Love, Chloe

  “Yep. Told me to stay away from you.”

  I laughed and glanced up at him. His face was serious, and his eyes stared straight ahead without a hint of humor. “What? Why?” I looked back down at my feet. Concentrated on putting one in front of the other without stumbling.

  “He didn’t really go into details … just said that you were seeing someone on set.” I could feel the grip of his arm tighten, his muscles cording together in rigid strength.

  “I’m not—that is so…” I growled under my breath as we came to a stop at a cross street, my hand letting go of his arm, my face hot with embarrassment.

  “He also said he told you about Brit.”

  Brit. The fuckbuddy. “Yeah,” I said curtly. “He told me about her.”

  “We’re just friends.” Carter turned to face me under the glow of the streetlamp, his eyes on mine. “I mean … we’ve fucked in the past. But it’s just a physical thing. We wouldn’t work in a relationship.”

  I wanted to follow up that cliffhanger with a jumble of questions, the first one being why not? But I didn’t.

  “It’s not my business who you sleep with.” I did the cool girl shrug, like I was chill with whatever. “It’d be different if we were … you know. Dating.” I didn’t know why I brought up dating. I had come there for a hookup. Right? An isolated event that might turn into a casual sex relationship with one of the sexiest men I’d ever met. Not a real relationship. Not with … my mind stuttered a little. Not with a maintenance guy. I’d thought it before. It just hadn’t, in my mind, sounded so bad before. Why had I looked down on Carter? Just because I used to have rich parents? I shifted uncomfortably, another mark tallied in the Chloe Was a Bitch column.

  “You wouldn’t want me to hang out with her. As friends.”

  It took a moment for my mind to catch up. “Right.” Regardless of whether Carter and I would ever be official, I didn’t think I’d ever be okay with my boyfriend hanging out with someone he used to sleep with.

  There was a break in traffic and we hurried across the road, my hand tucking back into his, his grip strong and reassuring as we turned the final corner before our building.

  “So…” He squeezed my hand. “Nothing is going on with you and this guy on the set?”

  “No.” I looked up at him. “He’s just an ex who showed up on set. Joey would love me to date him again, but…” I shook my head and looked away, down the street toward our building. “We’re over.” I tried not to think of Vic’s mouth, skimming down my neck as he held me down and thrust inside of me.

  Carter let out a low whistle as we crossed the street, just steps away from the building, just steps away from being alone. My body tightened in anticipation, my steps hurrying—

  I stopped when I saw what he was whistling at, a low-slung red Maserati convertible parked on the curb, my mind immediately shuttering back to the past.

  “That’s your car?” Vic smirked at Mom’s Mercedes station wagon. “You’re going to show me around Miami in that?”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “I got rid of mine when I moved to New York. Trust me, this isn’t my vehicle of choice.”

  “And what would be?”

  “That’s easy,” I teased, opening the door and stepping into the car. “A Maserati. Red. Like all the hearts I plan on breaking.”

  My breath caught in my throat. Vic wouldn’t have. We stepped closer, Carter pulling on my hand, his eyes on the car, and I saw an envelope on its windshield, my name printed on the front in black calligraphy.

  We stopped before it, and he followed my eyes, his arm reaching out and plucking the white envelope from the windshield.

  “Chloe?” My name was a question on his lips, and I stepped back, away from the envelope, away from the question, away from this outrageous gift that would suck me close and run me over.

  “Chloe?”

  The second time he called my name I was already running inside, my heels loud on the lobby marble then silent on the carpet. I took the stairs, pulling off my stilettos and sprinting, my heart loud, breath hard, and I was winded by the time I got to my apartment and slammed the door shut.

  I screamed. Hard and loud enough that a thump sounded from above. Three thumps. The kind a hard heel slammed into the floor makes. I stopped screaming and moved to the couch, punching pillows before grabbing a box of tissues and ripping off a handful. I blotted tears, blew my nose, and cursed Vic’s name.

  This car was nothing to him; it was a pawn in a chess match where my heart was the prize, and his strategy was so much better than mine. His strategy was born from a lifetime of having everything, including me. His strategy took risks because he had nothing to lose.

