Текст книги "The Singles"
Автор книги: Emily Snow
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 45 страниц)
Swinging her hair over one shoulder, she gave me a pointed look. “Alright, spill it. You came in earlier looking like someone mugged you after pissing on your shoes. What happened?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. I showed up to work to find that Margaret wasn’t who called me this morning, and—”
Her eyes bulging, Pen’s slim fingers cupped both of my shoulders. “Hold on, what?”
“I’m pretty sure Oliver’s ex-girlfriend was who called.” I still hadn’t figured out what to do about Finley, but there was no way I was letting it go. No matter who she was. At Pen’s disgusted face, I danced around her, whispering in her ear, “And then a picture of Oliver and me made the front page of a lifestyle website.”
She caught my hand and looked over her shoulder. “You didn’t tell me you were with Mr. Sex-In-A-Suit last night.”
“I wasn’t with him, I just bumped into him and we talked for a few minutes.” During which he proceeded to drive my body absolutely crazy with his mouth and fingers, but that was beside the point. “So, of course, Margaret flipped out and let me know how she feels about me being around her son.”
For close to a minute, Pen was quiet, letting the guitar solo in the middle of the song play. She bobbed her head to the music, but I knew she was absorbing what I’d told her so far. When the vocals resumed, she questioned, “And, let me guess, the stepmonster had something to say about that?”
I felt my phone vibrate in its spot between my breasts, but I ignored it. “She doesn’t want gold-diggers like the Russian whore my dad used to be married to sinking their claws into Oliver.” Saying those words aloud sent acid rushing to the back of my throat, and I swallowed it down and blinked hard.
When I opened my eyes, I saw that Pen’s mouth was parted, and she had a horrified look on her face.
“She said that to you?” Her voice was lowered to an angry growl. “She actually sat in front of you and said that?”
“And she didn’t even flinch.”
Her nostrils flared, and she was about to say something else, but a hand on my shoulder made her pause. I looked behind me to see a perfectly-coiffed blond man—the type of guy who used to be my type—and yet, I felt nothing as I smiled at him politely.
He moved his mouth close to my ear. “I was watching you—”
“She’d love to,” Pen practically shouted, shoving me against him.
Although I kept dancing, I glowered at my best friend, who responded with a shit-eating grin. “It’s your birthday,” she leaned forward and whispered. “You deserve a little fun.”
And as I danced with the good-looking blond and my best friend, letting the sexy, repetitive lyrics move through my body, I realized she was right. I needed to escape being Lizzie for one night.
I needed to be Gemma instead.
When the Halestorm song faded away to Theory of a Deadman’s “Gentleman,” my partner gave me a questioning look, but I shook my head.
“Sorry, bathroom break,” I shouted over the music, even though I didn’t have to go. With a suggestive roll of my eyes, I jabbed my finger over my shoulder at Pen. He cast his megawatt smile on her and danced against her as I swiftly departed the floor.
Avoiding our table and the imminent heart-to-heart with Linc in favor of the restroom, I fished my phone from the front of my halter-top. When I saw the message was from Oliver, my hands clenched around my phone for a moment before I slackened my grip.
I waited until I was behind a bathroom stall and sitting on a closed toilet to check the text, feeling my heart hammering in my throat as I read it slowly.
Well after midnight here, and I can’t get you out of my head. Your smell, your taste, and your body—I’m counting down the days until that’s all mine.
Holding my phone close to my chest, I released a tremulous sigh. Just when I made up my mind to put everything about Lizzie out of my head for the night, he had to send me a message and remind me that it was impossible to escape the way he made me feel. And after a day like today, I savored everything about his words. I allowed them to penetrate my veins and warm me before I wrote a reply.
You’re not out tonight? What kind of Bad-Boy-Next-Door are you? Also, I never gave you an answer.
As I waited with, I hated to admit, baited breath, I flushed the unused commode and stepped out to check my appearance in the mirror. Every few seconds, I glanced down at my phone screen. When a new text showed up, I let out a tiny noise from the back of my throat that caught the attention of the woman looking at herself in the mirror next to me.
“You sound whipped,” she pointed out drunkenly and grabbed her cocktail from the quartz countertop, dancing away to the end of the song straining through the bathroom vents.
When I opened Oliver’s text, my breath caught at the photo he shared. It was of the TV in his hotel room, and it was paused on a particularly epic Lagertha and Ragnar scene from the first season of Vikings—the show I’d suggested he watch when we had lunch in his office. Below the picture, his message sped up my pulse.
Spent the day in meetings and am too tired to go out, so I started season one. You were right about it. Also, I WILL see you. It’s inevitable.
