Текст книги "Reveal"
Автор книги: Elle Brooks
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
THERE’S LITTLE IN this life that can disarm me the way a woman crying can, especially one I care about. I throw my leg over my bike, kickstart the ignition and push my phone into my back pocket, peeling away from the curb as my tires squeal and the wind stings my eyes. I don’t care that I’m driving twice the speed limit, or that I run a red light and narrowly avoid slamming into a truck as I fly over a crossroad, not giving way. Her message was laced with pained hiccupping sobs. She said she was at her apartment and that she needed me; that was enough for my heart to sink and my nerves to fray as I battled through traffic to get to her as soon as possible.
I pull up outside her building and run straight for the door, catching it as a pizza delivery guy exits. I race up the stairwell, taking them three at a time and burst through the small hallway and skid to a stop outside Tweet’s door. I don’t knock. Instead I try the handle but it’s locked, and panic swells like a raging tide in my chest. I begin shoulder barging into it, my adrenaline spiking with the memory of what I found the last time I turned up in the evening. I stand back ready to kick it down as Tweet slowly opens it. She peeks at me from behind the chain before removing it and opening the door fully for me.
Relief floods through me as I see her standing here in front of me and she doesn’t look to be roughed up. There’s no sign of blood, no bruises, no indicator that she’s in any type of physical pain. My pulse is ringing loudly in my ears, and I want to sink onto my haunches and thank God that she’s okay. But the icy thought of what might have happened that wouldn’t leave external marks flitters across my mind and the panic is back with full force.
“What happened? What’s wrong?” I ask in a hurried breath, pulling her by the wrists and crushing her against my chest. I squeeze her tight, trying to convince my body to calm down. I have her, she’s here, she’s okay. I lift her chin and move my head back so that I can see her face, noticing the redness of her eyes and the faint stain of tears across her cheeks.
“I-I came back to check my mail and make sure that Mrs. Heckles was okay,” she tells me as I walk her backward into the apartment. Listening to her voice crack breaks something deep within me.
“There was something off, I knew it the second I walked in. I got chills and noticed that my bedroom door was wide open. I always close all the doors when I leave, and shut off the lights. They were on too, and I panicked, thinking that someone was in here.” Her shoulders are jerking with the effort she’s making to keep her voice steady, and my fists clench as adrenaline floods my veins.
“I went to the kitchen and grabbed a knife. I didn’t know what I was going to find and I wanted some form of protection…I can’t cut through a cantaloupe, let alone an intruder, but I thought it might scare them away. I crept through to my room, calling out to see if anyone answered and that’s when I saw it.” Her voice gives way to the sobs, and she breaks down crying hard against my chest. I move her to the sofa and run towards the bedroom, not knowing what I’m looking for, but as I throw the door open I know it definitely wasn’t this.
Her sheets are ruffled, the blinds are closed, and there’s a fluffy white cat hanging by a woman’s belt from the ceiling fan over the bed. I look around the room, processing the scene and notice the note that lay amongst the crumpled sheets.
The sick fucks!
I wipe my hand down my face and think about the fact that Tweet had to come in here and see this. I want to kill the pricks that did this to scare her; in fact, killing them would be too good. I want to torture the disgusting bastards, see how they like being frightened for their lives. I step up onto her bed and unhook the poor cat. Once it’s down, I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t want Tweet to see me carry it out and upset her even more, but I can’t leave it in here. I open her closet and find an old gym bag stuffed into the corner. I pull it out and place the cat carefully inside, then shove the note deep into my pocket and head out into the living room.
“Stay here, I’ll be right back,” I call as I walk past quickly, holding the bag to the side facing away from her. I sprint down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk, then around the back of her building to find the dumpsters. Anger is coursing through my whole body as I place the bag down gently, and then turn on my heel and race back inside to Robyn. When I walk into her apartment I see she’s moved from her spot and is now standing in the kitchen, shakily drinking a glass of water. I make my way over and take her in my arms, kissing the top of her head.
“I’m so sorry you had to see that, Tweet. I’ve taken care of it, don’t worry,” I whisper.
Her arms snake around my waist and she presses into me tighter for a moment before letting go and stepping back.
