by Holly Hart
“Hey there, needy,” my husband grins. “I’ll be back later.”
He bites his lip. “I think we’ve got a lot of getting to know each other to do…”
My cheeks flush with awkwardness once again. It only serves to broaden the smile on Charlie’s face. I wish I could read a manual on how to deal with this guy. He’s always so calm, so confident. By contrast, I feel awkward at every turn.
“Listen, Charlie,” I whisper. “About last night…”
“About last night nothing,” he growls. His demeanor changes in an instant, like roiling thunder clouds.
“You got nothing to be ashamed of, Penny. Listen. I’m a father. I’ve raised this beautiful, perfect little girl. That kind of thing changes your outlook on life, you know that?”
I sniff, and look anywhere other than Charlie Thorne’s gorgeous, caring face. I’m unsure exactly where he’s going with this.
“I s’pose.”
Charlie cups my chin, lifting it an inch at a time.
I lose myself in his caring gray eyes. They don’t look like they belong to a ruthless billionaire, anything but. Charlie makes me feel like I’m the only person in the room. I mean – I am the only person in the room. But Charlie Thorne could make me feel this way even if we were standing in the center of Yankee Stadium.
“You should do more than suppose, Penny. You’re a hell of a girl; don’t ever think anything less of yourself. One day, when she’s all grown up,” – Charlie scowls – “hopefully about fifty years from now, Tilly will meet a guy.”
“Are you sure about that?” I half-sniff, half-giggle.
“Well, not if I can do anything to stop it,” Charlie allows. “And believe me, I’ll do my best.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I whisper.
Charlie’s radiating this fierce intensity. I truly believe that he would do anything to protect the woman he loves: in this case, his daughter Tilly. I know it’s crazy, but I can’t help but hope that one day he can love me the way he clearly loves her.
“Anyway,” Charlie growls, getting back on track. “I just hope she meets the kind of man who will treat her right.”
“I’m pretty sure she will,” I say. “You’re a good dad, I can tell. You’ve brought her up right.”
I see a flash of – something – in Charlie’s eyes; a hint that something’s changing inside him. As if – just maybe – he’s beginning to see me in a whole different light. Or maybe I’m just seeing what I want to see.
A crack of sparks runs out of his fingers and through my chin, exactly where he’s holding me. He chews his lip, and grimaces.
“Crap,” he grunts.
“What –?”
Charlie leans forward in one swift movement. He doesn’t give me time to react. His lips graze mine in a kiss that lasts just a fraction of a second, but leaves me desperately wanting more.
“I’ve got to go,” Charlie mutters. I’ve still got the taste of him on my lips. Mixed with blueberries, it’s kind of nice. “The meeting.”
“Oh.”
Charlie plucks the knife and fork from my fingers, cuts a quarter of the stack and impales it with the fork. He lifts it, dripping with glistening dark maple syrup, and holds it an inch from his lips.
“What about you?” He asks. “I’ll be back around lunch. But you can do anything you want in the meantime. If you want, I’ll get Nolan to fire up the heli –”
I shake my head while Charlie’s still speaking. The idea of having a man fly me wherever I want is alluring, but it’s also intimidating. I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Not yet.
“I’ll manage,” I grin, “somehow. No – I need to head home, pick a few things up.”
A droplet of maple syrup falls from the morsel of pancakes on Charlie’s fork and against the marble counter. “A car, then?”
“Eat your damn pancakes, Charlie,” I grin. “I’m fine. I’ll do it the old-fashioned way.”
Charlie shrugs, as if to say have your own way. He stuffs his mouth with a teetering stack of pancakes that’s way too big to chew. As he’s struggling through it, I stand up and plant a gentle kiss on his lips. He tries to respond in kind, but only ends up spluttering. I can’t help the deep belly laugh that rips out of me.
“Oh, and Charlie,” I whisper. “Thanks for breakfast.”
I walk back to my room, still tasting the blueberries.
