Текст книги "Sudden Desires"

Автор книги: Shanora Williams

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

THIRTEEN

Colette

The first thing I smell is the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee, thick in the air.

The first thing I see is the sun beaming into the bedroom, nearly blinding me. My eyes struggle to stay open as I stare up at the chandelier. But, when I realize it’s the place that is wrong, I push up straight.

I’m still in his bed, his thick, fluffy white comforters and pillows surrounding me. I move my legs, swinging them to the edge of the mattress with a soreness running from my womanhood to my asshole.

By how tender I am down there, I don’t even want to know how many times we had sex last night.

I take a look around the spacious bedroom.

His bed is set up a few feet away from a long, rectangular window, the view of the ocean not too far away.

The streets are busy and rushed. The sun is high in the sky and people are already crowding the beaches.

I yawn, stepping out of bed and getting my shit together. I can’t believe I’m still naked. Seriously. This is ridiculous.

My clothes are puddled in front of the bathroom door. I hurry to collect them, slipping into my dress and scouring around for my other high heel. It’s nowhere in the room which means it’s in the living room, and I sigh because I’m not in the mood to face him.

I hate when I have to bid my farewells, but he’s not the person that will let me go without asking me a thousand and one questions.

Pinching the bridge of my nose while gripping the doorknob, I release a heavy breath, knowing I have no choice right now but to go out.

Might as well get this over with.

I walk out of the bedroom, tip-toeing across the marble floors. There is clattering in the kitchen, and the scent of coffee is stronger, along with the sweet scent of pancakes.

I love how the coffee smells, my body instantly craving a quick mug, but I can’t have it. I can’t have coffee until after the salsa competition is over.

I make it into the living room, noticing my other shoe in front of the coffee table. My phone and clutch are on the table too.

I peek around the corner, spotting him in the kitchen whipping up breakfast. Not only that, but he has jazz music playing. Oh, God. When will he learn that I am not that kind of woman?

Deciding to rip the Band-Aid right off, I rush across the room, go for my shoe, slip into both of them, and then gather my personal belongings.

His back is facing me. He’s dressed clean and fresh in a grey button-up, and navy-blue slacks, ready for a long day of work. His suit jacket hangs on the back of one of the chairs at the dining table.

I clear my throat and when he hears it, he turns with the carafe of coffee in hand. “Oh, Colette. Up already?” He smiles. “Wanted to surprise you.”

“Yeah… That’s okay. I’m going to get out of here. I can’t stay.”

His brows dip. “Not even for one cup of coffee?”

I’m walking towards the door as he asks. “No. Sorry. I have a lot of work to catch up on today.”

He places the carafe down on the counter, looking me over in my haste. It’s like he can see all of me, the raw definition of who I am. A selfish, inconsiderate woman… or should I say bitch?

Yeah. I’ve been called that one too many times in my life.

From my father.

My sister when I slept with her boyfriend when we were teenagers. Even from Griffin, which just happened recently. That was his first time calling me a bitch out loud right before he stormed away.

I don’t blame them. I wish I could help it but I just can’t anymore. I’ve come to a point in life where I just don’t care.

I don’t want to care.

Caring and loving too hard will kill you.

It will leave you ripped wide open, and no one will be able to mend you. No one at all, no matter how hard they try.

I can tell my guy is trying to do that, but he has to learn that I don’t want his help. I don’t want him to care. And even if I did, this situation we’re in would be pointless because he can’t have me. Ever.

“I’ll see you again soon,” I say, swinging the door open.

“Yeah. I guess.” His head barely nods, a hand now on his hip as he watches the door shut behind me. I rush down the hallway, hoping he doesn’t change his mind and try and get me to stay. I’m not in the mood for conflict or puppy-dog eyes.

My head is hurting, my mouth feels dry, and I need to soak in my Jacuzzi tub because I’m feeling way too sensitive in the most delicate area of my body.

I make it to my car and start it, and when I check my phone I see that there are missed calls from Mom and Beth, my sister, but none from Griffin, whom, for some reason, I expected to get a call from.

Even if I’ve been a complete bitch, he usually gets over it and calls to check in. But not today. Maybe he found a flight and is at home waiting for me.

I drive home quickly, expecting his car in the garage but it isn’t. He’s still not here, and I can’t deny the disappointment sweeping through me.

Whatever.

I make it up to my bedroom after avoiding Arianna’s inquisitive eyes, take a lengthy shower, and then I’m out, going downstairs to grab a banana, and then entering my study.

I gather my art supplies, adjust my easel, and get right to painting as I eat my piece of fruit. I get to it to distract my mind. My conscience.

It helps… sometimes.

Griffin arrives around five in the afternoon.

