by S. L. Scott
My eyes stay focused on the documents in front of me. My monitor is the only streaming light in the room, highlighting the top of my desk. “You’re welcome anywhere in the penthouse. Treat it as your own.”
“Why do you have the curtains closed?”
“It didn’t feel right to let the sunshine in.”
The doorway is abandoned as she comes around behind me and slides her arms over my shoulders. “We’re not enemies. We shouldn’t treat each other as such.”
“I don’t know what’s going on, and when that happens my mind gets the best of me.”
“So that was jealousy? It felt like anger.”
“It was both.”
“Chip is gay. The only reason I’m telling you this is not to ease your jealousy, but to temper the anger directed toward us.” He’s gay.
Fuck, I’m an idiot.
I blow out the hot air of rage I was holding in, and drop my head. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t need an apology. I don’t want you to feel bad. I just want you to give me the benefit of the doubt next time.”
“You deserve that.”
The papers crumble when she moves around and leans against the desk. “Look at me, Ethan.”
I do because I meant it when I said I would give her anything. My attention is the simplest request to fulfill.
“I do deserve that, but I need you to know what you see is what you get. We’re new, but I thought we knew each other better than that back there.”
“We do. I trust you. I don’t know what that was, and I don’t want to come up with excuses. In the video he had his arm around you. I wasn’t expecting that. My team saw it too and I felt—” My phone lights up, and I look down. “Melanie’s parents are here.”
The news takes her aback. Her breath is jagged on the cusp of a sob, but she stops herself. Standing up, she kisses my head before raising her chin. I don’t want her stalwart. I don’t want her to keep things in. I like her delicate nature. I like her innocence, which the last few days have stolen from her. Watching her, she walks to the door but stops and says, “I need you, Ethan. I can’t do this alone.”
I stand. Telling me how I can help her helps me, because it means she needs me, and I need that. I take her hand, and we walk down the hall together. We wait outside the elevator for its arrival. The light above the door flashes on, and her grip tightens. As soon as the door slides open, I hear her suck in a breath.
Seeing them reminds me of my own parents, making me miss them. But my guilt overrides all else as I watch Melanie’s mother cry from the sight of Singer.
Singer practically lunges into her arms. Whispers of apologies echo around us, soothing words from Melanie’s mother given so gently as she embraces Singer just as tightly in response.
Propriety takes over and I swallow down my own feelings on the matter. “Mr. and Mrs. Lazarus, I wanted to extend my deepest condolences.”
Melanie’s father’s eyes lock on mine, and he extends his hand. Shaking it, I add, “I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances.” I knew this moment would be hard—understatement of the year—but seeing his tears, knowing I have something to do with them, it breaks me, and I look down to hide my weaknesses. And guilt.
Singer hugs him, and he releases my hand to embrace her. There’s gentleness, one of trust and love, reflecting the sisterhood between Singer and Melanie. “Your parents,” he struggles to say, “are worried about you. You should call them.”
“I will,” she replies. Taking a deep breath she tries to regain a composure that’s more than broken, one that shows she’s strong in the face of adversity. I hate that she feels she has to, because being strong for everyone else will weaken you. Like she scolds me for doing, she needs to take care of herself first. “Come in.”
She leads them into the living room, leaving their bags near the elevator. I wait for them to pass and take up the tail of this unsettling and tricky situation.
It’s inappropriate on every level, and I should feel guiltier for thinking it at all, but seeing her walk so comfortably around the penthouse, so naturally a part of my life, provides some sort of balm to this nightmare. She’s become my home.
Standing between the kitchen and the dining table, she states, “I could use a drink. I know that’s not something we usually do together, the roles we played in each other’s lives, but I’m not going to make it much longer if I don’t.”
Melanie’s mother says, “I could really use a vodka martini.”
Maybe that’s what breaks the ice, puts this child and parent relationship on an even playing field, but the heaviness sort of lifts.
There are tears, buckets of them, but I can see by the way they look at Singer, how they treat her like their own.
The media has already gotten hold of the details and so much has come to light in the last twenty-four hours. Singer doesn’t pretend she isn’t the intended victim, but they don’t treat her as such.
Instead, they remember their daughter and her friend, they reminisce and they hug many times. When Melanie’s boyfriend, Mike, arrives an hour later, he is accepted like family. It took two transfers and an overnight flight to get back here last minute.
Through the laughter, he pulls a ring from his pocket. It’s the one he’s carried for the last few days looking for the right moment to pop the question. As smiles disappear and tears reappear, I step away from the table, the pain too much to watch play out.
A buzz of energy covers my shoulders when Singer’s hands rub gently. Glancing behind me, she catches my eye and asks, “Are you okay?”
“No.”
“I’m here for you.”
How? How is she so strong? So resilient? So forgiving? How can I not be madly in love with this woman? My hand covers one of hers, and as Mike hands the engagement ring to her parents as a token of his eternal love for their daughter, we keep our eyes on the city that now haunts us.
As the hours burn away, they eventually say their goodbyes. Singer and I ride the elevator with the three of them, all bonded by a tragedy that never should have happened.
