Amour Toxique: Books 1-3 Boxed Set (Books 1-3 Series Boxed Set)

by Dori Lavelle

  As my eyes grow heavy, I finally manage to wipe Amour Toxique from my mind and fall asleep, replaying everything Judson said to me over the phone, listening to the concern in his voice, his need to step in and be my knight in shining armor.

  I didn’t tell him I loved him back, but I think I do.

  18

  The Wednesday after Thanksgiving break, I visit Judson again. He looks even more tired this time, and less self-assured, but still drop-dead gorgeous. I want to ask whether his lawyer is making progress in the search for evidence, but he avoids talking about the trial.

  “Let’s talk about you… us.” He moves the phone to his other ear and smiles. His teeth are so white and straight. “You know we barely see each other. This time is too precious to waste.”

  “Don’t you get tired of hearing about me?”

  “Never. You’re refreshing. Besides, I don’t know everything about you yet. All I know is that you decided to pursue a university education, that your mother was against it, and that it caused a rift between the two of you. Tell me why you quit modeling in the first place.”

  “I never liked it,” I say. “I grew up being dragged from one pageant show to the next. I died a little inside every time I had to smile in front of the camera.”

  “Funny, it never showed.” His eyes are lenses, photographing every inch of my face. “You made some gorgeous photos.”

  “You’d be amazed at the things pictures can hide.” I run a finger along the phone receiver.

  “So why didn’t you stop earlier if you were unhappy?”

  “My mother wouldn’t have it. She had invested too much... So had I. And I didn’t know how to do anything other than modeling. I believed her when she warned me I’d be throwing my life away if I quit.”

  “Until you reached the breaking point?”

  “When my father died from cancer, I promised him I’d quit modeling. He made me swear to get out from under my mother’s control and live my own dreams. He saw how unhappy I was.” I shrug. “I guess I wanted to keep the promise I made to him.”

  Judson tips his head to the side. “I’m glad you did. Your decision brought you to me.” He places the palm of his hand on the glass, and I instinctively do the same from my side. I wish our palms could touch for real. Does his skin feel the same as in my dreams? “Fate brought us here. I hope it also keeps us together.”

  I drop my hand to my lap. “You never said much about yourself in the letters. I’m curious to know more about you.” From the corner of my eye, I see the bushy-eyed inmate on Judson’s right side say goodbye to his visitor with a kiss on the glass, and rise from his chair. We’ve been talking for much longer than he has, and I wonder why the guard on duty is not making an attempt to cut our conversation short. “Do we still have time?”

  Judson looks over at the bored-looking guard in the far corner of the room. “You don’t have to worry about that.” He returns his attention to me. “I’ll tell you about myself in a few words. I was raised by a single mother until the age of six, when she married Louis Devereux, a Frenchman. He adopted me. End of story.”

  “You’re a very private person.” My smile wavers. “Tell me, was your mother at least a better parent than mine is?”

  “She was a piece of shit.”

  My eyebrows draw together. “How so?”

  “Let’s just say that some women are never meant to be mothers—women like yours and mine. Mine hated me from the day I was born.” He rubs his nose with a knuckle.

  “Is she still alive?”

  “No idea. We haven’t talked in over fifteen years.”

  “I’m so sorry.” The fact that we both have crappy mothers only brings us closer. I feel I understand Judson a little better. I don’t know yet whether the claims of his jealousy and clinginess in relationships are accurate, but if they are, I have a feeling his childhood is to blame. But as much as I understand him, the knowledge does make me shiver. What if I decide I want to break things off? Can he handle yet another rejection?

  “I try not to dwell on the past. I’ll tell you more about myself when I leave this place.” He leans forward. “When are you coming to see me again?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m a bit behind with schoolwork and final exams are coming up.” I don’t tell him that I partly blame him for my lack of focus.

  He runs a hand through his hair. “Promise me one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No matter what, don’t give up on us. I want this to be real. I want us to be real.”

