Loving Tiago

by Shayne Ford

  LOVING TIAGO

  A Night Of The Kings Novel

  Shayne Ford

  Copyright © 2019 by Shayne Ford

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, organizations and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features mentioned in this book are the property of their respective owners and have been used without permission and in an editorial fashion only, with no implied endorsement.

  The publication/use of these trademarks is not associated with, approved of or sponsored by the trademarks owners.

  This book is for entertainment purposes only. The author and publisher disclaim any and all responsibility for any liability, loss, or risk, personal or otherwise, incurred as a consequence, directly or indirectly in relation to this book.

  This book is intended for mature audiences only.

  Written by Shayne Ford

  www.shayneford.com

  Twitter:@ShayneFordBooks

  Cover design by Shayne Ford

  The image on the cover is a licensed stock photo, and it is used for illustrative purposes, any person who may be depicted on, is a model.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Also by Shayne Ford

  About the Author

  1

  EVE

  You know what’s a hundred times worse than angry words?

  Silence.

  As vile and hurting as it can be, anger throws you a lifeline and gives you hope, something to hold on to. Anger keeps the communication open even if the discourse is compromised by the invectives of pain and fury.

  Silence, on the other hand, shuts down the communication, slams a door in your face, builds a wall around you, and traps you in, taking away the last sliver of hope, and forcing you to live in prison–– the jail in which you squirm in pain without recourse.

  Silence is capital punishment, and that’s where I am right now.

  I make another call, and for the umpteenth time, I get the same result.

  Silence. Total, utter, obliterating silence.

  He has deactivated his voicemail, or at least that’s what I think, removing any possibility to reach him with my words.

  My text messages and emails remain unanswered too, and to my chagrin, also unread.

  He shut a big, iron-like, door of silence on me. On my carelessness and betrayal.

  Again, without recourse.

  It took me an enormous amount of effort to sail the aftermath of him leaving abruptly, and without a word, last night.

  I still wonder whether what really happened at that party escaped the discerning perception of someone seasoned like James or Rain.

  Nothing in their behavior suggested that they knew what was going on between Tiago and me, but then again, they are good at hiding their reactions, especially James.

  And yet, they didn’t mention a word to me, so maybe I am wrong after all. Frankly, I can’t rely on my usually sharp perception either seeing that I’ve been a complete mess since Tiago stormed out of James and Rain’s home last night.

  Other than that, everything seemed normal.

  James’ guests asked me a lot of questions. I vaguely remember that I answered them, but what I said to them is anyone’s guess.

  I kept blabbering something about moving back to Colorado at the end of the month.

  What was I thinking?

  And what was I thinking when I said ‘yes’ to Rain in the first place? I should’ve thought about it thoroughly before committing to make such an important move.

  This is not solely about Tiago and me. It’s also about my work. Although I don’t expect my current workplace circumstances to improve any time soon.

  A sigh leaves my lips in silence before I bring the cup of tea to my mouth and let the sweet, citrusy, cinnamon-flavored drink wash my palate.

  Swallowing a mouthful of aromatic, herbal tea, I turn a blank stare to the window.

  The evening has already started creeping in.

  A dark-gray sky sits above the city, wisps of fog floating over Manhattan’s skyscrapers, a cold rain rapping against the windows while the snow starts dripping from the sills.

  Squares of glow puncture the dimness as the lights start to come on, and people begin contemplating the arrival of the week ahead.

  And just like that the last hours of a gloomy Sunday keep crawling by, soaked in the regret of a weekend that’s quickly drawing to an end and the anticipation of a Monday set to bring back the hustle and bustle of a combustive life.

  Shaking my head slowly, I take another sip of tea.

  Who am I fooling after all?

  As much as I’ve learned to love this place, I could’ve said ‘yes’ to James the night he made me the proposal.

  Despite of what I said, I didn’t need time to think about it. let alone ponder over his offer. I had no reason to delay my response, other than, of course, my connection to his brother.

  Come to think about it, all the things I’m going to regret if I leave New York, have nothing to do with my career. Work is work, whether it’s here or there.

  I love my apartment, and it took me years to transform it into the welcoming place it is today, but this is also the space in which I’ve burned hours of solitude and grieved over my broken dreams.

  And sure I love the pulsing life, the animation, the streets, and the permanent effervescence of this city. Central Park, the art galleries, the bookstores, and the coffeeshops. The restaurants and the delicious food, not to say the mesmerizing view of the sun setting across the water.

  I love all that, but deep down inside, I know that I’m not part of it. I’m not a diehard New Yorker. I’ll always be a bystander.