Chapter Thirteen
Penny
I ride the B-line what seems like a hundred stops all the way down to Prospect Park. After the luxury I’ve been submerged in over the last few days, the subway carriage is a shock. The windows are scrawled with graffiti tags I can’t decipher, and it smells faintly of stale urine.
The sudden change feels like hopping out of a sauna into a snowy field. It hits me right in the face.
“Hey, girl,” a bum grunts. He shuffles down the platform holding a liquor bottle wrapped in brown paper. “You look like you need a drink.”
“I’m good, thanks,” I reply – realizing even as the words leave my mouth that I’ve made my first mistake.
Rule number one in New York, or any big city, really, never ever engage a stranger. Sometimes I daydream about what moving to a small town would be like. Somewhere out in the Midwest, maybe. I’ve only ever lived the rat race, crammed into Big Apple apartment blocks that were meant to house hundreds but ended up with thousands.
I want space.
I want a big garden, with plenty of green grass. Hell, I can’t remember the last time I felt fresh blades of grass beneath my toes. I wonder what Charlie would say if I suggested a picnic down in Central Park.
“Aw, girl – don’t be like that,” the guy says. I shake myself back to the present. This guy doesn’t worry me, but I know better than to daydream at a time like this. “Just a sip.”
The subway car slows. The wheels beneath us rattle, and the tunnel lights up as an electric shock discharges.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “This is my stop.”
The guy throws a slurred insult at my departing back, but it bounces off me. I thought it a thousand times, and I’ve heard it a thousand times worse.
I make it out of Prospect Park subway station without further incident, through the barriers, and into a slight morning chill. I’m wearing what little I packed with me when I moved into Charlie’s apartment.
His penthouse, rather.
I can’t exactly walk around in my old Brooklyn neighborhood wearing the brand-new two thousand dollar coats that have begun to fill my closets. I don’t know where they are coming from, or who Charlie’s sending out to get them – or even if he’s behind it at all. Maybe little things like clothing are just one of the perks of being a billionaire – they just appear like magic.
Walking the streets of my old neighborhood feels strange. It’s only been a few days – yet everything’s changed.
I walk swiftly, and my favorite pair of studded black leather boots jangle and click against the sidewalk. I love the shoes. They’re my bad-bitch-on-business boots. They don’t exactly fit with the swanky outfits in my closet, but I don’t care. They are the little bit of homeless Penny that I’m bringing with me.
It’s not long before I’m back at my apartment block.
I look up at the brick edifice. It punctures the air like a rotten tooth. The bricks – once a dark red are now blackened by years of pollution. It’s easier to count the windows that aren’t boarded up than those which are.
“Home sweet home,” I mutter.
The elevator’s broken, because it’s always broken. I don’t like taking it anyway. This place is full of junkies and thieves. Not the kind of people you want to get stuck between floors in a metal box with, if you know what I mean.
Anyone who can afford not to live here doesn’t. I wouldn’t either, but it’s all Robbie and I could afford when we signed the lease.
Eighteen months later, we’re still here. At least, Robbie is. My circumstances have changed, just a little.
I
haul myself up half a dozen flights of stairs. I’m panting slightly by the time I make it to the top. It’s another reminder that I need to get back to the gym. I’m still recovering when I get to my front door.
It’s ajar.
My heart beat kicks into overdrive. The breath catches in my chest. If the urine in the elevator, the cigarettes stubbed out on the fire escape stairs, and the smashed up windows didn’t give it away – I’ll just come out and tell you. This isn’t the kind of place you want to leave your front door open.
I don’t.
Even Robbie’s not foolhardy enough to think that this is a good idea. We’re deadbolt and chains kind of roommates. Not in a kinky way, but for survival.
I press my chest up against the hallway wall and calm my panting breath. I listen out for any sign that someone’s inside.
Nothing.