  My strategy was to play defense and gamble nothing and protect myself, and I did a shitty job of that when I let him push up my skirt and fuck me in Joey’s trailer.

  The knock was soft and gentle. I almost missed it, the timing coinciding with an enormous blow of my nose. When he knocked a second time I stood, walking over to the peephole and looking through it. I sank against the door, almost relieved when I saw it was just Carter.

  “Everything okay?” he called out.

  “Yeah.” I wiped at my eyes. “Sorry about that.”

  “No worries. I’ll just remember, come your birthday, that you don’t like cars.”

  I laughed.

  “What should I do with the card?”

  I should have told him to throw it away. I should have told him to rip it into tiny pieces and stuff it down a garbage disposal. “Can you slide it under my door?”

  Through the peephole, I saw the playful grin that crossed his face. “No goodnight kiss?”

  I smiled, and a fresh stream of tears leaked out. “Not tonight.”

  The white envelope slipped underneath the door. “Thanks,” I said quietly.

  “No problem. Good night, Chloe.”

  I smiled, then remembered he couldn’t see me. “Good night, Carter.”

  He turned and left and for a long beat, I stared through the peephole at the empty hallway. Carter would never be able to buy me a Maserati. Did it matter? It felt like my old life was another person entirely. I didn’t want the Maserati out front, not when it put me back with an unfaithful man, back in a life that suddenly felt hollow and superficial.

  I bent down and picked up the envelope, running my fingers over the white parchment, my name jotted on its surface in a script that was familiar and one hundred percent Vic.

  I ran a finger under the seal and opened the envelope. Pulled out a square card and, with a shaky hand, flipped it open.

  This car is fast, like the beat of my heart when you smile. Fierce like your spirit. Incomparably gorgeous, like its new owner.

  This is not a bribe or a lure. It is a stick shift, but you’ve never had trouble handling that before.

  Enjoy it baby.

  Paper-clipped to the back of the card, a folded piece of paper: a car title. I unfolded it carefully and saw my name on the owner’s line, my new address below it.

  Typical Vic. The man gave a gift that would be a pain in the ass to give back. My mind spun with all of the issues that having a car in New York would bring. Parking. Insurance. Gas. I couldn’t afford the damn thing, even when it was free. My hands reached for my cell, my fingers dialing Vic’s number, then my brain kicked in and I stopped, and set down the phone, stepping away. I brought my hands to my head and took a deep breath. I needed help. Freakin’ psychological help to stay away from this man. I stepped back to my phone and called the next best thing.

  The girls were still at the club. I asked them to come over, and they didn’t ask questions. “We’ll be there in twenty,” Benta said and—eighteen minutes later—she buzzed the front door.

  Dante took a stool in the kitchen, Cammie went for the liquor, and I headed to the living room. “What’d he do?” Benta asked, plopping down on the chair, pulling off her heels and tucking her feet underneath her. “Do I
need to kick his sexy ass or what?”

  “It wasn’t Carter.” I sank into the couch.

  “What the F is this?” The shout came from the kitchen and I didn’t move, just closed my eyes and waited. Cammie had obviously found the card. From beside me, I heard the scurry of bare feet as Benta rushed to her side.

  “Holy shit, Chloe,” Benta said, her accent strong. “This is big, even for him.”

  I heard the screech of the stool as Dante stood. Great, a freaking party around words specifically designed to break my heart. “Smooth,” he muttered and I heard the crinkle of the title as it passed hands.

  “It’s not smooth,” Cammie snapped, and one of my kitchen drawers slammed shut. “It’s pushy.”

  “And ridiculous,” Benta chimed in.

  “And pimp,” Dante said. “And generous. And sweet.”

  “It’s Vic,” I said helplessly, watching Cammie enter the living room, her hands steady as she poured me a large shot of Patrón.

  “What does that mean?” Dante asked from the kitchen.

  “It means,” Cammie said, passing me the glass. “That our little Chloe here is in trouble.”