  I’ve lived enough in this city to realize that my life is not woven in the fabric of this citadel. That I’m merely a passenger on a train swooshing through. Someone living a few evanescent moments on the station platform before the iron horse zips away.

  It’s just that right now I’m trying hard to delay that train, fight my destiny, and postpone the moment when I’m destined to leave.

  Because right now, a man made me believe that this is the terminal station, my destination, the place I could call home for good.

  And yet, here I am, right on the spot I’m dearly holding onto, and yet the space is empty of hope or him.

  Another sigh leaves my lips as I lean back against the pillow, set the cup of tea on the coffee table, and slowly start massaging my temples.

  I close my eyes.

  Not only, that he didn’t answer my calls, reply to my messages, or make a goodwill gesture and let me explain to him, and apologize to him to ease my pain, but, what’s even worst, he didn’t even spend the night at home.

  And that’s what torments me the most.

  After dealing with the aftermath of him vanishing last night, I managed to keep
my face straight and make a decent exit from Rain’s party.

  After a few minutes of arguing against the idea of James driving me home, I settled for his driver and the limo he had put at my disposition.

  It would’ve been impossible for me to push through with that, had he taken me home as he initially had suggested.

  I was so afraid I’d break into tears and confess to him minutes into our trip, I had to stay away from him.

  I got home around midnight.

  At first, I waited for the limo to pull away and then I took out my phone, tempted to call Tiago.

  I tried several times, yet I got no answer.

  I wanted to hail a cab the moment I set foot on the sidewalk too, but then I realized that I couldn’t go to him without changing my clothes. My dress was barely clinging to me, my stockings kept rolling down, and my panties were gone.

  So I changed my mind, walked into the building, and took the elevator up.

  Minutes later, I found myself in the bathroom, peeling my clothes off with the painstaking patience of someone who removes blood-soaked fabric from a wounded body, revealing shrapnel-pierced flesh and blood vessels ripped apart by the brutal force of a violent impact. My body didn’t bare the marks of a bloody war, and yet, it had the physical pain that comes with it.

  I cried before I could do anything else.

  I sat on the edge of the tub and cried, my face buried in my hands, my shoulders shaking, my back arched, my tears flowing freely on my dress, and whatever glamour had been left in it after I’d spent time with him in Rain’s walk-in closet.

  As I sat down and sobbed, it felt as if I was falling through a black hole and couldn’t find my way back.

  It was one of those strange moments when life pulls the rug from under you, and unexpectedly, it shifts tracks for you. When you slip through the fabric of time, yet want to hold on to that last moment of sanity with your last breath, stubbornly fighting your fate–– that split second before everything goes to hell, and there’s nothing to be done to turn back time.

  I wasn’t afraid of our future as much as I was grieving over what we had lost.

  Whichever way we’d go from here on out, what we had had for a while cannot come back, not in the form we loved it, and not with the same genuine and fresh intensity, not without being tarnished by the ugly shadow of mistrust.

  Hurting is bad.

  Hurting someone you love is a capital sin.

  Being hurt by someone you love deeply is often fatal.

  And that’s what I feared the most last night.

  That’s why I couldn’t stop my tears from falling.

  And as I took off the layers of fabric, I slowly touched my body, and gently trailed my skin with my fingers, sweeping everything with a blurry gaze.

  Every little sign of his touch on my body hurt. Every mark, hickey, scratch, bruise, and redness dripped with pain. Every little detail documenting his passionate journey on my body made me sob and drown in regret.

  I took a quick shower, change into something comfortable, threw a jacket on, and left. It was almost one o’clock in the morning when I found myself in front of his door.

  I knew he wasn’t home. And not because the windows of his apartment were lined with the darkness of the winter night, and his ride was not parked in the underground parking garage.

  I knew it before I left home. When I climbed into a taxi and gave the address to the driver.

  I knew it full well before I knocked on his door and rang the doorbell.

  I knew it, but I had to do it. I had to go.

  I had to kill the unrest in my body and quench the storm in my heart. I needed to do something–– anything, to get tired, and hopeless, and to diffuse the dark energy sweeping through my body.

  I also had to face a truth worse than the one I’d already been dealing with, and oh, I so did.

  By the fourth time, I rang the doorbell and wept in front of a locked door, it dawned on me where he was.

  It finally came to me in the form of a visceral reaction, a gut feeling, a sharp, harsh thought that slashed through my conscience and crushed my heart.

  I knew he went to that woman’s place.

  Where else could he had gone? In my head, it all made sense. He never talked about having other friends in the city.