  Instead of promising him something I might not be able to keep, I simply blow him a kiss and stand. “I should get back. I’m starting work in an hour.”

  “You didn’t make me a promise.” A sudden storm swirls in his eyes, and the harshness of his tone make me uneasy. “Don’t fight your feelings, Ivy.”

  19

  It’s hard to pedal when the rain seems to hold a grudge against me. My new sandals are soaked and slippery beneath my feet. Rainwater is dripping into my eyes, blurring my vision. My jeans and cream blouse cling to my skin, wet and heavy on my body. I love rain, and if I weren’t so exhausted after working the whole Saturday at the bookstore, I would have slowed down to enjoy the sleek look it gives the shop windows and other smooth surfaces. I would have welcomed the tap dance of raindrops on my shoulders and head as I bike through town. But not today.

  Fortunately, I don’t have to worry about dinner. I already shared a large plate of baked salmon and potatoes with a colleague at the Deepwater Grill a few blocks from the bookstore.

  As soon as I get home, I’ll jump into a hot shower and then climb into bed to read Judson’s two-day-old letter before drifting off to sleep. A rainwater river runs down my spine, bringing on a shiver. I pedal faster, blinking water out of my eyes. The thought of wrapping myself in Judson’s words fills me with a warmth that radiates from within.

  Since my previous visit to him, and feeling awkward at our departure, he wrote me twice; he apologized for being a jerk at times before going on to ask how I’m dealing with my mother’s departure from my life. The fact that he cares about what’s going on in my life blinds me from the other worries and doubts I have concerning him. He ends each letter now with an “I love you.” After some hesitation, I’ve started to do the same. My emotions for him refuse to be silenced. Not thinking about him is an impossible daily task, while thinking about him is both intoxicating and excruciating. We might never have a future together.

  I sigh as I slow down in front of Dunkin Hall. I hop off the bike and stumble, head ducked, through the glossy metal gates, my bike at my side. The raindrops have softened to a drizzle, but the sky is still a blanket of dark clouds. As soon as my bike is safely parked in the bike shed, the sky opens up again and rain gushes out. As I hurry down the path to the staircase leading to my dorm room, a classic black umbrella appears above my head. The person holding it, smelling of soap and aftershave, puts an arm around my shoulders, drawing me closer until we are both covered by the umbrella.

  “Milton? What are you doing out in the rain?” For a second, I consider moving away, out of his reach, but that would be throwing his kindness back into his face.

  “I saw you on your bike earlier and decided to come and help. You must be nuts riding it in this weather.”

  “That’s nice of you. Thanks.” I blink the remaining water from my eyes. “But you know I’ve pretty much arrived at my destination, right?”

  I no longer feel uncomfortable around Milton. Lately he has been behaving himself, the perfect gentleman. It could be an act, but I prefer this Milton to the in-your-face one. He accepted my offer of friendship, but followed it up by saying he’ll be waiting in case I change my mind. I didn’t tell him that he’ll have a lot of waiting to do.

  “True, but you are completely soaked. We wouldn’t want you catching a cold.”

  “I don’t catch colds easily. But it’s still kind of you. Thanks.” When we reach the stairs to my dorm, I step
away from him and back into the rain. It was a small gesture, but it did warm my heart.

  “Sure. No problem.” He shifts from one foot to the other, as though waiting for me to say something else. When I don’t, he nods. “See you around?”

  “Yeah.” I give him a small wave and climb up the steps. Seconds later, I step out of the elevator and walk down the corridor, dripping water onto the floor.

  I enter the room to find Chelsea standing by her bed, arms folded, cheeks tinted with color.

  “Hi. What’s up?” I drop my bag and sweep my wet hair from my face. “Did something happen with Neil?”

  “Neil and I are fine for a change.” She gestures at my wet clothes. “Get changed. We need to talk.”

  “What about?” I don’t wait for an answer as I head to the bathroom. Five minutes later, my body is warm inside my soft bathrobe and the towel around my head. I sit on the couch and gaze at Chelsea. “So, what’s wrong?”