“It’s Snowball, Mrs. Heckles’ cat. What am I going to say to her, Cal?” she asks in a heartbreakingly sad voice.
“We’ll figure something. I’ll do it, I’ll tell her I accidently hit it with my bike. You don’t have to be there.”
“Why would they do something like that? I don’t understand. I-I just—”
“Shush…don’t think about it, they’re sick. They wanted to scare you and they have. But don’t worry, Robyn, I won’t let them anywhere near you. I promise I’ll sort this.”
“Cal, you can’t. I owe them ten grand in two weeks, and I don’t have it. God, what am I going to do?”
Her tears are back and she doesn’t bother to wipe them away. Instead, she lets them rain down her face as she turns and moves over to sit on the sofa again.
“I’ll pay them. I don’t want you to worry about this. I’ll settle the—”
“No! You can’t.”
I sit beside her and press my finger to her lips to quiet her. It works.
“I can, and I’m going to, whether you want me to or not. I need to do this, Robyn. I can’t stand back and watch someone do this to you. It would kill me. There’s no room for discussion—it’s happening, okay?”
She doesn’t say anything else, just draws her knees up to her chest and nods as she lets herself fall into my side.
Where she belongs.
We sit in silence for so long my mind is one giant time bomb, waiting to detonate from the anger and hatred bubbling inside. I’m reeling, and my blood boils at the thought of every way I can conceivably inflict as much pain on these motherfuckers as humanly possible. Zane has some pretty sketchy contacts, and I’m way past the point of being level-headed enough not to ask for their help. I roll my neck to ease the tension and decide I should ask Tweet if she’s ready to leave, but when I look down, she’s fallen asleep. I move off the sofa and kneel quietly beside her, pulling her down so that she’s lying comfortably. She stirs as I place a cushion beneath her head, and her eyes flutter open, peering up into mine.
Fuck, this girl is so beautiful.
Being around her is an intense anguish of emotions. It’s agony and ecstasy rolled together forming a savage catalyst of neediness that I’m too stubborn to act on, and too weak to remove. I tried distancing myself but living with her made it an impossible feat, so instead I’ve morphed into the good guy, the confidant, the friend…because torturing myself with her presence is infinitely more appealing than cutting her out altogether.
“Go back to sleep, Tweet. I’ll be right here,” I whisper as I move to place a soft comforting kiss against her the iridescent remains of her tears painted over the smooth skin of her cheek. There’s no ulterior motive behind my actions, no desire to push for more; my intentions are sincere. I want to comfort her above anything else, but her face turns and her lips brush against mine, and it’s a deliberate movement on her part. My eyes snap to hers in question as my mouth hovers in suspended animation, waiting for a cue.
She moves her head closer, strengthening the pressure of her lips pushed securely against mine and begins to kiss me, moving slowly, but with measured assurance. My eyes fall closed, and a floodgate opens, emptying my mind of everything but the taste of her warm wet tongue moving in perfect synchronicity against my own. She pulls away with a sleepy sated grin, and I watch as her eyes close, her dark lashes fanning against her soft tanned face. I sit back onto my heels, dazed and in a sate of aroused confusion, wondering if I just imagined that last thirty seconds and hoping like hell I didn’t.
I don’t know what to do with myself; she’s knocked me completely off balance so I do the only thing I can think of. I lean back against the sofa and rest my head where I can feel Tweet’s soft breath blow gently across my face as I close my eyes and relive that kiss.
Today Robyn has released a new brand of torment on me. We returned to the apartment in the small hours of this morning and I’m not sure if she was ignoring what happened between us, or if the events of the day had taken their toll and she wasn’t in a place where she wanted to talk. Either way, we returned home to our separate beds in our separate rooms and when we woke and stumbled into each other in the kitchen, we went about our separate lives like it was any other normal day, and not the real-life aftermath of some twisted take on a scene that could have been pulled straight from a psychotic thriller.
