Love, Chloe

  Vic pulled his stool forward and it was then I realized that the bar had emptied, the bartender gone, the velvet curtain to its entrance pulled shut.

  We were alone and God, I hated it when he did shit like that.

  Well, now I hated it. I used to love it.

  74. Hit Me With Your Best Shot

  His stool was near enough that his knee brushed the inside of my thigh, his huff of breath close enough that the hair on my skin rose in response. I pushed my drink away and stood, needing space. Being that close to Vic never led anywhere productive.

  “Vic.” I swallowed. Short and sweet. I could do this. “You’ve got to stop … reaching out.” He sat back, his elbows on the bar, his body completely relaxed, his mouth twitching a little as if he was holding back a smile. “I mean it.” I narrowed my eyes and stood a little straighter, wishing for a moment that I wore something more commanding than flats and Hudsons. “You and I are done. I’m in love with Carter.” It was the first time I’d said the words aloud, and they came out flat and uncertain, almost like I was posing it as a question.

  “Really,” Vic drawled out the words. “Love?”

  “Yes.” I lifted my chin and met his eyes.

  “Do you even know what love is, Chloe?” Funny that the man who’d tainted the word for me could speak so confidently about it.

  I lifted my shoulders in a shrug. “I’m figuring it out.”

  He didn’t like that. I saw the tighten of his lips, the clench of his jaw, the curl of his fingers around the lip of the bar’s edge. “So it’s the same? As it was with me?”

  “No.” The next part was cruel and hard but true and necessary and the words fell out painfully. “It’s better. It’s a real relationship. I trust him. I don’t know if I ever trusted you.” So many nights, waiting up for his calls, wondering where he was. So many trips taken without me, Instagram pics on other girls’ accounts, his jet in the background, their smiles where mine should have been.

  “And how well could he treat you, Chloe?” His loose position was gone, his stool empty. He was on his feet and stepping closer, one of his hands wrapping around my arm and squeezing. “Does he let you super-size your fast food order? Get a popcorn at the budget movies?”

  “Don’t be an ass.” I yanked my arm and turned, stepping away, wanting some distance, some space, less of him and more of me. I raised my arms to my head and breathed deeply. Willed myself to relax.

  He kept his distance, thank God. I heard the screech of a stool and looked over, seeing him push my purse aside, his hand on my glass and he met my eyes, lifting it to his lips. He scowled at the taste and set it back down. “What—you stop drinking too?”

  I squared my shoulders and met his eyes. “I love him.” I watched him shove at my glass, the tumbler slick on its slide across the counter, and I winced when it went over the edge, turning away when it hit the tile floor, the crash loud and painful.

  “Bullshit, Chloe. I know you. You don’t love him. And I’m different now. I’ve learned from my mistakes. I’m the only one who can give you the life you deserve.” At one time, that threat would have affected me. Now, it was laughable.

  “You’re wrong. I love him.” Each time I said it, I found more truth in it.

  “Stop saying that!” There was another crash of glass and he was on his feet again, stepping toward me, and I flinched, my hands coming up in protection.

  There was a growl from the doorway in the moment before Vic’s hands latched onto me.

  I didn’t know how long Carter had been standing there, or what he had heard but I knew when Vic’s hands grabbed me, Carter moved—a fluid burst of masculinity, his impact with Vic flinging me free, my side hitting a table’s edge. A burst of pain flared in my ribs and I clutched my mid-section, my head whipping to the two men who, at different moments in time, owned my heart.

  Carter got to his feet, his hand tight on Vic’s shirt. Vic lifted his head, a manic laugh bubbling out. “Go ahead,” he spat out. “Give me your best shot.”

  “Carter,” I spoke quietly but he looked up, his arms bulging as he held up Vic’s weight. I nodded to the three men standing in the doorway, Vic’s security team, men with guns underneath their jackets and itchy trigger fingers. “Let’s go.”