  Other than me, of course, but under the circumstances, I’d use the term ‘friend’ loosely.

  He must’ve gone to her.

  And why the hell not? They spent the evening together, he took her home, and it just happened that he needed a place to crash.

  He didn’t want to go to his place, and why would he?

  Nothing was waiting for him at his home.

  Nothing.

  And why would he be there when he knew that I’d be looking for him, trying to explain the unexplainable, making him feel even worse?

  She was the easy way out. He knew where she lived, and he knew she was home. He had taken her there an hour earlier.

  I’m sure him showing at her door made her day.

  What happened next...?

  Well, my mind pulled a black curtain over that frame because I didn’t really want to know. And I still don’t.

  I couldn’t live with myself, thinking that I pushed the man I love into her arms.

  I was convinced she was greedily clawing at the opportunity I so generously had offered her. I was sure she was everything I couldn’t be to him. A woman who was nice and sweet, accommodating.

  There was nothing to lose with her, no pressure. No high stakes.

  Just a female friend offering him a place to stay for the night until he’d make different arrangements.

  I tip my gaze down to my phone, studying my cell with skeptical eyes as if I’m inspecting a relic, a piece of useless, lifeless aluminum.

  So far, nothing has changed.

  He’s not taking my calls or anyone else’s for that matter. His phone must be turned off if, in fact, it’s still in service, so I’ll stop calling him.

  I’m not going to check his place again either.

  I have no doubt that he’s not there. And I’m not going to find him or talk to him as long as he doesn’t want me to.

  I set the phone on the side as if I lay to rest a dead piece of memory.

  So what am I supposed to do now?

  2

  EVE

  “Are you going to a funeral or something?”

  I shoot my eyes to my phone screen.

  “What?” I murmur.

  On display, Rain points to my outfit with her index finger.

  Cheeks flushed, hair pulled back into a ponytail, she does her morning workout on a stationary bike.

  It’s seven o’clock in the morning, and she’s already worked up a sweat.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, sliding my gaze onto my gray skirt and black cashmere top.

  The combination is a bit blah–– okay, it’s on the dull side, but it’s not my clothes that prompted her comment–– I come to understand as I lift my gaze and catch her studying my face.

  “You don’t like it?” I throw at her as I spin back to the mirror and focus on my makeup in particular.

  The matte layer of foundation looks heavy on my face.

  There’s also too much eyeliner, or too dark perhaps, or maybe my hollow cheeks and the shadow stretching under my eyes make me look gauntly and haggard.

  I spent the day inside yesterday, skipped the gym and didn’t sleep much last night, and that didn’t help at all.

  Trying to fix things on my face with matte colors, black eyeliner, and red lipstick doesn’t do the trick.

  I pick up a cotton pad from a glass bowl and start removing my makeup.

  “No, no. What are you doing?” she hurls at me.

  “My face looks like shit.”

  She doesn’t say a word as I clean my cheeks, my brow, my chin and eyelids, and start applying the layers again. Moisturizer, liquid foundation, a touch of peach on my cheeks, clear mascara, and nude lipglo
ss.

  Pursing my lips, I study my face in the mirror.

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  Her silence makes me turn my face to my phone.

  Her eyes widen as she sharpens her focus, her gaze coasting over my face.

  “You look paler than before. I think it’s the clothes you have on.”

  I shoot my gaze back to the mirror.

  “Fuck it,” I blurt, throwing my hands in the air. “Now, I need to find a different outfit.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, no. It’s not okay. I need to change. Give me a minute. All right”

  “Eve?” Her voice resonates behind my back as I pull away from my phone and enter my walk-in closet.

  “This is insane,” I mumble as I start shedding my top and my skirt.

  “Only the top, maybe?”

  Her voice drifts through my bedroom, blasting from my phone.

  From a rack, I pull a couple of hangers and pick a red silk blouse and a dark purple cashmere top.

  Skirt and bra on, I dash back into the room and show her the new selection.

  “Mmm... That’s better. I’d go with the red top.”

  “Okay.”

  “Actually, you can put them both on.”

  She points to the V-neck, form-fitting, violet cashmere top.

  “They go well together,” she says as I hold one against the other.

  “All right,” I say in a soft voice.

  “What is it, Eve?”

  “Nothing.”

  My smile feels tired, like my words.

  Spinning around, I avoid her scrutinizing eyes before I spend the next few minutes in the walk-in closet, putting my clothes on.

  A few minutes later, I walk back into the bedroom, pick up the phone, and head to the kitchen where I set the machine for a cup of fresh coffee.

  “This looks better.”

  “Thank you,” I say.