Zane is in the office when I finally decide to return to work after visiting Dad. I took him his medication, checked that he was good to go with his fridge stocked full of food—not just beer—and then spent the morning watching re-runs of the Giants’ game with him. All the while he complained about the neighbor’s dog barking at all hours, keeping him awake throughout the night. It’s our usual routine, but today instead of worrying about Dad, his Alzheimer’s and the alarming rate of his mental deterioration, I had other worries to add to the ever-growing pile. The doctors told us at first that his condition would be progressive. I feel cheated now; progressive is a word used to trick you into thinking you’ll have a little time. If they’d said rapid, it would have prepared me more. I always thought Alzheimer’s was a disease for the old but my dad’s not old. Christ, he’s barely middle aged.
I had to tell him that his next-door neighbor doesn’t have a dog—that was at our old house. The real killer came when I had to explain that Mom divorced him and didn’t live with him anymore after he’d asked where she was. He called me by my brother’s name for the whole visit, and after I’d corrected him for the third time I gave in and just answered anyway. I think it’s time that we organize him some home help. His confusion scares the crap out of me, and I don’t like the thought of him living here on his own.
“Hey, how’s it going, bossman?” Zane asks in his cheery British accent.
“Fucking marvelous,” I reply in a defeated tone I have no interest in trying to mask.
He drops his legs from where they’re crossed and resting on my desk and places the laptop down, giving me a concerned once over.
“Are you okay, Cal? You look like you’re ready to punch something.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Listen, I need you to call one of your friends.” I air quote the last word. “I need to find out some information.”
This has his attention.
“What’s going on? Are you in trouble?” has asks, leaning forward, listening intently now.
“Not me, Tweet.”
“Robyn?”
“Yeah, she owes some assholes ten grand. The debt’s not hers, it’s her asshole ex-boyfriend’s, but he’s not around to pay, so they’re coming after her. You should have seen her last night; they’ve scared the shit out of her. I kicked some guy’s ass a few weeks back when I walked in on him throwing her around. She called me yesterday in a flood of tears; someone had been around and hung her neighbor’s cat in her bedroom then threatened she’d be next if she didn’t pay up.”
Zane looks like he’s about to throw up, and I don’t blame him; saying it out loud flips my stomach too.
“Shit,” he breathes out. “So what do you want from me?”
“I need you to find out from that shady little fuck you used to hang with who this Mr. Carter is, who he works for and how I can get a hold of him.”
“Consider it done, man.”
“Thanks. Oh and Zane?”
“Yeah?”
“I need you to take a look at the books, put that MBA to some use. I can’t make them balance, and I have no fucking clue where the anomaly lies. See if you can figure it please? Or arrange for the accountant to come in and take a look.”
“No need for the accountant, sunshine…I’m a numbers wizard, you know that.” He grins.
“Plus, I need to take out the ten large that Tweet needs. I don’t want to take it out until the books add up.”
“You’re paying off her debt? Cal, don’t you think—”
“Don’t say it,” I interrupt. “I’ll be back in a little while, I need to go call CJ about Dad.”
I walk from my office down to the bar and pour myself a whiskey. It’s barely noon, and it’s already been a long day.
“YOU GOT HERE fast.” I smirk and open the door wider for Chantal to enter, and she smiles as she ducks under my arm, slipping her coat off.
“I was actually on my way out but I canceled. You’re a better prospect.” she says and winks.
Chantal is an old friend, and for the last few years whenever we’ve both found ourselves between relationships we’ve been each other’s booty call—for want of a better phrase. There are no airs or graces; I don’t need to wine and dine her to get into her pants. It’s a simple arrangement. If I text and she’s willing, we meet, have sex and then go on about our day as usual. It’s not as crass as it seems—it works both ways. If she calls me and I’m in a situation where I can oblige, I do. There’s no hidden agenda, no secret hope that one of us will suddenly fall in love with the other. We tried that route in college; we make superb sexual partners, but we soon realized that we made an utterly horrendous couple.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” I offer as she throws her coat over the kitchen counter top and sits at the island.
“I’d love one. White, please.”
“I select a bottle from the cooler and she leans over the island, her tits almost spilling out of the deep V of her sheer black blouse. She’s a stunning woman: ivory skin, tall, slender, long blonde hair and an ample-sized chest that gets me hard every time without fail.
I twist the bottle toward her. “Chardonnay, or would you prefer a pinot?”
“The chardonnay’s fine, thank you. So I have to admit, I’m a little surprised that you called. The last time I was here you were telling me you were pursuing a dancer. Did that not go too well?”