  Vic’s fist swung upward as Carter let him go. It was a cheap shot, unsurprising, but I heard the connection and winced. Carter stood, his hand wiping at his mouth, his eyes dark, and looked at me. I hurried past him and grabbed my purse. It had fallen to its side, and I shoved its loose contents inside, my hands quick, steps quicker, and then we were outside, the night air warm, our exit lost in the madness that was a city at night.

  We stepped into a curbside taxi, my butt sliding across the vinyl seat, my hand tightly grasped by Carter, nothing said between us until the cab pulled off, bumping over a pothole in its exit.

  “Are you okay?” Carter ran a finger over his lip, blood smearing, and he frowned.

  “I’m fine. He wouldn’t have … he wouldn’t have done anything.” Vic’s temper had flared a hundred times. The worst he’d ever done was throw things at me. Things that could be ducked, his fist hitting the wall beside my head something that scared but didn’t hurt. “I had it covered,” I said the words for myself as much as I did for Carter.

  “You shouldn’t have met him alone like that. I told you not to.” His tone was low and judgmental, and I bristled.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be alone. I didn’t realize he’d clear the bar. Why were you there?”

  He laughed. “Is this what this is gonna be? You’re pissed at me for showing up?”

  “I’ve been followed before. Checked up on. I don’t like it.” I looked out the window.

  “I didn’t follow you because I didn’t trust you. You told me where you’d be—”

  “And I was there,” I said, cutting him off.

  “I was waiting for you in the entrance. Just in case. I heard a shout; I came in. Don’t make it into anything else.”

  I didn’t know what to think. Didn’t know if I was sensitive from my time with Vic, time where I was constantly monitored, his paranoia trumped only by his jealousy. Carter had never acted that way, had been more than cool with all of Vic’s bullshit, including the set up of this meeting to begin with. I felt the knot in my back begin to relax, and I turned to look at him, reaching out my hand. “The only reason I met him was because you asked me to.”

  “I know, and maybe I shouldn’t have insisted. I’m sorry I didn’t knock him out.” He grimaced.

  I thought about how he’d looked, his muscles tense, the blur of his movement, the protective rush to my aid … it had been, in the whirlwind of it all, pretty hot. I smiled. “You didn’t do so bad. That’s probably the closest Vic’s ever come to a beating. He’s normally got his guys close by. But I hate that he sucker-punched you.”

  Carter shrugged. “Hey, I got the girl. It was worth it.” He leaned over, burrowing his head into my shoulder and inhaled deeply, relaxing into me. “A kiss would help,” he whispered.

  I obliged. It was the least I could do, the soft brush of my lips against his split lip, his bruised jaw.

  It wasn’t until later that I realized the problem. After our shower, after his gentle towel dry of my hair, after a long and sweet session in between the sheets, after I flipped off the bedroom light, and reached down into my purse for my phone to plug it in.

  My hand skated over a compact, lip-gloss, and my wallet. Fumbled behind a half-eaten Snickers bar and my earbuds. My heart started beating and I turned on the bedside light, looking again, more frantic this time.

  My phone. It was gone.

  75. Five-Fingered Prick

  My missing phone wasn’t an accident and it wasn’t my fault. I knew that instinctively, my stomach twisting as I slowly shut the purse and set it down. This was Vic.

  I heard the screech of his stool and looked over, seeing him push my purse aside, his hand on my drink
and he met my eyes, lifting it to his lips.

  Shit. I imagined him, sitting at home, his fingers across my screen, flipping through my photos, reading my texts … I had the insane urge to get dressed and run back to his bar, or his penthouse, or wherever the damn man was. Find him and rip my phone back from his freshly manicured fingers.

  I punched on the bed with a hard fist, Carter sitting up, his hand touching my elbow, asking if everything was okay. “It’s fine.” I tried to smile, turned and crawled under the covers, my body sliding alongside his. I kissed his neck and burrowed into his side.

