A.J. Kinsey knew he was never meant to love until he meets the one woman he'll break all the Cheaters Club rules for...even if it leaves him broken.
written by @MarriedtoArod
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I'm definitely trying too hard.
For the hundredth time since I stepped out of the shower this morning, I run my hands through my hair and smooth back an unruly wave. It falls back to its original defiant position.
Definitely. Definitely, too hard.
I decline J.P.'s offer to have one of the Club's cars take me to Inner City Hearts. I much prefer the anonymity of a taxi, just a face in a city of more than eight million souls—gone without anyone noticing or missing me.
The cab stops in front of the women and children's shelter located somewhere in lower Manhattan—it matches the image I remember from my first meeting with Holden and his minions. It's a large brownstone with large bronze letters arched over the doorway.
Before I enter, I straighten the collar on my blue and white striped shirt. I look like a Wall Street asshat—everything tucked and pressed to perfection—but my new closet contained nothing short of pretentious. With a flick of my wrist I pull off my tie and let a few buttons loose then roll up my sleeves. Satisfied I go in and tell the girl behind the Dutch split door in the front office I'm there to see Madeleine Rothschild.
The girl's younger than me, maybe just barely out of high school, but it doesn't keep the flirtatious grin off her face.
"Madeleine, you have a visitor," she says into the phone. Her eyes run up and down my body in a slow perusal like I'm a statue of David in a museum. "Uh-huh, that's him."
I raise my brows—I'll take that as a good sign.
She hangs up the phone. "She'll be down in a minute."
"Okay..." I glance around the foyer—there aren't any chairs in the space near the stairs or the narrow hallway, and the girl who gave me the once over has already returned to filing. So I pace.
Am I nervous? Maybe fired up? I don't know why—Maddy's just a girl. I've had my fair share of models and bodies that break the ten scale in my bed, women who can get a man to do anything they want. But here I'm no better than those whipped-puppy-boys, not only am I trying to gain her trust so I can let her in on Holden's intentions, but maybe a small part of me wants to impress her. I adjust myself—okay, maybe a big part of me.
Old framed photographs line the walls, black and white depicting the outreach Inner City Hearts has done over the years. Dates don the bottom of each picture. A few older colored photographs next to the front door feature a young girl handing out clothing and food—a young Maddy, round apple cheeks, the same blond ponytail.
"Abraham Jackson." Maddy appears down the narrow hallway and walks up to me until she's a few feet away. Dressed in jeans and a pale blue logo t-shirt, she's fresh faced with her hair pulled up into a messy bun. Never thought that'd be what it took to get the blood rushing, but I like that she's unassuming of her allure, or that it's hidden all beneath denim and a baggy top.