I push the door open, moving as slowly and carefully as I can. Even so, it shrieks. I wince. I’ve been meaning to oil the hinges for weeks, but obviously never got around to it.
“Robbie?” I whisper. “Are you there?”
Nothing: no sign of Robbie; the longer I’m here, the less I like it.
Our home is a – probably illegal – subdivision of what were once two decent-sized apartments. A small, cramped hallway leads to an equally small, cramped living area that doubles as Robbie’s bedroom. Coat racks hanging off either wall, stacked high with piles of coats. We might be poor, but we’re still girls.
But that means is even less space in the hallway than that otherwise might be. I don’t normally feel claustrophobic, but I’m feeling it now. It’s a pulsating sensation, like a throbbing headache. My palms are wet and sticky with sweat.
I should run.
I crouch down and go for the nearest weapon I can find: a croquet mallet. Don’t even ask me why we have it – it was a Robbie thrift-shop purchase. It was only two bucks, but I still think she got over-charged.
Even so, I’ve never been more grateful to see the big old wooden hammer that I’ve been stubbing my toe on it for the last six months. The wooden handle is comfortingly smooth in my hand. I promise myself that if I make it out of here, I’ll never moan at Robbie for cluttering our small apartment again.
“Is – Is anyone here?”
My voice is still faint and nervous.
I’m breathing heavily now. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins. My legs are jittery from the chemical, but strangely the desire to get the hell out of here has faded away.
No – I feel angry. The more I think about it, the stronger the feeling gets. Someone’s been in my home, and I’m pissed off.
Run? Hell. I’m going to fight.
I knock into a coat off the rack to my right, and it causes an avalanche: like a rockslide, only made out of moth-eaten thrift-shop coats. Well the element of surprise – now gone.
I charge around the corner into the living room, wielding a threatening mallet in my hand. My heart is pounding like it never has before. I’m terrified, and yet for some strange reason I’m charging forward into danger.
Someone’s been here, I’m certain of it. I can smell it.
I come to a sudden and immediate stop. The sight before my eyes hits me with an almost physical punch.
“Oh my God,” I gulp. Someone’s been here, all right; and destroyed the place.
Robbie’s room is in tatters. It looks like someone’s torn through it searching for drugs. The foldaway bed she sleeps on is lying on its side. Someone’s taken a knife and ripped through the upholstery, then dug in and torn it out.
“Robbie –?” I call.
I hear a thundering in my ears. It’s a mixture between short, shallow breaths and a heartbeat pounding like drums. I’m dreading what I might find. If Robbie was here when this place was ransacked, then –
Don’t think about it.
The living the room is small enough that it doesn’t take more than a couple of seconds to find out that Robbie’s not here. The floor is covered with our – now smashed – DVD collection. Shards of glass coat the floor from a collection of half-burnt Yankee candles…
…also smashed…
…Obviously.
My blood boils. I don’t know who did this, but I want to find them. And when I do, I’ll squeeze their balls until they squeal.
Who breaks into a place like ours? There’s no cash to find. The furniture’s been rescued from besides dumpsters, the decorations all home-made.
I hear a screech: a thundering: a clattering; a cry of pain.
I spin. My heart beat rises to unexplored levels: beating so fast I worry it will stretch too far. The mallet slips out of my hand, thudding against the floor.
“Shit,” I gasp.
It’s a pigeon: a fucking pigeon. Two, actually; fighting on the window ledge. A flurry of feathers explodes up; then swirls lazily down once they get caught on the breeze. I run my hand through my hair and close my eyes briefly as I recover from the shock.
“Jesus,” I whisper. “I do not need you guys in my life right now.”
Once I’m recovered from the panic, I pick my way through the rest of my shattered apartment. It only takes a couple of seconds to reassure myself that Robbie’s not here. But someone has been; and whoever that someone was, they picked through every last inch of our apartment.
My fear for Robbie’s safety has faded. But it’s been replaced by a less acute, yet no more serious worry.