  “You know what’s wrong.” She hands me a cup of mint tea, then goes to her bed and removes something from under the pillow—a stack of letters tied with a white ribbon. She tosses them next to me on the couch. “That there is the problem.” She folds her arms again and glares at me. “What were you thinking?”

  A sudden chill hits my core, and I know the color has drained from my face because my cheeks are suddenly icy. My first internal reaction is dread, but it’s soon swallowed by anger. “You went through my things?”

  “You’ve been so busy lately. I wanted to help you with cleaning up. I thought I’d wash your sheets for you, and that’s when I found those—under the mattress. At first I thought they were Jennifer’s letters.” She places a finger on her lips. “I wondered why you would still have them. Then I opened one.”

  Instead of responding, I clench my jaw. I’m simmering with anger that prevents me from speaking. It’s not really Chelsea I’m furious with. I’m angrier at myself for being careless, allowing myself to get caught. I’d kept the letters under my mattress to make it easier for me to reach them at night.

  As Chelsea reprimands me like a mother talking to a child, some of my anger melts to tears.

  “He’s saying he loves you? That’s a shocker. How long has this been going on? What were you thinking, contacting him in the first place?” She sinks onto the couch and puts her hands between her knees. “You do know you’re playing a dangerous game, right? And he’s so much older.”

  “Age doesn’t matter to me.” I blink away tears. “I really don’t want to talk about it, Chelsea.” I fold my arms across my chest. “It’s my business.”

  “That’s too bad. I can’t just sweep this under the rug now, can I? What kind of friend would I be if I let you walk into the arms of a murderer without saying anything?”

  I gather up the letters and hold them so tight, blood seeps from my knuckles. “It started a while ago. I like him.”

  “You know how dangerous he is. You know he could be in prison for many years. What will you do then? Wait for him to get out?” She pauses. “I mean, what kind of relationship do you think you can have with a murderer?”

  “Everyone thinks he’s guilty. What if he’s innocent? What if he really didn’t kill Oliver Banes?”

  “Oh my God!” Chelsea slaps her forehead. “Is that what he told you, that he’s innocent? Of course he did.”

  I don’t say anything. I suddenly feel stupid.

  “The guy killed someone. He could hurt you.” She yanks her hair from its ponytail and her shiny curls tumble to her shoulders. She tosses the hair scrunchie onto the bed. “Ivy, you can’t believe a word he says. You have to cut things off with him right away.” She lowers her voice. “You didn’t—did you? Please tell me you didn’t visit him.”

  “I didn’t.” The lie comes easily. No use in complicating the situation more than necessary.

  “Why didn’t you say anything… to me?”

  “Because I didn’t want you to react the way you’re reacting right now. I haven’t told anyone. Please keep it to yourself.”

  “I will if you promise to stop contacting him.” Chelsea stands up and goes to her bed. She picks up a photography magazine and pretends to start reading it. But her anger still vibrates in the air.

  I rub my eyes and stare at her. I’m mad that she went through my things, but ultimately I know she cares. And that means a lot. She’s the closest thing I have to family right now.

  I stand and approach her bed. When I sit on the edge and take her hand, she drops the magazine. “Look, I’m sorry for not telling you, okay? I just… I didn’t want to be judged.”

  “I wish you’d told me. I know we haven’t known each other for that long, but you’ve become one of my closest friends. I thought you felt the same about me.”

  “I do. But this is something I wanted to keep to myself for a while longer, to see where it leads.”

  “You wanted to wait to see if he would be found innocent?”

  I don’t respond.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Ivy, but as your friend, I have to be honest with you. From what I hear, the chances of him being released are pretty much nil.” Her fingers tighten around my hand. “You’re flirting with danger. You have to get out before you’re in too deep.”

  I’m already in too deep. I love him.

  I nod, giving her a sad smile. Then I squeeze her hand and get to my feet. I pick up the magazine and hand it back to her. “Thanks for the tea. I’m going to shower.”