  It’s Vic. The girls understood. Three simple letters that make up a name. Three simple letters that spell

  DOOM.

  TROUBLE.

  TEMPTATION.

  I lifted the glass to my lips and downed it.

  The next morning I called him.

  “Hey babe.” Vic sounded ridiculously cheerful. Carefree. He was probably back on a beach, drink in hand, his yacht floating nearby. I stood on a dismal New York street, rain tapping against the top of my umbrella, a hangover blazing, and stared at my his car. There was a parking ticket, stuck on its windshield, soaked by the rain.

  “You can’t do things like this.”

  “Of course I can.” The confidence stretched through every syllable and why wouldn’t it? He was right. He could do anything he wanted. In Vic’s world there were no worries, no consequences, no ramifications.

  “No, you can’t. I don’t want this car. Send one of your people to come pick it up.” His people used to be my people. His employees had picked up my dry cleaning, grabbed my groceries, driven my drunk self home. It had been the opening act to the rest of my life, a life that never happened. A life that was shattered that one, terrible afternoon.

  “The car is in your name, Chloe.” His voice grew harder, more stubborn, the authoritativeness having the wrong effect on me.

  “Put your hands on the wall.”

  I didn’t question it, had put my hands on the gold-foil wall, my taupe nails digging into the surface when he ran his hands down my back, over the strings of my bathing suit and down to my ass, his fingers pulling my bathing suit to the side. We were in the Hamptons, at his family’s estate, the din of a hundred friends floating up the staircase from downstairs. “Vic,” I said softly, the word becoming a moan as his fingers pressed in between my legs.

  “Shut up and face the wall. I can’t see your body another second without having it.”

  “Someone will come upstairs,” I protested.

  “Then they will see me fucking my girl, won’t they?” The words were as hard as his cock, the push of him taking my breath, my nails sliding down the wall, my fingers gripping the chair rail as he held my hips and eased himself out, then thrust back in.

  “Say my name, Chloe. Tell me how much you love it.”

  “I love it,” I gasped, my cries rising in volume as he let loose on me.

  And I had loved it. I had loved when he’d ordered me around. Had loved it when he took control of my life and made it so easy for me. Had loved everything up until the moment I realized what it cost.

  I swallowed hard and tried to concentrate. The car. That was what this was about. “I didn’t put the car in my name, you did. Without asking me. So fix it.”

  “The only thing I’m fixing is us.”

  I closed my eyes. “You can’t fix us, Vic. We’re broken beyond that.”

  “I can fix anything.”

  “No Vic, you can’t. You can’t buy trust. You can’t buy back what you did.”

  “I made a mistake. One mistake. I’ll never do it again, Chloe. Never.” His voice broke on the last word, and I heard the sincerity in it. How easy it would be to forgive him. To walk away from this tiny apartment and my shitty job as Nicole’s assistant and back into a life of luxury on Vic’s arm.

  Everything would be easy, and every day I’d wonder.

  If he was really going where he said he was going.

  If he really needed to have two cell phones.

  If he could be trusted.

  It hadn’t been one mistake. I knew that in some place, deep in my soul.

  “The car already has a parking ticket on it. I can’t afford parking tickets, I can’t afford insurance, I can’t afford anything extra. Dammit, Vic, send one of your people to pick it up!” My voice was shrill, the words panicked and angry.

  “Chloe, love, I’ll buy a spot for you, I’ll cover the expenses. I already spoke to Joey; he’s going to get you a salary for your work on Boston Love Letters, that will help with—”

  “Oh my God—STOP!” I screamed into the phone, my voice reaching a pitch it hadn’t reached since I was a child. “STOP SCREWING WITH MY LIFE! I DON’T NEED YOU ANYMORE!” I gasped, gripping a nearby post for support and wanted to hang up, didn’t want to hear his response, didn’t want to hear anything but a dial tone.