  Right then, I should have told him about my missing phone. Full disclosure, open communication, and all that good-for-relationship stuff. But with his lip freshly split from Vic’s punch, our minds finally off the night’s events, I just couldn’t. Instead, I laid my head against his chest and stewed. Pretended to be asleep while, inside, my mind went crazy.

  I never wanted to see Vic again. Not even for my phone. But then, I thought of everything on it, the personal invasion of him pawing through it…

  As soon as Carter fell asleep, I crawled out of bed. Borrowed his cell and called Cammie from the bathroom. She was awake and cut me off mid-sentence, as soon as she understood the dilemma.

  “Wipe your phone.” She spat out the directive as if it was simple.

  “What?”

  “He knows your passcode, right?”

  My passcode. The four-digit code I’d used since high school. “Yeah,” I said glumly.

  “Remotely wipe it. Now. You can do it through iCloud.”

  iCloud. The thing I’d cursed so many times before… could it actually be my savior? I winced at the thought of the last time I’d backed up my phone. At what I’d lose in the wipe.

  “Now, Chloe. Before he gets every naked selfie off it.” Cammie’s voice broke through. Naked photos. My mind tripped and fell over every sexy pic I’d taken in the two years I’d had that phone. I should have known my vanity would have come back to bite me.

  I cracked the bathroom door and eyed Carter’s laptop, one I didn’t have a password for. “Can you do it? I’m at Carter’s.”

  She jumped into action and a few minutes later, my phone, wherever it was, had been completely erased. I would have the headache of paying for a new phone. But the satisfaction of not having to call Vic? To not go crawling back to him, hand out, asking for it back? That was worth it. That felt better than anything else.

  That night, for the first time all week, I slept soundly.

  A woman in New York City couldn’t survive without a cell phone. It was a fact. Especially not a woman working for Nicole Brantley. My old self would have marched into the closest Verizon and walked out with a shiny new phone. My new self had to wait three days for my phone insurance to ship out a refurbished replacement. My new self agonized over the two-hundred-dollar fee. I hated Vic a little more with every inconvenience caused.

  My job probably wouldn’t have survived the three-day period if not for the set walkies—a giant radio that hung on my hip, a cord running from it up to an equally sexy headpiece that Nicole insisted I wear. I looked ridiculous but could hear Nicole’s voice loud and clear when she barked. And she barked constantly. It turned out pregnancy was hell on a bitch’s hormones. Her taste buds had gone crazy too. She’d been demanding the weirdest food. Olives, coffee-flavored ice cream, feta cheese, and banana popsicles. Try and track down banana popsicles. It was impossible. I called seventeen stores before she decided she’d rather have cherry.

  There was one benefit of the constantly affixed headgear. I could tune into the general set chatter, which was usually snooze-worthy except for today, when a PA mentioned that Victor Worth was on set. I immediately ducked into Wardrobe and hid, my butt settled down behind racks of clothes, my fingers picking absentmindedly through the fabrics. I was stuck there for the forty-five minutes it took for word to finally circulate that he’d left.

  When I returned to Nicole’s trailer, there was a box for me, too big to hold just a phone, and I growled a little under my breath. I ripped at the ribbon with angry hands, the white lid yanked off to reveal the purse—a Balenciaga City Bag—black, with a card hanging off one strap. I flipped open the card, steeling myself for the message, ready for something sexual and inappropriate, as was Vic’s style.

  This one zips shut. Better for not losing things.

  I had to roll my eyes at that. Peeking in the bag, I spied my phone.

  So he had returned it. No face-to-face meeting required, no lording the phone over me in exchange for contact.

  Call me paranoid, but I didn’t necessarily want it back. Not when it had been in his hands. Not when he could have gotten his geek squad to do God-knows-what to it. Tracking software? Keylogger programs? Remote access? Probably all of the above. I opened up the lid to the trash and ditched the phone, hearing the thud of it hit the bottom. One problem solved.

  The bag … I ran my hand slowly over the supple leather, its clean and beautiful lines. Then I opened an upper cabinet and pushed the bag inside, hiding it behind all of Nicole’s junk. There was a limit to pride, and it stopped at insanity.