  20

  My teeth sink into my lip as I rip open the envelope with trembling hands. The sound of paper tearing is barely audible over the murmur of voices, the buzz of a coffee grinder, and the ding of a cash register.

  Judson’s sixth letter to me in two weeks arrived yesterday, but I didn’t have the guts to open it. I carried it around campus all day today, and finally to my afternoon shift at Millie’s. I came close to opening it last night, but chickened out at the last second.

  I haven’t written him since my argument with Chelsea a week and a half ago. As much as I want to ignore the warnings from Paulette, Jennifer, and Chelsea, a small voice at the back of my mind won’t give me peace. It nags me nonstop until I’m sick to my stomach. I even threw up last night, nauseous from all the thoughts running circles inside my head. With final exams around the corner, the last thing I need is more stress.

  After so much conflict and heartache, the rational part of my mind has finally forced me to see sense. There’s too much evidence online and via word of mouth to indicate that Judson murdered Oliver. And I cannot be in touch with a murderer, no matter how charming he is.

  I used to look forward to Judson’s letters. I loved how much they turned me on, and the emotions they awakened inside of me have not disappeared. My heart is still desperate to explore what we started, but his letters have become increasingly demanding, and it’s shaken me.

  The cushion moves out of place as I shift in my chair at the Snowflake Bakery, where I sometimes have a coffee during my lunch break. After a few deep breaths I finally pull the neatly folded letter out of its envelope. The bakery is known for its delicious pastries, and they recently added wonderful homemade bread sandwiches to their menu. My ham and pepperoni sandwich is long gone, and my second cup of coffee has gone cold. Ten minutes until I have to return to work. I can’t walk out of this place without reading the letter.

  I inhale the coffee- and cinnamon-scented air, and smooth the paper out on the table. As I start to read, nothing distracts me—not the child crying at a nearby table, a metal spoon falling to the wooden floor, or the whirr of the frothing machine. My sole focus is on the page, and the large words scrawled across it.

  Stop ignoring me. It’s really starting to piss me off. Judson

  I jerk back in my chair as though slapped across the cheek. They’re only words, but the thick anger tucked into the spaces between the letters is palpable.

  My hand moves to my throat as I struggle to pull air into my lungs. The air is too thick.


  With hands shaking in big tremors, I push the letter back into the envelope, not bothering to fold it. I shove my chair back and stand. I’ve already paid for my meal, so I walk out into the fresh air, gulping in mouthful after mouthful as my head spins. Once I’m able to breathe normally again, I cross the street and head back to work.

  For the first time, the fresh, crisp smell of new books, and the open and excited faces of readers looking to embark on a new adventure don’t give me that warm and fuzzy feeling. I almost trip in my leather sandals as I hurry up the stairs toward Millie’s office.

  I find her in the crafts and hobbies aisle, tugging a hardback off the shelf and handing it to a tall, skinny woman in a patterned wrap dress and flip-flops.

  I wait impatiently next to one of the red couches placed strategically throughout the store. For a moment Millie glances at me with a questioning expression, but then returns her attention to the customer, who’s now flipping the glossy book over to read the back copy.

  Millie Schroeder is a svelte woman in her fifties, of Austrian origin. She always wears dark pantsuits, and walks with incredible grace. She once revealed to me that she was a ballerina well into her teens.

  To my relief, the customer looks up at Millie with a smile. They exchange a few more words, before Millie nods and they part. Next, Millie heads in my direction as the customer descends the steps, perhaps to pay for the book.

  “My goodness, Ivy.” Millie’s silken voice and the scent of Chanel No. 5 reach me before she does. “Are you all right? You look rather pale.” Her powder-blue eyes narrow with concern. She places a hand on my arm and gives me a slight nudge. “Let’s go to the office. You can tell me all about it.”

  A barely audible laugh escapes my lips. I shake my head. “No, no, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I just wanted to let you know that I’m not feeling too well. I have a bad migraine. Do you mind if I end my shift now? I can make up for it next week.”