They have full access to a car, and I’m taking care of their expenses while they’re here. They don’t want to stay long. The police have asked to retain the body for a full autopsy. They’ve asked to take her home.
It’s a battle no parent should ever have to fight.
When they’re gone, Singer says, “Melanie was in love with love, but I could tell she really did love Mike. I could see it in his eyes. She would have said yes to his proposal.”
I nod, not sure what to say with heavier questions hanging over us.
We all know what killed Melanie. The question that lingers is who killed her. We’re left standing there with Lars, neither of us wanting to go back up just yet. Singer says, “I want to go for a walk. I need fresh air.”
I glance to Lars before saying, “It’s not safe for you to take a walk.”
“I can’t stay cooped up there forever.”
“It’s not forever. It’s until a killer, who wants you dead, is caught,” I snap.
Her chin rises in challenge, her eyes narrowing. “You can’t keep me here.”
“That’s obvious. How did you get out the other night anyway?” I’m in no mood to contain my temper. “I gave direct orders and was told the penthouse was on lockdown.” I’m waiting for either Singer or Lars to respond and neither is anxious to engage.
He glances to her, but she’s just looking aimlessly around the garage, her arms stubbornly crossed over her chest. She swings a hand out and asks, “What are these cars?”
“What do you mean?” Not interested in the change of topic.
“Whose are they? There’s only one elevator on this floor. Yours. But there are six cars and a motorcycle. Who do they belong to?”
I point at a Corvette parked near the exit, hoping to throw her off the scent of the trail she’s wanting to travel down. “That’s his.”
She’s too quick. “And the others
?”
“Mine,” I finally fess up. I’m not ashamed. I tug at my collar, feeling the heat of her gaze.
“Why do you have so many? Who needs”—she counts the cars—“five vehicles, not counting the town car?”
“I had reasons when I bought them.”
Walking forward, she looks at the exit. “It’s things like this that make me wonder why I don’t know these things. Why didn’t I ask more questions? I just accepted everything so easily, so readily.” When I see her eyes, she adds, “I let your life, your money overshadow mine. If I had been paying attention maybe this could have been prevented.”
“Singer,” I caution. This line of thought will only lead her to more pain, more emotional devastation.
Spinning my way, her eyes narrow and her stance is solid. With her hand out, she wiggles her fingers. “Give me the keys to the Lambo.”
“No way.” I cross my arms in protest.
Lars steps into the alcove of the elevator to avoid the fight we both see coming. Smart man.
Her demands are getting harsher. “Hand them over, Everest.”
“No.”
A finely defined eyebrow is cocked. “I’ll walk then.” She turns on the heel of her sneaker and heads for the exit.
Damn. She’s doesn’t play fair.
Making me choose between her safety and my favorite car—there’s no contest, but this is going to hurt. I signal to Lars. “Get her the keys.”
Lars goes inside the office, grabs the keys from the hook, and returns. She snatches the keys without so much as a thank you as she swings them around her finger and marches toward the car. I’m hot on her heels. “Where are you going? How long are you planning on being gone?”
Abruptly, she comes to a stop, and turns back to me. “You are not my keeper, but because this is your car, I’ll give you the courtesy of answering your questions.” Spinning the key ring around her index finger, she smirks. So sexy that I’d love to kiss that grin right off her face. “I’m not sure on either.”
As if that will satisfy me, she heads to the car again. I run to the passenger side, not letting her go alone. Speaking to me over the top of the car, she says, “You can come with me on two conditions.”
Over the hood of the car, I eye her. “Name them.”
“First, there’s no destination. You’re either comfortable with that or not. If you’re not, you should stay here where you’re safe and hidden from the world.”
Her sarcasm is duly noted and not appreciated. Sassy fucking mouth. Damn kissable lips. “Second?”
“Second, no more questions. Capiche?”
“Unlock the car, Singer.”
Holding the key fob in the air, she asks, “Do you agree?”
“I agree,” I reply, rolling my eyes.
The lock pops, and I lift the door.
As soon as she starts the car, she says, “Buckle up, Mr. Everest, I’m taking you on an adventure.”
The gears grind, and I cringe. We’re not off to a good start. “Do you know how to handle a machine of this magnitude?”
“Don’t worry your cotton socks. If I can handle you, this car will be a piece of cake. The real question is—do you trust me?”
I set myself up for that one, so I don’t bother feeding the comedic beast. It’s too good to see her smile to take this little joy away from her. I take a deep breath instead, and as she gets a feel for the gears while twisting my insides with each grind, I give up control for a little while and buckle up. “I trust you.”
As we roll out of the parking garage, the overhead lights reflect in her eyes, and I see a glint of the girl who first stole my heart. If it takes sacrificing a four-hundred-thousand-dollar car, so be it. That spark of life is worth more.
33
Singer
Ethan is struggling. I see it, though he’s trying to remain calm. I know some of it is because I suck at driving a stick, but most of it is guilt. I refuse to let him do that. He’s had a year of hardships and enough loss to last five lifetimes. He needs a break. He needs to smile. He needs to find happiness, and that’s what I intend to help him do.