Inevitable. What a beautiful, tragic word.
Sighing tremulously, I tucked my phone back in its spot in my bra and left the restroom in search of Linc and Pen.
“Happy birthday, Gemma,” I whispered softly to myself.
Chapter 13
“I’ll probably be back next month,” Linc told me first thing Monday as he walked to my front door carrying his duffle bag.
Making sure my bathrobe was secured around my body, I slid onto the leather armchair on the other side of the open room and tucked one of my feet under my butt. “Next month?” I tapped my fingers on my thighs. “Why so soon?”
He rocked forward on the balls of his feet and cast a meaningful look behind me toward the dining room table. If Pen were around this morning, she’d probably have her ass planted in the seat closest to the kitchen entrance, furiously pecking away at her laptop. Except Pen wasn’t around.
“I’m putting a down payment on a Jeep from a private owner in Santa Monica, and I’ll be picking it up then,” he said.
This was the first time he’d said anything about buying a car that would bring him back to L.A., and I bit the inside of my lip until I tasted copper. It was obvious what he was doing, but I wasn’t going to let him know that him being around bothered me. Taking a quick peek down at my phone to see that it was eight fifteen, I saw I had a new text from Margaret—I need you to stop by my house to pick up the McQueen suit hanging in the laundry room. Be here no later than ten.
Thank God. She’d just given me a way to return the court documents to her home office, and my expression was full of relief when I looked at Linc. “We’ll definitely have to do something fun when you come back.”
Sighing heavily, he sagged his shoulders. “Gem ... are you sure there’s nothing up with my sister?”
It was the fourth time he’d asked me that question since Friday night, and it was starting to wear on me. Pen had been out of the apartment most of Saturday and part of yesterday, leaving me to entertain her brother while she did God knew what.
And once again, this morning she was nowhere to be found.
Personally, I was at the point where I was worried, and I never pried into the parts of her life she chose not to tell me about.
Twisting the sash of my white terry cloth robe between my fingers, I swallowed my unease. “She’s been working her ass off. You should be proud of her, not breathing down her neck,” I reprimanded softly.
“I’m very proud of my sister.” He dropped his head back to stare at the ceiling. I watched his Adam’s apple bob a few times before he lowered his attention to me. “But I’m worried about her. I’m also worried about you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
Dropping his bag in the foyer, he was in the living room in a matter of seconds, sitting on the ottoman near the armchair. He leaned forward with his forearms on his thighs and glowered at me, openly frustrated. Linc Connelly had the whole law enforcement glare perfected—and with him looking at me like that, all I wanted to do was confess.
Knowing what a disaster coming clean would be, I lifted my chin high, attempting to seem undaunted. “Yes?” I asked icily—my best Margaret Manning-Emerson impersonation.
“Next time, use more Febreze,” he told me loudly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The scent of bullshit is all over the place. Between Pen leaving every five seconds and you rushing into the other room every time your phone rings, I’m wondering what’s going on here.”
Gripping the sides of my chair, I straightened my spine. “Pen hacks her company’s software for a living and I’m an escort, Linc.” When he flinched at my wording, I continued, “I don’t know how else to explain it to you without going into details you don’t want to hear.”
Even when I was a phone sex operator—when I would actually get up from the table in the middle of dinner to take a call—I’d always been upfront with Linc and Pen about my job. No point in trying to sugarcoat it now, especially when I needed him to leave so I could get ready for the other job he was clueless I even had.
Shaking his head, he released a laugh overflowing with exasperation. “You two are up to something.” When I started to speak, he jerked his head from side to side. “Dammit, Gemma, I know—”
“Do you want me to ask Pen to go back to Vegas?”
Throwing up his hands, he stood up and crossed his arms over his chest. “She’d fucking kill me for having you ask her, you know that.”
Scrunching my nose, I held my thumb and forefinger a couple centimeters apart. “Maybe just maim you a little.” I tapped the home button on my phone again to illuminate the screen, gritting my teeth when I saw that it was now eight twenty. Luckily, I’d already taken a shower, because I was running out of time and I still needed to get dressed.
Placing the phone face down on the side table, I twisted my lip inquisitively. “Didn’t you tell me last night at dinner you had to be back in Vegas by twelve thirty? You’re cutting it a little close, aren’t you?”
He looked at the time on the cable box several feet away and scrubbed his palm over his face. “Shit, I am,” he muttered. “Listen, can you tell Pen—whenever she gets in—I had to go?”
“Of course.” Coming to my feet, I walked over to him, letting him pull me in for a side hug. As he ruffled my damp blond hair, I gave his unkempt beard the stink eye. “You should get rid of that,” I complained, and he stepped away from me wearing a smirk.
