Too Hard: Hayes Brothers Book 5
Too Hard: Chapter 13

THE FIRST THOUGHT THAT FILTERS through my sleep-hazed mind isn’t my predicament. It’s how warm Cody feels with his big arms cradling me close. I can’t remember the last time someone held me like this.

I’ve been hugged, but those were quick, fleeting moments. Casual, friendly… nowhere near this intensity. His grip is almost possessive. Protective. Like he’s drawn a circle around us, keeping out the rest of the world.

I’ve never been this close to him, and despite the voice in my head shouting that this is a terrible idea, I take a second to savor the moment. It’s like I was custom-made to fit molded into his side, my nose brushing his neck, my head on the pillow. He’s asleep, his chest rising and falling softly.

My fingers grasp his t-shirt above the calm thump-thump of his heartbeat, almost lulling me back to sleep.

But my memories of last night settle in, reminding me why I’m here. The surreal bliss disintegrates, tainted by my father’s words.

After Dad took over the conversation with his newest victim, I excused myself from the table and sat at the bar for a while, letting them talk. Then, feigning a migraine in front of Dad’s bodyguard, I left.

I didn’t think I needed permission. Dad never calls me back into action once he’s talking business.

Unfortunately, Mr. Simons is not as easily outmaneuvered as my father hoped. After the initial business chat, he told Dad he’d think about his proposal, then went to replace me, eager to finish our conversation.

The way my father said conversation painted the picture—he knew Mr. Simons couldn’t care less about small talk.

I shut my eyes, blocking the humiliation.

My father, instead of protecting me from harm, wants me to spend today on the yacht of an older man who he knows tried to slide his fingers up my skirt during dessert. I feel sick at the thought.

Granted, Dad said he’ll join us, but that won’t help me.

He won’t help me if Mr. Simons decides he’d like to show me the lower level or his private suite. My father won’t disagree. He’ll pretend he doesn’t realize Mr. Simons’ ill intentions.

A stiffness fills my chest, and I stop breathing, pushing down the oncoming tears. There’s no point in crying. I have no choice in the matter, and thinking about what lies ahead won’t help. I need to suck it up. Bide my time. It’s just one more year.

I’ve been through worse than this. As long as I don’t fight, it won’t be as bad as three years ago.

Cody’s wristwatch tells me I have less than two hours to prepare. While I’d much rather stay here, safely cocooned in his big, warm arms, I know my father will lose his mind if I’m not ready and waiting.

Moving one inch at a time so I don’t wake him, I sneak out of Cody’s makeshift bed, and the second I pull myself away I miss the protective bubble. The addictive illusion of safety… as if nothing could touch me as long as he’s with me. As if nothing could hurt me again.

He looks so peaceful with his eyes closed. A stark contrast to the disdain—aimed at me—that usually twists his features. I reach to touch him, brush my fingers across his stubble, or map out the contour of his lips, but I stop short, my fingers hovering inches from his skin.

He wouldn’t want this.

Despite his kindness, he still hates me, and that thought pushes me to get moving. I’m too afraid to face him when he wakes up full of regret for letting me stay. For comforting me while I cried.

Quietly, I grab my keys from the coffee table and leave, heading across the hallway.

After a quick shower, I shimmy back into Cody’s hoodie and decide that pretending nothing happened is not the route I want to take.

He deserves a thank you at the very least, so I whip up a quick batch of madeleines and make breakfast. I know he hits the gym daily. His body is a sight to behold, toned to perfection, so he must be on a healthy, protein-packed diet.

With that in mind, I opt for avocado and cherry tomatoes on toast and a strawberry and yogurt milkshake.

I fill a small tray, adding a few warm madeleines, and take it to Cody’s condo, certain he’s still asleep.

But he’s not. The second the door opens, I stand face to face with his broad, muscular chest, damp hair, and sweatpants. He’s on the couch, cup of coffee in hand, the makeshift bed nowhere in sight, and the living space neat and tidy.

His eyes snap to me over the rim of his cup, one brow slowly arching upward and knocking me out of the stunned silence. “Morning,” I say, taking a few steps in before nudging the door shut. “I’m sorry I didn’t knock. I thought you’d still be asleep.”

His gaze flicks over the breakfast tray, and my face, before he examines his hoodie and my bare feet.

A blush creeps onto my cheeks, but I don’t backtrack. I head straight for him and set the tray on the coffee table, aware of the silence ramping up the tension in the air.

His quiet intensity makes me squeamish, his usually expressive face now unreadable. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He doesn’t look disappointed, but he doesn’t look pleased either.

“Thank you for last night,” I say, twining my fingers in front of me. “And I’m sorry about this,” I add, tugging the hem of his hoodie. “I shouldn’t—”

“How are you feeling?” he interrupts. His concerned tone a big contrast to his emotionless expression.

“I’m fine.”

“Fine…” he repeats, testing the word.

I’m a far cry from fine. Not only because of the day I’m facing, not only because my life is an absolute mess, but also because I spent the night cuddled into Cody, which awakened emotions I have no right to feel.

Things were easier when he acted like I was invisible. At least then, I didn’t know how safe he could make me feel.