It’s just after nine at night and the streets are way too packed to let this baby loose. I’m really not good with a manual transmission in traffic. “Sorry,” I say, sneaking a peek at him.
“Don’t be.” I feel joyful when I see him smile for the first time today.
“It’s been awhile since I’ve driven a stick shift.”
“By the way you’re torturing this innocent car, I’m surprised you know how to drive one at all.”
“Dang, man,” I tease, “don’t go easy on me or anything.” We stop at a light. I had pumped the brake when we went through the last intersection. I’m not willing to risk this car on last-minute slip-ups. “Maybe you should drive.”
“If you wanted me to take you for a ride, all you had to do was ask.” He winks, but his heart isn’t in it. I start to wonder if we’re putting on a front for each other.
“Will you take me for a ride, Mr. Everest?”
“Take the next right.”
Several blocks down, I pull into a hotel roundabout, and we swap seats. Reaching into the back, he pulls out a baseball hat and puts it on as if he’s missed it as much as the car. He’s at home behind the wheel, which makes me curious how often he gets to drive it. “When was the last time you drove this car?”
“It’s been a few months.”
My lips part. “Really? Such a waste.”
“Brace yourself.” He punches the pedal when all the lanes are clear, zipping us across four and taking a right. The horsepower sends my back to the seat and my hands out to hold on to the door and dash. But his words remind me of last night, our connection a constant in this maddening world. I’m bracing, holding on for my life, not from his driving or the danger of the speed limit that’s currently being broken. I’m bracing myself for the plummet that’s surely circling outside my consciousness.
Once we’re across the Henry Hudson Bridge, I realize where we are and break my own rules. “We’re leaving the city?”
“First, there’s no destination. Second, no questions. You made me promise, baby. I’m holding you to the same.”
I see the smirk tempting the corners of his lush lips. I love their fullness, their pressure, the way they possess mine with each kiss. And damn do I want a kiss. “Very funny.”
“Those are the rules if you want to go on an adventure, Ms. Davis.”
His phone lights up, a text filling up a portion of the screen. I lean in, out of habit, to read it, which makes him laugh. “Nosy much?”
Sitting back, I laugh. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I have nothing to hide from you, Singer. Do you mind reading it to me?”
“It has a bunch of question marks. That’s it.” I look to him for the explanation.
“Thanks.”
“Thanks? That’s it? No, I need more. We’re sharing here, so share.”
“He’s wondering where I am. It’s not safe, so he’s checking in.”
Resting my head on the seat, I watch him behind the wheel commanding the car like he commands my body—owning every last inch of it. “When I’m with you, I forget about your money. Do you ever forget?”
“I’m reminded every damn minute of every damn day, except when I’m with you.” He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses gently. “You’re a nice escape, Ms. Davis.”
I bring his to my lips and kiss with the same affection. Sitting back, I admire the scenery. I like the lack of skyscrapers and enjoy seeing all the trees. They’re hard to see at night, but knowing they’re there, reminds me of home. Home. Melanie.
My heart hurts, so I try to push that pain aside again for just a little while. “With all your money, I would have thought Lars would have a tracker on this baby.”
“He does.” Ethan laughs. “He was tailing us in the city, but I lost him a few blocks before the bridge when I turned off the tracking device. I think he got the message.�
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Smiling that Ethan is now the rebel, I ask, “What message was that?”
“That I wanted to be alone with you.”
His hand returns to the steering wheel, but I wish I could hold it longer, Reality is always on standby ready to smack me right back into it. I say, “As much as I love the thought of us escaping the city for a while, it’s not safe to do so. I don’t want anyone hurting you.”
“They’re trying, Singer.” He looks at me before his gaze shifts back to the road again. “It’s you I’m worried about, not me.”
“Then why did you agree to this?”
“Because you needed to get out. I could tell you were restless.” Reaching forward he presses a button. “The tracker is back on. For our safety.”
It feels so final to know that our little bubble has burst once again, but I’m starting to realize this is it. If I want to be with him, this is how our life will be—busted bubbles and tracking devices.
* * *
Just outside Yonkers is a little old-timey roadside diner, the parking lot is gravel and the lights stay on twenty-four hours a day. There aren’t any other Lamborghinis in the parking lot, but there are a few Mercedes and a BMW. Also a few trucks that have seen better days, and a few cars similar to the one I had in Boulder before I sold it to move to New York.
I could spend a few hours sitting in a window booth, staring at the highway as cars pass by. It would satisfy the people-watching craving I haven’t fed in a long time. Ethan’s shoulders are stiff, his demeanor intimidating if I didn’t know him better. He’s on high alert. I understand, but it’s the same feeling I wanted to escape when I took the car in the first place. Here it is swallowing us again. He won’t admit he has safety concerns sitting in this restaurant, but I feel it in the way his hand on my back has added pressure as he grips the back of my shirt. I see it when he asks me to sit next to him on the same side of the booth, me tucked on the inside, both of us facing the door.
“Melanie found love. We came to New York in pursuit of our dream careers, but she found love.” I look at Ethan and add, “Like us, which is better than any job could ever be.”