“It’s No-Shave-November.”
Snorting, I clutched my robe together. “It’s a good thing I’m not home, then. I’d have to break into your apartment to shear you.”
Walking backward toward the door, he pointed his finger at me. “By the way, Gemma, I still don’t buy half of what you or Pen have told me this weekend.” But regardless of his words, each step lightened the pressure I’d felt the last few days. “Actually, I don’t buy any of it.”
He wouldn’t, and I felt like crap for lying to him, but what the hell was I supposed to say?
Oh, remember that evil beyotch I told you about– the one who was married to my dad? Well, I’m working for her now because your sister hacked me into her company’s security system.
Curling my toes into the paisley-print area rug, I scoffed. “Shouldn’t you be harassing your sister instead?”
“Yeah, I could, but the thing is—” Bending, he scooped up his bag and slung it over his body. He yawned and turned around to look me square in the eye. “—your lies are obvious, and she’s not here for me to harass. See you in a couple weeks, Gemma.”
With my fist pressed to my mouth, I nibbled anxiously on my fingernail, pacing from the couch to the armchair for close to a minute to make sure he didn’t come back. Finally, after checking the peephole only to see one of my neighbors leaving his apartment for work, I went into my bedroom to get dressed.
Fifteen minutes later, I raced out the front door, sliding the stack of stolen paperwork into my purse. I’d read over the legal documents, but the language was so thick I couldn’t understand the importance of what I had trudged through. I’d turned it over to Pen.
*
Locking my car door with the key fob, the first thing I noticed was the Jaguar F-type coupe—the same cherry red as my Mini Cooper—parked in front of the garage at Margaret’s place. It boasted temporary decals, and I couldn’t resist giving it a second glance over my shoulder when I walked up the steps as quickly as my plaid pencil skirt would allow.
If there was one thing I was drawn to—aside from men I had no business wanting—it was a sexy car, and that Jaguar was an orgasm on four wheels.
Turning the dials on the lockbox, I reached for the key, but before I was able to unlock the door, it flung open. Finley, looking like she’d just stepped out of the dressing room at Neiman Marcus, stood in the doorway.
“Lizzie, what a—”
“Good to see you again,” I interrupted sharply. When I’d received Margaret’s text, I hadn’t even considered that she might still be here—I was too excited at the prospect of getting back inside the house. As the tall brunette stepped aside to let me in, my chest tightened. “Margaret asked me to stop by and grab some things for her.”
The front door closed, and I faced her. Resting her shoulders to the stained-glass behind her, she looked at me expectantly, her short hair falling perfectly without her trying, just like that damn Bruno Mars song Pen was obsessed with.
Was she waiting on me to say something about her calling me last week?
Or did she think I was too stupid to figure out it was her?
“How’s the apartment search going?” No matter how much Margaret adored this woman, I couldn’t see the stepmonster allowing her to stay very much longer.
“I’m actually on my way out now to do a walkthrough of a townhouse in Brentwood.” Fluffing her sleek mahogany bob, she lifted her hazel eyes to the ceiling in what I guess was supposed to be cute exasperation. “Daddy and Mason went on a camping trip over the weekend.”
“How exciting,” I said dryly, instantly feeling sorry for her brother.
She smoothed her hands over the ruched midsection of her black cap-sleeve jumpsuit and lifted her shoulders until they touched the diamonds winking in her ears. “Oliver suggested the place—said one of his friends lived there—so it must be fantastic.” She fingered her left ear, intentionally drawing my attention to her earring, and I could almost guess what she was going to say before the words even left her mouth. “Obviously, he has good taste.”
“Obviously,” I said, my voice emotionless. “Good luck with the apartment search, Finley.”
Stalking to the laundry room located near the back of the house, I heard Finley’s brown suede platform wedges clacking on the floor right behind me. “I know when I mentioned Ollie’s party to you last week, you seemed surprised. I took the liberty of telling Margaret I have no trouble planning the entire thing. I’d hate to take you away from your work.”
"Perfect.” I turned the corner, letting my childhood memories of this place guide me in the right direction. “I’m sure you’ll do a much better job.” If I stopped moving, there was a good chance she’d get the reaction out of me she was hoping for when she called last week, and I’d lose my job.
I strode into the state-of-the-art laundry room, discovering it was more organized than most people’s closets with the Fisher & Paykel washer and dryer stacked in the center of a massive shelving unit complete with wardrobe racks. Immediately, I spotted the Alexander McQueen suit Margaret had sent me for.