Who did this, and why? They’ve been through the bank records I keep under my bed, my high-school transcript, everything.
This wasn’t a thief. Thieves don’t rummage through middle school report cards, especially not in this part of town. They are looking for something they can flip quickly, something to get them their next fix.
No, it’s obvious that this is a private investigator’s work. The question now is; who’s paying them; and is it Charlie Thorne..?
The ride back uptown seems to take twice as long. I scrunch my clothes in my hands, trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.
If Charlie really is having me followed, and getting people to go through my house, then I’m in trouble. I have a strange mixture of feelings toward him. On the one hand, I feel betrayed – betrayed that he doesn’t trust me, betrayed that he would do something this drastic.
But on the other – I can’t blame him. After all, he’s right not to trust me. I entered his life with the intention of stealing from him. It doesn’t matter that I’m beginning to doubt I can go through with it.
“C’mon, Robbie,” I mutter. I must have tried Robbie’s cell phone a hundred times since tearing out of our apartment so fast it was like I had hounds from hell on my tail.
Seeing our place in tatters like that terrified me.
It made me realize that nowhere is safe: not even our own home. I’ve never been burgled before – never had anything worth stealing – but I imagine that it feels the same way: shocking, like someone’s reached into your life and violated the things you hold most dear.
My cell phone beeps for the hundred and first time, and I throw it grumpily into my purse. I’m sure Robbie’s fine – just sleeping off a hangover somewhere – but until I know for sure, the panic runs riot.
The last leg of the journey takes me through Central Park. I see Charlie’s penthouse from what feels like miles away. It gives me time to think.
“Why do you have to be such a good man, you asshole?” I groan. A couple of mothers pushing strollers look at me out of the corner of their eyes, and quickly divert around me.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Charlie Thorne was supposed to be an amoral, heartless, ruthless businessman. I was supposed to rip him off and feel good about it – not like this. Now I’m scared, conflicted – and not a little lost.
But what the hell am I supposed to do?
Get a divorce? I’ve only been married a couple of days!
Come clean?
The thought strikes me like a thunderbolt. Once it enters my mind, it
’s all I can think of. I wonder what Robbie would think. Hell – I don’t need to. I know exactly what my best friend would say if she could hear my thoughts. She’d chew me out!
In no time at all, I find myself back at Charlie’s apartment building. I greet the doorman with a tight-lipped smile. He’s a nice guy, and deserves more than that, but right now I’m too stressed out to give it.
I ride the elevator up. The higher it climbs, the more the guilt rises in my throat. Trepidation builds in my stomach, but I know what I’m going to do. It’s the only thing I can do.
I’m going to confess everything to Charlie. I’ll throw myself on his mercy.
Maybe, just maybe, we’ll be able to work things out. Because the truth is – I never thought I would say this – I’m beginning to like him.
And I’ve never met a better man.
As the elevator doors slide open, I hear Charlie’s voice in the distance. I don’t know why, but I feel almost as though I’m eavesdropping. Then I can’t help myself.
I freeze, and listen.
Chapter Fourteen
Charlie
I tap a button on my iPhone, and a familiar cascading chime plays on the apartment’s surround sound speakers. I press another button – this time on a wall console – and a set of shutter blinds descend from the ceiling to block out the lunchtime sunshine.
“Hey, baby, can you hear me?” I ask.
An image of my daughter flashes up on the huge wall-mounted television: kind of, anyway. At the moment she’s as stretched and distorted as an abstract painting. Electronic static crackles through the speakers, causing me to wince.
“Tilly?”
The feed settles down a second later – but my daughter doesn’t. As always, she grabs the iPad, and I go on a little dance with her via the magic of Face Time. I’m half-dizzy by the time she has settled down on the bed, lying on her side.
I don’t mind.
It’s just nice to see her face. This hockey trip to Europe is the longest we’ve ever been apart. I know it’s only seven days, but it feels like seven months – at least to me.
