a fuck of a lot of money during my heyday. But I don’t
need more, so my money is banked, along with my gold and silver
medals, in a secure lockbox. I spend my money if I want something,
and I still buy my mom Louis Vuitton and my dad expensive cigars.

Most of my early
training was done on the East Coast, as I’m
a native Vermonter. I attended prep school with Jake at the famous
Carrabassett Valley, which is a private alpine skiing, snowboarding,
and freestyle academy that has produced many Olympic and World Cup
champions. It sits at the base of Sugarloaf and I cut my teeth there,
but after I turned eighteen, I moved to Park City, Utah to train with
the U.S. Ski Team. In between training for competitions and recovery
of my injuries, I lived a great deal of time in places like Tahoe and
Jackson where I’d spend weeks, sometimes months, working my way
back up to championship level.

I met my buddy and
Westward Ink owner, Pish Malden, here in Jackson when I got my first
ink during one of my numerous stays in the area. He was someone I’d
grown close to over the years. After I moved into the apartment above
Jake’s garage, Pish and I were
casually talking one day as he was working on some ink on my arm and
he ended up offering me a job. Not as a tattoo artist, mind you, but
really just helping to run the shop to start out. I also took a
part-time job bartending at The Wicked Horse last year, which then
earned me a one-way ticket to my role as a Fantasy Maker at The Silo,
but I’m
content helping Pish out here for now. It keeps me busy and I like
busy.

While I’m
not a tattoo artist, I am an artist of sorts. In fact, in my late
teens, my parents were proud to see I excelled at two things. Skiing
and drawing. I had mad skills at both. But they gently pushed me
toward skiing, since honestly, there was just more opportunity there.
So I became a competitive alpine skier who drew and painted in my
spare time. When Pish learned this about me, he would often take some
of my doodles and designs and put them in his tattoo template book.
So yeah… I might not actually do the ink, but there are many
people who walk around with one of my designs on their bodies.