  There was only silence on the other end. I wet my lips and assumed a calmer tone. “Vic, please listen to me for once. I don’t want any money from you; I don’t want any gifts from you. I am asking you to please stay away from me. If you love me, if you’ve ever loved me, please respect the fact that I am not strong enough to always do what I should do. I shouldn’t have hooked up with you in the trailer—God, I hate that I did. I shouldn’t answer your calls; I shouldn’t have even read your card. And I definitely shouldn’t accept this car. Please stay away from me. Please do not call me. Please.” The last word was a final beg in a conversation that already had me on my knees.

  When he finally spoke, it was a Vic I’d never heard before. One broken and quiet. “I can’t stay away from you, Chloe. I’ve tried.”

  “Try harder.” I sank against the nearest wall. “Please.”

  I needed him to stay away because I couldn’t.

  51. Table for Two

  Carter was sitting on the front steps of our apartment building when I walked up. His shirt was off, the muscles in his back stretching as he tilted back a cold blue Gatorade. He saw me and finished the sip, standing up as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his abs tightening with the motion, and my eyes dropped down on their own before lifting back to his eyes. He grinned. “Hey, big city. Surprised to see you during the day.”

  I shrugged, shifting my purse strap on my shoulder. “Got the afternoon off.” A rare gift from Nicole, one that—I was pretty sure—was motivated by her desire for alone time with Paulo. Behind me, taunting me, the Maserati sat, now behind a gate, in a parking spot that Vic had, in some way, handled.

  I smiled, and his mouth tugged up at the corners. I tried to keep my eyes on that smile, to avoid gaping at his shoulders, his sweaty chest, the tone and muscles of his arms as he rested his hands loosely on his hips. I could think of a thousand ways to waste the afternoon with him.

  “Well then … given your free schedule, why don’t I take you to lunch?”

  Lunch. It’d be our first real date, one proposed entirely by him.

  “I’d love that.” I smiled, and he stood up, tossing the Gatorade bottle into the trash.

  We made an interesting pair in the sandwich place two blocks over. He’d put on a shirt, the material damp and worn, clinging to his torso—the ensemble perfect for Hot Construction Worker porn. I stood close to him and looked at the menu, discreetly sniffing the air around him. He smelled amazing; masculinity
rolled in grass and topped with sex. He had washed his hands when we arrived, the faint scent of lemon now chiming in on the delicious combination. Next to him, I wore skinny white cropped jeans with my Estella wedges and a silk navy top, diamond studs sparkling from my ears, my hair twisted back into a loose and messy knot. The cashier gave me a competitive once over before perking up and zeroing in on Carter.

  “Hey Carter.” She flashed a smile that would make a dentist swoon. I stared at her brilliant white teeth and swallowed the urge to ask her secret.

  “Hey Monica. How’s it going?”

  “Great. You getting the usual?” Her teeth were almost freakish in their perfection. Absolutely straight. I would have suspected veneers if she hadn’t been wearing camouflaged Crocs.

  “You know it.” He tossed an arm around my shoulder, and I was able to inhale his smell deeply without looking like a freak. God, forget the sandwiches. I wanted to go back to his place, right then, and work up some sweat of my own. It suddenly occurred to me that I’d never dated a manly man before. I’d always dated Clarke and Vic types—ones that wore suits and valeted their cars and grew muscles in the gym but couldn’t actually swing a hammer. This type of man was an entirely different type of sexy, one that could build me a house, a fire, could protect me in a storm or on the street. “What are you getting, Chloe?”

  I ordered a Cuban sandwich and lemonade, and followed Carter to a table. “So,” he started, leaning forward, his eyes on mine. “What’s up with the car?”

  I shrugged. “My ex likes to woo. It didn’t work. I’m trying to give it back.” A year of turmoil, summed up in three sentences.

  Carter nodded and picked up his meatball sandwich. I picked up my lemonade and took a big sip.

  Good talk.

  “So … you work as an assistant?”

  I nodded, with a wince. “Yes. For Nicole Brantley.” His face was blank, the man not up to date on socialites, and I hurried to explain. “She’s an actress. And her family owns a prophylactic company.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched up, into a smile. “Prophylactic? Is that how she refers to it?”