I smile to myself, remembering that I told her about Robyn and the lengths I was going to with the whole coffee situation. “It’s going well, actually,” I say, passing over her glass and sitting opposite as I take a sip of my own.
“Wait, you’re dating her? Hmm, Cole, I’m more than happy with our arrangement,” she says, watching me with a serious expression. “But I draw the line at being the other woman. I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes.”
“It’s not like that,” I say, lowering my glass and placing it on the counter. “We’re not in an actual relationship; she’s got things she needs to work through, and right now we’re just having fun and spending time together. I’m holding out for more, but she’s not there yet, and you know me, Chantal.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I have needs; I’m only human. If you’d rather not—”
“No, no, it’s fine. As long as I’m not going to have my eyes clawed out by a jealous girlfriend, I can deal with that.”
I smile, and she takes a long drink of her chardonnay, never breaking eye contact.
“Should we take this into the bedroom?” she asks. tinkling her glass.
“After you, you know where it is.”
I follow behind as she sashays her way through my apartment, slowly unbuttoning her blouse as she goes.
I place our glasses on my nightstand and turn to watch as she slips the silky fabric from her shoulders, letting it slide to the floor. Her arms reach around the back, unhooking her bra as she raises her eyes and looks at me watching.
“Don’t just stand there, Cole, lose the clothes.”
I let out an amused huff and do as she asks, unbuttoning my pants and pulling my shirt over my head. By the time I’m stepping out of my black boxers, she’s standing completely naked at the foot of my bed.
Chantal looks every part the socialite princess until you unwrap her and realize that she has a naughty side. The intricate black lines of her tattoo wrap around her waist and snake up and around her left side, stopping just under the swell of her breasts. The tattoo itself is an elaborate design of white lilies, intertwined with vines and foliage. It’s a stark contrast to the pale creaminess of her porcelain skin, and it’s sexy as fuck.
“Bend over the bed,” I tell her and a wicked smile forms on her bright red lips before she does exactly what I ask.
The deplorable idiot in me looks at her, splayed out ready and wanting, and I can’t help but smile at the thought of how amazing it will be when it’s Robyn here with me doing this. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out. She’s on my mind twenty-four seven, and when I returned home from work tonight to a text telling me she was busy and couldn’t meet, I caved. The last piece of my willpower shattered, and I called Chantal. I’m no idiot, I know I’ll regret this decision later, but I am so incredibly wound up I need the release. I look back down at Chantal and tell myself, this is it. This is the last time.
I wake up seconds before my alarm signals that it’s 5.30am. I rub my eyes with the heel of my palm and reach over to stop the buzzing. I knock over the wine glasses perched on the edge from the night before, and they tumble to the floor. I brace myself for the sound of smashing glass, but it doesn’t come. I peer over the bed and see that they’ve landed amongst the crumpled pile of clothes I’d left when I undressed for Chantal last night. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, thinking about the whole interaction and how stupid it was to call her over knowing how I feel about Robyn.
I groan as I stretch my tired muscles and adjust myself, the effects of the early morning, mixed with my thoughts of Robyn, have me almost painfully hard. I close my eyes and thank the heavens, God, Jesus and everything else that’s holy that I came to my senses and didn’t screw myself over by screwing Chantal last night. I wanted to, hell did I want to, but when I looked down at the person on my bed, eager and begging for me to take her, I couldn’t ignore that it wasn’t Robyn.
I’d apologized to Chantal, asking her to get dressed and then fleeing to the bathroom to calm myself down before I lost my self-control and fucked her anyway. She took it surprisingly well. Not that I thought that she’d be upset, just pissed that I’d dragged her across Manhattan and away from a night with her girlfriends for nothing. Instead, we spent the evening with a bottle of wine watching Netflix until she got tired, and then I walked her back to her apartment. I should be ashamed of myself for my behavior, but I’m actually quite proud of myself. Chantal’s beautiful, I know her body inside and out, and I was still able to resist. The hope that Robyn will want this with me is too much to ignore, and if it takes another three days or even three months to become a reality, I’ll just have to suck it up. I’ll get myself reacquainted with my hand because something tells me that Robyn will definitely be worth the wait.