Snatching the garment bag from the rack, I twisted around to see Finley waiting in the hallway outside the laundry room, fussing with one of the earrings that were, without a doubt, a gift from Oliver.
She was blatantly throwing it in my face, and if I hadn’t disliked her after the phone trick, she had definitely cemented her place on my shit list.
“Is there something the matter?” she asked innocently, staring into my brown eyes, and though I tried, I couldn’t help but narrow them.
“You called me last Friday, pretending to be Margaret,” I said between my teeth, “I’d say we’ve got a pretty big issue.”
Her mouth fell open and for a moment I thought she’d deny it, but then she shook her head indifferently, her cap of mahogany hair swinging around her face. “It was a little joke, I figured you’d pick up on it because of the forced accent.” She picked at a piece of lint on the front of her jumpsuit, raising both eyebrows. “Apparently, you didn’t.”
I tossed the garment bag over my arm and walked by her, clenching my fingers as I continued down the hallway. “I don’t joke when it comes to my job. And I sure as hell don’t find a high school-esque prank amusing. I’m—” I took a deep breath in order to separate Lizzie from Gemma. “—I’m twenty-five. Not fifteen.” And she was thirty-one, which made it even more unnerving.
Once again, she was right on my heels, and my nostrils flared. “No, and that was so wrong of me, I—”
Spinning around to face her in the foyer, my neck and shoulders tensed. “When I was a kid, my dad always told me I shouldn’t apologize for things I wasn’t sorry for. That I was better off not saying anything.”
Unintentionally, my attention flicked to the family room, pushing the memory of the time I smeared finger-paints all over the cream-colored walls to the front of my mind. I’d found my antics funny—I was five, after all—and when I’d given my father the obligatory “sorry” he had knelt down beside me and shook his blond head, telling me the same thing I just said to Oliver’s ex.
Studying Finley’s triumphant expression, I smiled and reached for the doorknob. “Since we both know your intention was to get me in trouble, I’m just glad it didn’t pan out the way you hoped.”
“Ollie was my first love,” she blurted out. “I’ve loved him since I was fifteen, and I panicked when I saw him disappear with you to the balcony.”
She’d seen us? Keeping my grip on the knob, I looked back to see her leaning against the bannister, her long legs crossed at the ankles. “Whatever you thought you saw, I hate to disappoint you, but—”
She laughed and waved her hand, rejecting what I was going to say. “If Ollie sets his sights on something new and shiny, nothing stops him from getting his rocks off.”
Finley sounded so much like Margaret, I felt my blood boil. “Once again, I hate to disappoint you, but that’s never happened.”
She nodded like she understood. “Well, I figured as much after I saw your picture at the top of the Lavish website on Saturday morning. If there’s one thing Oliver doesn’t do, it’s a taken woman.”
I froze. “What are you talking about?” I demanded breathlessly.
Her hazel eyes widened in surprise. “There was a picture of you out clubbing. Some Oliver-happy photographer snapped it after she recognized you as the woman he was with at the party last week.” Lifting her Vuitton bag a little higher, she sauntered to the door, offering me a flash of straight white teeth as I let go of the handle to let her pass. “Like I told you before, I’m sorry about the little joke. It was hasty of me considering the circumstances. Nice to see you again, Lizzie.”
With all my limbs trembling violently, I waited until the Jaguar coupe was out of sight before I slipped on gloves and returned Margaret’s documents to the upstairs office. Then, the moment I was behind the wheel of my car, I Googled Lavish.
I had to scroll through several pictures that were taken of the L.A. social scene over the weekend, but finally I found what Finley was referring to, and my heart seized from within my chest. There I was, with my platinum hair flying around my face and the blond guy’s hand gripping my hip as we danced to “I Want You.” With our bodies pressed close, the photo looked so much more intimate than it had been, and the caption below was especially damning.
Oliver’s Newest Flavor Moves On with Heir to Food Empire.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I hissed. I didn’t even bother Googling my partner’s name. It wasn’t important to me because we hadn’t exchanged anything—no phone numbers, no information, and certainly no bodily fluids. Instead, I pulled up my text history.
Oliver hadn’t texted me since yesterday morning, but I’d attributed that to his busy work schedule. Now, I wasn’t so sure. I had a feeling Finley would have messaged him right away, and the thought turned my stomach.
Even though I knew it was stupid—even though I knew I should let him think whatever so I could stop worrying over him—I couldn’t. My breathing harsh, I composed an innocent text.
How many episodes of Vikings are you up to now? Hope you managed to get some rest yesterday.
I felt like I waited eons for him to respond—even though I knew he likely wouldn’t—before I gave up and started my car, squeaking into work with only four minutes to spare.