I listen to him come up the stairs, knowing the sound of his heavy footsteps. When he makes it to the top, he walks by my study, glancing into the room but not bothering to stop and speak.

I frown when he continues walking with his bags in hand. Stepping out of my seat and peeking around the corner, I watch him walk into the bedroom and shut the door behind him.

I walk to the door after several seconds pass by, pressing my ear against it and listening to him shuffle around a bit. Then, he sighs, and I hear the bed creak.

He’s about to take a nap. The same routine when he’s come back from traveling. The time differences always kick his ass.

I don’t bother going in.

Not yet.

I go back to the study, and several hours pass before I hear the bedroom door open again. Griffin shuffles down the hallway and stops at my door. He walks in, but not completely, and I glance up.

“I told Arianna to order grilled asparagus and quinoa for you from Tangu’s.”

I place my paintbrush down, rubbing my forehead. “Okay.”

He studies me, lips pressing. I expect him to say something about last night, the last message I sent that he never responded to, but he doesn’t.

Instead he shakes his head and steps back, shutting the door behind him. I hear him walking down the stairs, and then I hear the garage gate open.

Wait. Where is he going?

I rush for the window, watching as his car backs out and rounds the brick driveway. He leaves and I feel so idiotic.

But I don’t react… at least I think I’m not reacting. My brush presses a little harder on the canvas, and when I pull back, I dip it just a tad bit harder into the paint.

My husband is no longer in love with me.

And I… I am no longer in love with him.

What is the point of this?

Why does our life have to be so fucking complicated?

Griffin only went out to buy himself some dinner and pick up mine. He was only gone for thirty minutes.

He knew I wouldn’t order or cook anything, that I’d miss a meal if I had to, that’s why he had Arianna order it for me so he could pick it up.

I ate it. Fortunately I was hungry.

Griffin and I finally make it into the bedroom together. It’s late, and he hasn’t said much to me after telling me Arianna ordered my dinner.

He’s acting really strange tonight. Avoiding my eyes, hardly talking to me. He’s hardly rubbed two words together since I came in the bedroom.

I’m tired of the bullshit. Tired of the nonsense. I need to know if he feels the same way as I do. Is he fed up? Is he also tired of this charade? Tired of pretending. Has he finally given up on all of this?

I need to know. I mean, even though it won’t change much, it will help something.

If he does still feel something for me, then maybe this won’t be so bad. He’ll chase and chase, and I will continue to have him bowing down to me, hailing me like he did when we first met because I have nothing else better to do.

So, finally, I as we settle into bed while he scrolls through his cellphone, I ask, “Griffin, don’t you wish we could just… end this?”

And he lowers his phone and stares at me, eyes so wide and distraught I can’t help but feel the slightest bit of sympathy.

Finally he speaks, and I’m actually shocked by his answer. “Yeah, Colette,” he mutters. “You know what? I do. I wish for this to be over every single day now. Too bad that’s never going to happen, though, huh?”

He stares at me for several seconds before finally sighing and turning over, placing his phone on the nightstand before shutting off his lamp.

His back is to me, and I know he won’t budge for the rest of the night, so I sink beneath my blankets, shut my lamp off, and stare up at the ceiling.

I’m pissed that he’d say it so blatantly, and the first reaction that comes to mind is to hurt him back—say that I’m sleeping with someone else—but I don’t.

Because it could jeopardize things. It could get ugly, and then I’d lose my occasional dose of side dick from my guy.

Not only that, but I also realize that if I say something like that to him, confess that truth, then it only means that I’m doing it out of spite, because deep down he’s hurt my feelings… but I don’t want him to think he can still hurt or get to me.

I don’t want him to because he’s hurt me enough.

I won’t let him pull any more emotion out of me.

I won’t let him back in, not after what so devastatingly happened because of him.

So, instead, I flip over too, my back to his back, and I shut my eyes and imagine a life without him. I imagine how free I could be, sleeping with men that I randomly meet in a quiet and quaint bar, or at a nightclub.

A one night stand if I please. I could have so much fun.

It would be like the old days again, before I ever met Griffin Boyd.

I can forget all the damage.

I can move the hell on.

Too bad it will never happen that way.

Shit, a girl can dream, right?

FOURTEEN

Griffin

Guilt is the last thing I felt for Colette last night.

I don’t know why. I thought once I walked through the front door of the home we so miserably shared, it would hit me that I did something terrible behind her back, but it didn’t.

During my flight here I’d never felt so content.

Relaxed.

Maybe it is because I’d finally unleashed my pent up frustrations on a beautiful body I’d been dying to get inside of. Or maybe it’s because I simply don’t care anymore. Really, I don’t care.

I may be stuck in this for the long haul with Colette, but I’m tired of limiting myself. I’m tired of being treated like shit. I deserve better.