ZANE SAYS THAT he’s relayed the message to his friend, Blake. I should get some answers about who this dickhead Carter works for, and where I can find them. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to contain my rage if this Blake kid makes good on the information. I’ll pay off Tweet’s debts, I don’t care about the money, but I need assurance from these pricks that it will be the end. There’ll be no more scaremongering and dead animals hanging in her bedroom. I need to know that they’ll leave her the hell alone. It’s been three days since she kissed me in her apartment, and she’s been pretending like everything is normal between us ever since. Breezing around me as though nothing happened, nothing shifted. Maybe it didn’t for her, but that’s not how it is for me. I can’t go back to being her friend and listening to her make plans to meet up with the Warbucks asshole. Where was he when she needed him? She called me the night she needed help, me and not him. Surely there has to be something behind that.
I just returned home from my meeting with CJ and a home care nurse for Dad. The meeting went as I’d expected, which was pretty fucking horrendous. Dad was so mad, complaining that we’d ambushed him. He didn’t need a nursemaid; he was a grown-ass man, and more than capable of looking after himself. Of course, this was fifteen minutes after we’d all spent almost an hour searching for the television remote, which CJ finally located in the fridge between the milk, bottles of Bud Light and a pair of his socks. It’s not that I think he needs constant babysitting, but his memory is shot to shit lately. He can recall events from our childhood that even I have trouble remembering, but forgets to turn off the oven ten seconds after using it. I can wash over most things, but when it comes to him no longer being safe, it’s not a risk any of us can afford to take. It only takes one small slip up, like leaving the gas hob on or filling the toaster with water instead of the kettle, and that would it, he could kill himself. I couldn’t live knowing I didn’t do something when I had the chance.
In an ideal world Dad would be living with CJ or me, but this world is less than perfect, and neither of us has the time or the knowledge of how to look after him in this condition. CJ arranged for the nurse to come visit, and she seems nice. Her name’s Lynda, she’s middle-aged, has great references and has over twenty years of experience working with Alzheimer’s patients. CJ insisted on hiring the best person he could find, and I’m in no doubt that Lynda is it. She doesn’t come cheap though, and what Dad’s insurance doesn’t cover, CJ and I are splitting.
Lynda suggested that Dad was still in the mild stages of dementia. He’s beginning to experience more vast memory loss now; it’s becoming more frequent and he’s displaying signs of other cognitive difficulties. The bright side is that he’s not started wandering off and getting lost, although she said that would probably come next. She expressed that some of her patients started having trouble handling their finances and paying bills. I hadn’t even considered that. By the look on CJ’s face, neither had he. Lynda also warned us to expect behavior changes. In all honesty, it sounds like it’s a living nightmare for him. I hate that he has to go through this. We arranged for Lynda to take him on as a patient right away; now we need to convince Dad that it’s for his own good.
Today’s certainly taking its toll and kicking my ass.
When I walk into my living room, finally ready to relax, there’s a note on the coffee table from Robyn. I open it up, reading the neat, precise handwriting. It says she’s headed to her friend Lucy’s right after her shift, and then she has a dinner date and will be back late. I toss my keys and phone on the coffee table, scrunch the note into a tight ball and then retrieve a bottle of Jack from the cupboard. Just when I thought today was done chewing me up, Robyn leaves a note telling me she’s out on a date.
What the fuck?
I’m starting to wonder if I manifested the whole kiss in my head in some form of stressed-out hallucination. I put the smooth bottle to my lips, thinking about her kissing someone else tonight, and tip my head back, letting the alcohol burn the back of my throat and numb the sickening feeling building in my gut.
I want to go back to being pissed at Lisa; it seems so much easier now. I’ll happily take being stressed at everyone reminding me of my cheating bitch of a fiancée over this. My frustration is almost palpable. I guess it speaks volumes about how wrong it would have been to marry Lisa if I can feel so much more about a girl I’ve known only a fraction of the time and am not even in a relationship with. I take another long pull of the Jack, savoring the way it heats my stomach, and decide to hell with women. I sit back onto the sofa, Jack in hand, and decide to reacquaint myself with the numbing effects of whisky. Some people drink for fun, others to forget. Well, tonight I’m drinking to not feel. I’m striving for detachment, and praying it comes quickly.