  77. The Thing I Didn’t Want to Talk About

  Parents. The one word no relationship needs. Carter said it and I took my time chewing my bite of salad. Beside me, my new phone chilled on the tabletop, freshly synced, my life back in order. Or rather, it was. Until Carter brought up his parents. And dinner with them.

  “Saturday night,” he continued. “They suggested a French restaurant on Park.” He speared a piece of fish and looked up at me. “Do you like French food?”

  “Yes…” I said cautiously.

  “You don’t have to come.” He shrugged. “I know it’s been a crazy week for you with work … and with it raining tonight…” His words got lost in another bite of food and I set down my fork. It wasn’t that crazy of a week at work. And what did the rain have to do with anything?

  “I can come.” My curiosity spoke for me, something about the casual invite; coupled with the reluctance of his voice … I was suddenly dying to meet them. How bad could parents be? I warmed to the idea, my head nodding. “I’d love to meet your parents.”

  “You would?” Carter looked wary.

  “Yeah.” I stabbed at another piece of salad. “I love parents.”

  “Have you told yours about us?”

  I slid the fork slowly out of my mouth, chewing the bite, trying to think of the proper response. “No,” I finally said. “I—I haven’t spoken to my parents in a while.” I stared down at my bowl, picking through the mixed greens. Our last contact had been my dad’s birthday. Since then, I’d left four or five messages, all unreturned. After the last, I hadn’t had the heart to try again. And that had been almost two weeks ago.

  Odd that Carter and I had discussed almost everything but our parents. I’d planned to tell him about mine. Next week I’d kept thinking. The next weeks had piled up on themselves and turned into … God. Five months. Five months since we’d first met. And now … I shifted in my seat. It didn’t seem the time. Not when I’d asked him so little about his. I knew they’d been strict. Neat freaks who withheld sustenance. Nothing else. “Your uh—parents. They’re still married?”

  “Yeah,” he said, watching me. “Yours?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You don’t like to talk about them?” he asked.

  I managed a laugh. “Not really. You?”

  He shrugged. “You know a little. My parents are … grouchy.” He grimaced. “To be honest, I’m a little worried that they’ll scare you off.”

  I looked up, meeting his eyes. “They won’t.” I couldn’t think of anything that would scare me away from this man.

  He chuckled. “You sure about that? They’ve always been difficult with anyone I’ve dated.”

  I was.

  Turned out, I might have underestimated the situation.

  78. I Hate These People

/>   I checked my reflection for the tenth time in the mirror above my sink. Smoothing down my hair, I checked my teeth. I was dressed conservatively, but cute—a Krisa jumpsuit paired with jeweled flats. Carter called my name, and I swallowed. “Coming!” I called, running the sink for a moment to buy some time. I shouldn’t be so nervous. Parents loved me. And why wouldn’t they? Carter could have done a lot worse. I tossed some lipstick in the clutch and snapped it shut. Gave myself one last look in the mirror and then pulled open the door.

  “Ready?” Carter leaned against the wall, his eyes lifting to me and he smiled. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” I let out a nervous breath. “I’m a little stressed,” I confessed.

  He smiled, pulling me to him and pressing his lips to mine. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going to be late.”

  “You’re supposed to tell me I have nothing to be nervous about,” I scolded playfully, shrugging into my jacket and following him into the hall.

  “You’ll do fine,” he said, checking his watch.

  Still not the words I wanted. I took the hand he offered, and we stepped into the elevator. I blamed the drop of my heart on the quick descent, my nerves humming.

  Something was off.

  We stepped in the small restaurant, Carter giving our name to the maître d’, my heart sinking when I saw, seated just a few tables inside, the older couple who had interviewed interrogated me for the apartment. The woman’s back was as stiff as it had been in my interview, the man’s face just as dour. I grabbed Carter’s arm and hoped he’d veer right, to the bar, but he saw them too. I’d forgotten for a moment that they were his employers, him recognizing them also.