Yes, I’ve made my mistakes but a real wife would have forgiven me by now. I have forgiven her countless times before. If she truly cared, she wouldn’t keep holding so much against me.

I don’t expect her to move on from the past, but I do expect her to be more acceptant about it—treat me like how she did before all of it went down… or at least close to it.

I’m standing on the balcony outside my bedroom, watching the nightlife. It’s somewhat serene, and while I’m not as calm as I was in San Diego, with all the tension swirling in my house, I’m close.

My phone rings in my back pocket and I pull it out, sighing when I see the name on the screen. Jesus. Why can’t this fucker just leave me alone?

Around one in the afternoon the next day, after being bombarded with back-to-back phone calls last night, I’m sitting at a table in DiLido Beach Club on Collins Avenue.

I would be enjoying the scenery, the blue ocean water and people riding jet skis or parasailing, but there is someone in the way of my perfect view.

My fucking father-in-law.

His toupee flaps with the wind, and I have the hardest time trying to conceal my amusement, but I make do. It becomes sort of unnoticeable after a while.

The waitress sets our scotches on the table and Mr. Jenkins immediately reaches for his, shooing the waitress away after she sits the appetizer on the table.

“So why didn’t Coley come with you today?”

I sit back in my chair, picking up my drink. He calls her that like he’s so close to her, but if he was he’d know she hates that name now. She left it in the past, along with her sweet, kind heart.

“She said she had some work to finish.”

“Work?” He scoffs and then lets out a belly-deep chuckle. “She calls sitting in a room painting fucking cats, cities, and, people work?” His upstate accent is thick and gravelly.

I press my lips, looking away.

I hate when he talks about her that way. Don’t get me wrong, I can’t stand Colette sometimes, but I don’t think I could ever discredit her for something she truly enjoys.

Art, I can say, she is very passionate about. She always has been and I’m glad she didn’t let that go after what happened.

Watching her draw, paint, and sculpt with her hands was part of the reason I fell so in love with her ten years ago.

Her gifts, paintings of us, were things I cherished. Now, unfortunately, I don’t get that anymore. His ignorance towards her was the very reason I found her alone on the ferry in New York that day.

“Anyway, tell her to call me when you see her, will you? Tired of playing cats and dogs, chasing after my own daughter just so her mother will be happy to finally hear from her.” He adjusts in his seat, beads of sweat collecting on his forehead and upper lip from the Miami heat.

“I will.”

“Oh.” He sits forward, placing his glass down on the table. He digs into his back pocket and pulls out a folded sheet of gray paper. When he sets it on the table, smoothing it out, I realize it’s a ripped out newspaper article.

Pointing a chubby finger at it, he says, “I heard Boyd Enterprises settled a great deal with Quarter Banking.” He grins, that same shit-eating grin he revealed years ago when he realized how great I was with numbers.

“Yes, sir,” I murmur, quite proud of my accomplishment.

“And everything is all settled. No holes in the contracts? No need to worry about them trying to bring a lawyer into this?”

“No, sir. An associate of mine is actually good at the contracts and negotiation part, probably a little better than I am. Remember Stratford and Clark?”

“No. But what about them?”

“Well, they assisted me in winning Quarter over.”

He rolls his eyes, slumping back in his chair, his greasy forehead shining. “Ah, what the hell do you need associates for, Griff? You’re good at this stuff, right? It’s what I put you on for!”

“Yes, sir, you are right, but these associates are smart. They are careful and they always think twice.” I’m only speaking of Angelina and I heat up inside when I realize how much credit I’m giving her. “I checked them out. I wouldn’t work with people I don’t trust. Besides,” I shrug, “they came to me. They’re the reason I found out about Quarter. We agreed on a percentage and a few terms—me being in charge and handling the negotiations—and since then I’ve had no problems.”

“Yeah, yeah. As long as I don’t see a change in the income. I don’t want any bullshit with my money, Griffin. You understand?”

I stare him right in the eyes, the same green irises that remind me of Colette’s, only his are a bit livelier than hers. It’s strange that they would be considering he’s a money-hungry bastard that only cares about himself, but for some reason they are. “I understand.”

“Good, now,” he rasps, pulling out a black case from the jacket of his suit and whipping out a cigar, “You need to start planning the fall banquet. Invite the big people, the sharks, you know. The ones that are on top, just like us. The people that won’t mind tossing a couple thousand here and there after having one too many drinks. Lots of champagne, lots of scotch and whiskey, unlimited drinks. That’s how you do it. That’s how you win over the big investors.”

“I have Kelly getting that list together now.” It’s dirty what he does. Getting people drunk just to swallow their money. It’s disgusting.