“You want to talk?” he asks, his gaze unyielding as he stares me down. “Believe me, with six brothers, there’s nothing I haven’t heard by now.”

I very much doubt that.

“Who was that man last night?” he continues, throwing me off track.

He doesn’t know my father? How is that possible? Nico is my dad’s favorite person. The golden goose, as he calls him. He multiplies his money at an ungodly pace, and he might just be the one person my father respects.

I would’ve bet my right arm Cody knew him.

“I don’t want to talk, but thank you for offering.” Better he stays in the blissful land of ignorance. “I’ll let myself out,” I add when he remains silent.

And it hurts like a bitch when he doesn’t stop me.

***

Mr. Simons stands on the deck, wearing a crisp white shirt and navy trousers. He greets us with a charming smile, kissing my hand lightly and turning to my father with a curt nod.

His eyes are back on me in a heartbeat, tracing my moves, roving my body, and latched onto my boobs with hungry intensity. A procession of ice-cold centipedes creeps up my spine, their frosty feet leaving chills in their wake, making me shudder, which Mr. Simons mistakes for a good sign, his blown pupils finally tearing themselves away from my chest to lock onto mine.

“Welcome aboard, Miss Fitzpatrick,” he purrs once my father stalks toward the bar where a young man reaches for a tumbler. “It’s a pleasure to have you here,” he adds in a smooth baritone, then turns as a woman in nothing but a bikini approaches.

She looks much younger than him. Thirty, maybe not even that. Boobs, lips, cheeks, ass… all fake.

Must be one of his mistresses.

“This is my lovely wife, Annabelle.” Mr. Simons gestures toward her with a fond smile.

It’s good that I don’t have a drink yet, or I’d choke. I didn’t expect a man like him to be married. She’s beautiful despite those fake lips. Blonde hair cascades down her back in soft waves, her body sculpted into a fantasy, skin beautifully kissed by the sun.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say, trying not to let my relieved sigh sound too obvious.

Surely, he won’t try anything with his wife around…

It’s not often that I actually get touched inappropriately. Most men are perfectly content to stare and make innuendos. Some invite me for a drink to show me off like a trophy, and some don’t pay me any heed at all.

But…

There is always a but. Always an exception to the rule.

While most highly situated men my father uses to multiply his money wouldn’t dare risk a scandal by feeling up a barely legal young woman, some don’t have scruples. The richest, the billionaires… they consider themselves above the law. Above socially acceptable behaviors, etiquette, and manners.

Some try to cop a feel. Some try more than a hand on my knee or fingers brushing my nape.

And by the look of Mr. Simons, and all I read about his sketchy, full of sexual assault charges past, he is most certainly one of those men. Those who think a stuffed wallet means they’re free to do whatever they want.

The saddest part is that it’s true. They can do as they please. With influential friends and enough money for bribes, scum like Mr. Simons walk free despite multiple rape accusations. Every time one made it to court, the charges were dropped… probably because his entourage paid the women a lot of hush money.

Thankfully, I’ve been a part of my father’s schemes for years, and I developed a few tricks to keep myself relatively safe.

We spend a couple of hours on the deck, enjoying breakfast. No inappropriate comments fly above the table. Nothing but polite conversation, but things take a turn when I excuse myself to use the restroom.

I don’t hear Mr. Simons until his hand clasps my wrist and he shoves me against the wall of the narrow corridor.

Flashbacks creep up, flooding my mind with memories I buried long ago, and my breathing falters.

“I thought you were never going to stand up, sweet cheeks,” he says, dipping his head into my neck, inhaling deeply, one hand moving to grip my waist, the other on my thigh. “You look spellbinding. I missed you last night… Where did you go?”

“Headache,” I utter, clawing my way back from the abyss of dark memories, fighting to tether myself in the here and now, or I won’t be able to protect myself.

“I can’t stop thinking about you, and when I saw you today in this…” He trails one hand down between the valley of my barely there breasts, his voice low and husky as he whispers filth in my ear.

My skin crawls when his fat fingers slide up my thigh and he pushes two digits under the hem of my dress, audibly groaning.

“Fucking perfect,” he rasps. “I can’t wait to see all of you.”

“Mr. Simons,” I whisper, gently pressing my hands against his chest, blood whooshing in my ears. “Your wife could come down any moment. My father is here. We can’t.”

It takes a few lingering heartbeats for his horny mind to assess the risks before he grunts his disapproval, inching away enough to lick the shell of my ear.

“You’re right,” he huffs, yet in the next breath he oozes care, however artificial. “I wouldn’t put you in that predicament. Nothing to upset my sweet little girl, but…” He leans back further, his lips hovering over mine, eyes searing through me. “Just one touch.” His tongue peeps out, moistening his lips as he slides one finger up and down my pussy. “Let Daddy check how soft you are.”

I’m drier than the Sahara, but his eyes flare as if he’s found the fountain of youth between my legs.

If he calls himself Daddy again, I’ll projectile vomit in his face, I swear. Considering everything my father does, how he used, abused, and neglected me my whole life, Daddy kink is the last thing I’d ever indulge in. It reminds me of everything bad that I’ve suffered at my father’s hands.