*
I could count on one hand the number of times I’d stressed over a man getting in touch with me. The first had been the varsity lacrosse player I’d fallen all over myself for as soon as Mom and I had moved to Vegas. Although we’d eventually dated, we’d only lasted a very chaste eight months—a sad relationship record for me.
The most recent was now, with Oliver. He still hadn’t texted me back by the time I turned the key to open my apartment. I’d stayed late at work tonight after Margaret tasked me with transcribing several hours of board meetings, and since it was close to eleven in New York, I was certain he wasn’t going to reply tonight.
But maybe it was for the best.
What did I expect from the man? As soon as I accomplished what I came to California to do, it wasn’t like I could be with him.
And yet, my chest ached.
“I’m home.” Locking the door, I rested my forehead on the wood. Damn, I was a mess. “Are you home? We really need to talk.” If I couldn’t get an answer from Oliver, I could at least confront my best friend about what was going on with her.
“In the kitchen, Lizzie,” she shouted.
“Who—” I started, but then my head snapped up. She absolutely refused to call me Lizzie when we were alone in the apartment, reserving the name for when we were out in public where someone might hear us, so for her to do so now told me two things: she wasn’t alone and she was with someone whom she absolutely had to hide my identity from.
Tiptoeing through the foyer and the dining room, I turned into the kitchen to find Pen sitting on the counter with a beer in her hand. Across from her, leaning against the wall by the fridge, stood Oliver.
“You didn’t tell me you had a date,” she said, the corners of her mouth quivering as she tried to fight a smile.
Stunned, I tossed my purse in the dining room chair closest to me and walked inside the narrow space, looking back and forth between them. “I didn’t realize it either.” Focusing solely on the disheveled and distant man with more than a day’s worth of facial hair, I struggled to maintain my composure. “Oliver.”
“Lizzie,” he replied, but I couldn’t deny the chill in his voice.
“I’ve—” Pen scratched her fingers into her dark hair and made a face. “—I’m going to go grab some dinner.” She hopped off the counter, her smile so wide I thought her face might crack. “I’ll see you later, Liz.”
Oliver’s blue eyes continued to paralyze me, even as he said goodbye to my best friend. “It was good to meet you, Grace,” he said, using her middle name, and I grabbed her arm as she moved past me.
“We need to talk,” I said, and she nodded quickly.
“Oh yeah, but tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow.” Then, before I could say anything else, she grabbed her computer bag from the dining room and practically ran out the front door.
Leaving me alone with Oliver.
Oliver who, in classic straight leg jeans, a gray tee, and Red Wing boots, looked the sexiest—the most irresistible—I’d ever seen him.
Oliver, whose tattoo—the one that had peeked out from beneath his rolled-up cuffs—was finally visible. It was a quote I recognized from Frank Herbert’s Dune novels: Fear Is The Mind-Killer.
Oliver who was pushing away from the wall and walking toward me.
Licking my lips, I peered down at the tile floor. “I thought you’d be gone until Friday.”
He stopped a couple inches in front of me, the spicy scent of his cologne an invitation that made me angle my body closer to his. “I wrapped everything up quickly.”
“I guess you’re—”
His thumb covered my mouth, his touch a complicated medley of frustration and desire that took my breath away. “Are you fucking someone else, Lizzie?”
“No.”
His other hand cupped my face, his fingers threading in the soft strands along my hairline. He tilted my attention to his blue eyes. “Do you want to fuck someone else?”
“No,” I answered, and this time my voice was firm.
He dropped his hands to my ass, and I barely had time to react before I was in his arms, gasping as he pinned my back to the fridge. He urged my legs apart to wrap around his waist, and I could hear my plaid Rag & Bone pencil skirt tearing at the split, but I didn’t care.
I didn’t care that it was wrong of me to want Oliver.
Or that his mother—my stepmother—had forbidden me from being around him.
I. Didn’t. Give. One. Single. Fuck.
His mouth skimmed mine, his tongue branding a hot path along the outline of my lips. Tightening my arms around his broad shoulders, I moved my hips against him, watching as his blue eyes darkened. “If I asked you if you still wanted me?” Crashing his lips to mine, he kissed me until my head spun. Until the electricity thundered through my body and tightened everything—my chest, my nipples, my sex. At my silence, he tested the weight of my breast, rolling the sensitive bud between his thumb and forefinger until a hoarse noise pushed from the back of my throat. “Do you want me, Lizzie?”
“If you asked me, then I’d say yes!” I half-shouted. “Yes, I want you. Are you happy?”
“Good,” he growled. “That was all I needed to hear.”
