The Carrero Heart 1: Beginning - Book cover

The Carrero Heart 1: Beginning

L.T. Marshall

Chapter 3

Sophie

The other man slides off, tripping over the edge of the seat before running like a scared rabbit. Arrick watches him disappear into the smoky atmosphere, deathly still for a moment as that tremor of nerves surges through me.

I know I’m probably about to get the third degree, which makes my stomach ache. He turns towards me slowly, catching my hand behind him and pulling it, so I’m drawn to face him. That mask of indifference is firmly in place and his eyes zone in on mine intensely.

Even though it’s dark, I know those hazel eyes will have more than a few specks of green sparkling in the depths. They become obvious and intense when he’s pissed. My stomach flickers again, nerves making me uneasy.

My lip finds its way between my teeth nervously as the hammering of my heart returns. His eyes go to the childish gesture, and he knits his brows in irritation. “What was that?” He frowns at me, anger well hidden beneath that cool and calm exterior in which he excels, but I catch that tight tone under the silky deep depths of that smooth voice.

Arrick never lets much out publicly. He’s a guy who hates drama and making a scene, hates being overly emotional, and has only gotten much worse since dating Natasha. The queen of proper and prude, she’s practically an emotional cripple, publicly anyway.

“A creep wanting sex.” I shrug nonchalantly, trying to pass it off and not hint at how terrified or angry I was seconds before. I still have this inability to let anyone see me as vulnerable and incapable in any way, even him sometimes, well lately. Good old Sophie’s self-defense system at its finest.

“Sophs, this shit is getting old.” Arrick tugs me with him by the hand, turning away without waiting for more of a response, and that sinking ache hits me again. His manner is all hostile, even if he seems fine to the untrained eye.

He’s mad at me. Entangling fingers snugly with mine to secure me to him. Despite the nerves inside of me, I still get that warm tug of euphoria I always get with his touch, that familiar coming home as he leads the way towards the dance floor to exit this shithole.

I can only follow mutely as we are again enveloped by the worst of the body-thumping noise around us when we near the source of it, making my heart thump in time to the beat and worsening nausea that’s still lingering. I force myself to take long, deep, and even breaths to control it.

My head is starting to ache now the alcohol level in my blood has dwindled, even more with that tense little scene. Nothing helps sober you up like a nice little bit of nasty drama before bed.

It’s obvious he’s pissed and not his normal soothing self with calming words and tissues at the ready. I stare at his strong shoulders as we move through the crowd, him powerfully parting a path for us, and I follow, feeling young and stupid.

He knows how to bring it out when I’ve clearly misbehaved. The vibes coming off him in droves that he’s as fed up with this whole scene as I am.

My lip trembles with a new wave of emotion, my eyes stinging, and I force it back down into the heavy ache in my chest, like a ball of weight, threatening to collapse my heart and lungs. Too tired to even fight it anymore.

When we get outside into the night air, my legs seem to jellify, fresh air bringing back some swirling head mess I thought I was losing. As he lets me go to walk ahead to the car, I stumble into the back of him clumsily.

Catching my heel on an uneven paving stone, I have zero ability to avoid it. My stomach jolts and my heart lurches with the sudden trip. Grabbing his arm and the back of his jacket to stop myself from eating dirt by face-palming the sidewalk.

Arrick catches me, turning as I go down as though sensing it, under my elbow with his fast reflexes before pulling me forward and into his arm. He wraps it around my back and waist snugly, lifting me against him like I weigh no more than a child.

His familiar body against mine brings a sense of security, a stark contrast to every male on the planet, but never him. Arry is one of the few men who get to touch me without conditions, without reaction. Something even my adopted brothers don’t have full permission to do, and my dad is only slightly better.

Arry never brings on any of the uneasiness or recoiling anxiety from within. From almost day one so many years ago, he has been the only person who didn’t make me feel like they were invading my space or triggering the panic button. His touch brings only reassurance.

I mastered the sea of emotions when it comes to my male family members touching me, and I often hide my reactions to cuddles and affectionate touches not to upset them. None of them know how I am deep down with affections that should be normal.

It makes me feel ashamed and broken, so I try to ignore it, knowing that I should be able to accept a loving hug or a kiss on the cheek without a sense of deep mistrust and a heavy aching thud in my gut. But with Arrick, I have nothing to hide at all.