Not a turn-on in the slightest when the word Daddy evokes memories of his fists ramming into my mother’s stomach whenever she was delusional.

Footsteps echo around us, approaching fast, the distinct click of heels betraying it’s his wife. I think someone’s watching from above, saving me before this scum forces me to kick him in the balls.

Gideon Fitzpatrick would not be pleased if that happened. He’d confiscate my car, credit cards, and turn my life into a living hell for the foreseeable future, but I’d rather take that than let Mr. Simons fuck me against the wall of his luxurious yacht.

“Impeccable timing on that woman,” he rasps, licking my ear. “Next time, sweetie, no one will interrupt us. I’m out of town for a few weeks, but I’ll take you somewhere nice when I return. If you behave, we’ll go shopping, and Daddy will treat you to a designer purse.”

I can barely swallow the vomit threatening to spill from my mouth as he stamps a sloppy kiss on the corner of my lipstick-stained lips, then quickly retreats in the opposite direction from the approaching footsteps.

Dashing into the bathroom at the last moment, I lock myself in one of the stalls, my insides reeling.

I’ve wondered how my father replaces these wealthy, powerful degenerates for years. Since he started using me as bait, I have worked twenty-nine men. All held some position of power in society: lawyers, bankers, detectives, politicians… rich, entitled, filthy perverts happy to feel up a young girl. Happy to blatantly flirt while their wives stand nearby.

What is it about money that makes those men feel superior? By this point, I’m fairly certain most of the daredevils grasping at me know my dad’s game. They know he flaunts me in their faces, offering me like a sacrificial lamb, and they happily participate, taking whatever they deem fit.

Most are content with fleeting touches: a cheek rub here, a thigh squeeze there, an inappropriate comment thrown between the lines.

Eleven of the twenty-nine men I worked for my father had their hands on my thigh or boobs. Four touched the most intimate parts of my body. One stuck his dick inside me.

I was seventeen. Senior year in high school. A day much like today. Beautiful weather, a yacht, and a sixty-three-year-old businessman from Europe.

I don’t know what deal my father struck with him. But I do know he sat on the deck while that scum gave me a tour. I was underage… I didn’t expect how it ended. Not in my wildest dreams would I have thought the sick fucker would touch me without permission. I mean, my dad was right there… I felt safe, so I followed the man.

I’ve never felt safe in my dad’s presence since.

The old fuck pressed me against the wall of the huge, elegant bathroom on the lower deck, covered my mouth with his hand, lifted my skirt, and punched my V card, not caring about the tears trailing down my face.

The longest three minutes of my life.

Once done, he adjusted his pants, threw me a towel, and strolled up the stairs as if nothing had happened.

Dad found me a moment later.

It’s the only time in my life that he looked genuinely concerned. Mostly because he didn’t realize I was a virgin, and the blood smeared over my thighs flipped his stomach. He gave me space after that. Almost four months without requesting my presence at those stupid banquets. He arranged my therapy and showered me with gifts in between making all kinds of threats, so I wouldn’t rat out him or the European businessman.

I never went to therapy, and Dad didn’t care enough to check. Instead of working through the trauma, like I should’ve done, I tried to bury the memory of that brute by sleeping around with college guys on my terms.

The one good thing that came out of that night was that I stopped bullying Mia. I’d always done it searching for a voice, wanting to be heard and seen because I was invisible in my own home. With a mother who was either hallucinating or heavily medicated and a father who did his utmost to avoid us, I was always on my own. Ignored, powerless… accused of horrid things by my sick mother since I turned five.

Making fun of Mia gave me an audience. People saw me. Listened to me… but when I was raped and stripped of control in the most brutal way, I realized that I’d inflicted exactly the thing I’d been running from my whole life on Mia.

Isolation. Humiliation. No power. No voice…

When my father summoned me to another meeting months later, I was much smarter. Much stronger. No longer a naïve teenage girl. Whenever anyone gets too close, or the situation looks like getting out of hand, I play them like my father plays me.

Turns out most of those men are somewhat decent. They take what I’m willing to give, but back off if I express concern.

Obviously, I have to be smart about it so they don’t storm out or cut my father loose before he gets what he wants.

“Not here, Mr. [insert name here].”

“My father could walk out at any moment. This isn’t safe.”

“Your wife is one door away.”

Excuse after excuse. So far, they work. I’ve been touched. Three men—four including Mr. Simons—have been bold enough to push their grubby fingers under my skirt and over my pussy, but other than the European pedophile, no one else raped me.

I’ve dealt with what happened. It didn’t leave any lasting damage on my mind—probably because, half the time, I don’t even believe it happened. After the therapy, I blocked it from my mind, but it took a long time before I had a healthy sexual relationship.

Once I can’t hear any footsteps, I exit the stall, wash my hands, lips, and every part of my body Mr. Simons touched, then head back on deck. For the rest of the day, I stay in plain sight. I don’t drink any more, so I won’t have to use the restroom and risk Mr. Simons following me again.

But when my father drops me off at home, I feel dirty.

Violated.

I head straight for the shower, scrubbing myself clean until my skin turns pink.