“Kelly,” he laughs. “Kelly the man. And not only that, the faggot! Christ, Colette is ridiculous. How she even came from the pit of my sack still confuses the fuck out of me. She could at least give the man of the house what he wants. Nothing wrong with a little eye candy, am I right?” He cocks a bushy eyebrow, chuckling, with smoke potent in his voice. I’m not going to respond to that question. He’s the type of asshole to use it against me one day. “I’m telling you, I don’t know how the hell I could make it through a day’s work without Big Tit Tatiana as my assistant. That woman’s body is gold.” He grunts, placing his cigar between his fingers. “Wish my wife could have kept up like she does. Whatever you do,” he says, head shaking, “don’t let Colette start losing track of herself. Cause then you will regret it—not having a wife that you can actually enjoy looking at naked, I mean.”

I hold back on rolling my eyes, averting them to my left. “Colette works out so much that I worry she’ll get too skinny.”

I glance at him and his face turns board straight as he lowers his cigar. “She’s back at that again?”

“She’s fine for now.” I sit my glass down. “She keeps blaming it on getting ready for her competition, but to me she’s pushing herself too hard.”

“Well, stay on her. I don’t need to be flying to Miami just because she passes out from starving her damn self. There’s too much to be done and, besides, that’s your job, right?” His eyes focus on mine, a rare draft of seriousness washing over him. “She is your responsibility and you do whatever it takes to keep her happy. Whatever. It. Takes.”

I match his stare. “With all due respect, sir, I have always done whatever it takes.”

He looks me over briefly before pointing his gaze to the bar. “Colette has her issues, yes. You both do. But if you want to keep what you have and make it stick, you don’t fuck up.”

“You don’t have to remind me,” I mumble.

“Don’t forget why you are where you are, Griffin. Don’t forget that if you fuck up—if Colette fucks up or spirals—you will lose it all. I can’t afford losing anything when it comes to my business. In this business, we all look perfect or greater, especially if you are a part of the Jenkins’ world. You want to keep paying those bills for your family? You want to keep being on top? Then you do right by Colette and especially me. Don’t let her get crazy. We both know there won’t be a bright side if either of you do something you know you shouldn’t have.”

Funny how he says this just as my phone buzzes and an email from Angelina Clark pops right up on the screen.

Picking up my cellphone, I slide it into my pocket, take out my wallet, and drop some money on the table for my bill.

He looks at me as I adjust my tie, grabbing a chicken wrap off the tray. “It won’t happen, sir.”

“Damn right it won’t,” he mutters just as I turn and bite into the wrap.

“I will have the rest of the sheets sent to you tonight.”

I walk away before he can speak again, and I’m lucky that his cellphone rings. Mine buzzes in my pocket as I reach my car and I take it out. Another email from Angelina.

Angelina Clark: Hey, Mr. Boyd

Angelina Clark: What would you say if I just so happened

to fly out to Miami tomorrow?

Griffin Boyd: I would call you crazy, but I damn sure won’t stop you.

Angelina Clark : Crazy, why?

Griffin Boyd : You really want to know?

Angelina Clark: Yes. I would love to know.

You have me pretty curious now.

Griffin Boyd: Because I’ve been thinking nonstop

about your wet pussy since San Diego.

Coming here is asking for me to bend you over backwards

and fuck the shit out of you again.

Angelina Clark: Oh, really?

Griffin Boyd: Really. And this time I won’t hesitate.

Angelina Clark: Well, then, Mr. Boyd.

I guess I’m on my way.

Don’t make plans. Okay?

Griffin Boyd: Besides work and you, there are no others, Angel.

Angelina Clark: Good. I’ll tell you what hotel and room when I arrive. Promise to come by?

Griffin Boyd: You have my word, Angel.

I get into my car, a smile twitching at my lips as I shut the door behind me. Mr. Steven Jenkins is still in there, eating and most likely smoking his life away. He thinks he’s running this show, but let’s be honest.

He isn’t.

I run this. I now own my life. All he gets is a percentage of the large amounts of money I make daily. It’s nothing. Just money. An object.

I’m taking my life back.

I’m making myself happy again, even if my wife wants to remain miserable. I have tried with her. I have been the bigger person. All I want is to see her smile, but if she can’t even do that, well, then I guess it’s time for me to worry about myself and my satisfaction in life from now on.

I can’t rely on her to make me happy. It’s time to create my own kind of happiness. After years of desolation and slight depression, it’s time to move forward.

I have done counseling, and eased out of it with flying colors. I have forgiven myself repeatedly. I have accepted my faults and realized that mistakes do happen, even to the most successful of men, even if she hasn’t.

I am ready to live my life again, and if that means I have to live it without her then so be it. I will do just that.