My complete trust in him means we could share a bed half-dressed and know he would never do anything about it. No fear, repulsion, or discomfort in his touch at all. It’s one of the reasons I’ve cried on his shoulder for years when I need support or real hugs.

He guides me to the car silently, in a controlled manner, his face deadpan. I can sense the distance between us like a crater, even though he’s molded to my side. My nerves are gnawing at me, my mood wary, skin tingling with apprehension that something is off and different this time.

I know that lately, we haven’t exactly been getting on. For months now, there’s been a coolness between us, but right now, beside him, I can almost taste that something has changed in how he’s being.

Maybe he has just had enough. Uncertainty sends my already fragile stomach into a washer-like frenzy, hating that being in tune with him means I am so sensitive to exactly this kind of thing.

His car has been deposited on the sidewalk neatly, all four gleaming wheels on the concrete, of a sleek gray Mercedes he bought only weeks ago to replace his electric blue sports car. Arrick is growing up, leaving behind that young fast life, and settling down, and I don’t know how to feel about it.

He’s changing, has been for a while, and I guess it’s one of the reasons we are not as close as we once were. He’s growing up, and I’m too far behind him.

We move to the car, where an exceptionally large black-coated bouncer is leaning against it casually, with a beaming smile as he sees us approach. “Arrick, my main man!” He grins and fist bumps him as we close the gap, still holding me firmly, heating up my body despite the chill around us and my lack of a jacket.

I smile weakly at the man, knowing the game I have to play when with him. He is sociable with everyone, has time for most people, and he likes those around him to have manners to suit. He’s fast becoming a celebrity on his own terms, not just another Prince of Carrero and following in his brother’s footsteps as the face of the company.

His fight titles are making him known on his own, and his skills and wins make a name that means something more to him. “Thanks, Bro.” Arrick smiles, handing him a hundred-dollar bill so quickly I almost miss it; a smooth operator in all things related to schmoozing and gaining associates.

He pulls me forward so he can guide and ease me into the door that another bouncer opens for us with a half-smile and nods towards him. All I have is the heaviness of fatigue, dizzy with it, just aching to sit down and have some peace.

My head is banging, and that nausea swirling around makes me hot and stuffy. I fall into the cool seat of his car interior with sheer relief, so glad to be back on my ass, and relax into the molded curves with a sigh. The urge to slide my shoes off is insane, but I have zero energy to unbuckle them.

“Anytime. See you at Saturday’s fight, man.” The male ducks and dives, throwing a couple of mock air punches with a smile, trying hard to impress Arry and getting all jocular and best buddy. I resist the urge to eye roll, now nestled in my seat away from his caring hands, and slide down the leather to try to calm the side-to-side waves going on around me.

“My money is already on you, Bruv’. Tornado Carrero is a sure thing! I saw you at your last, and you were on top form. That right hook is deadly.”

“Thanks.” Arrick smiles at him, giving the man some sort of bromance arm hug, then leans into a shoulder bump before heading around the car. Very street ghetto, and I suppress the urge to giggle at how many layers to him there are.

Businessman when he needs to be, and the company requires him, then casual lad about town when he’s with me, or street thug when faced with adoring fight fans. He slides in his side as the second bouncer leans into the frame of my still-open door expectantly, waiting for Arry to get seated.

“I’ll catch you at the gym tomorrow, Kendall,” Arrick nods at him, leaning forward over me so his hand rests innocently on my naked inner thigh to take his weight. He strains forward to see the towering figure whose head is still too high from his viewpoint.

“Looking forward to it, mate, been practicing my uppercut since last time. Hope you see improvement in my form.” The bouncer nods goodbye, and my door is shut with a wave.

Arrick leans back and removes his hand, leaving me with a sensation of warm softness there. He leans in close to me, catches my seatbelt over my right shoulder, pulls it across me with eyes on the task, and buckles me in. Not that I’m incapable, but this is just one of the many things he has always done when looking after me.

I watch his face closely, so close I can almost touch him. Eyes downwards, watching what he is doing and still with that emotionless expression. He smells like he always does; a mix of him, his unique Arry smell, and his favorite spicy aftershave. I catch hints of his body spray, but it all mingles together to make one alluring scent that is only ever him. It’s a heady mix.

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