by Hannah Ford
WHAT HE RESISTS (WHAT HE WANTS, BOOK NINE)
by Hannah Ford
Copyright 2015, Hannah Ford, all rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CHARLOTTE
It was two hours before I was able to peel myself off the floor.
I dragged myself to the shower, hoping it would wash off the night and the trauma of what had just happened – both at Force and after. The steam from the water brought down the puffiness of my eyes, and opened my sinuses so that I felt like I could breath again.
But instead of making me feel better, all it did was allow a fresh batch of tears to overtake me. I’d thought I was all cried out, but my body and my heart proved otherwise as the sobs overwhelmed me once again, causing me to rest my forehead against the cool smoothness of the mosaic tiles that lined the shower.
I was too exhausted to attempt something as easy as washing my hair, so instead, I just let the water wash over me until my skin was pruned and the room was so filled with steam I could barely see.
I thought briefly about tending to my cut – I’d ripped off the gauze before I’d gotten into the shower – but I didn’t care enough to make the effort.
I fell into bed.
But I didn’t sleep.
The room was pitch black, the shades the kind that didn’t allow any light in.
The sounds of the city did their best to invade through the silence, but they were reduced to background noise this far up from the street.
I existed in a weird dreamlike state, halfway between wake and sleep, letting the muted sounds and the darkness lull me into a half-sleep, where I wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t.
But at six am, there was a hard knock on the door that caused me to bolt upright in bed.
I rushed to the door, grabbing a robe out of the closet on the way and throwing it on.
Noah.
It had to be.
But when I flung open the door, the hallway was empty, except for a room service cart sitting there unattended.
I opened the metal domes. Pancakes. Fruit. Bacon. Eggs.
I hadn’t ordered anything, which meant it must have been a standing order, one Noah had placed to be delivered at six am every morning when his suite was occupied. I stared down at the food, the smell of it making me want to dry heave.
I hated that it was meant for him, hated that he had such control over everything in his life that even his food would just show up, perfectly prepared, without him needing to do anything.
And then I noticed something else.
Next to the room service cart were two sleek black bags – one was a standing suitcase, the other a laptop bag.
I picked up the suitcase and tipped it over on its side, then unzipped it. Inside were the clothes I’d been keeping at Noah’s. All of them had been washed and neatly folded -- no doubt by some faceless housekeeper or assistant -- before being laid carefully inside.
I knew without even opening it that I’d find my computer in the other bag, but I unzipped it anyway, just to be sure.
My laptop was there, along with a shiny new iPhone.
I took out the phone. All my contacts had been migrated onto it, along with all of my text messages and music. Noah had somehow figured out a way to not only get me a new phone, but to make sure it was set up with everything I’d had on my old one.
I had felt weak lying in bed just a moment ago – the crying had zapped my energy and depleted my strength.
But it was a trick.
I wasn’t weak.
My strength wasn’t gone.
He’d tried to take it.
But I wasn’t going to let him.
I reached down and grabbed the room service cart, and then, with a powerful scream, I tipped it over. Plates crashed to the floor, glasses shattered, and food spilled everywhere.
I’d given him a night to make me feel helpless.
And now I was done.
***
The first thing I did was shower, for real this time, using the expensive shampoos and conditioners that came with the room, blasting Katy Perry’s Roar on repeat from the iPhone speakers that wirelessly pumped music through every room.
Then I dressed carefully for class, taking my ruined dress and Noah’s sweater and balling them up before tossing them into the trash. There was something satisfying about pushing his beautiful, expensive piece of clothing into a hotel wastebasket.
But just as quickly as the satisfaction had come, it went, leaving me with a feeling of regret. The sweater was the only thing I had to connect me to him. (The bracelet he’d given me had also been lost at some point last night, a fitting metaphor for everything that had happened.) I resisted the urge to pull the sweater back out of the garbage, instead turning my back on it and walking out of the room.
For the first time since my decision not to let him get the best of me, longing overtook me, threatening to pull me back into the abyss of missing him.
Keep moving. Focus on something else.
The library. I’d go to the library before class, I decided.
Once I was there, I’d immediately get to work on finding a new place to live. It wouldn’t be easy – New York City real estate was cutthroat even if you had unlimited funds, which I most certainly did not -- but at least the process would be started.
I didn’t want to stay in this hotel any longer than I needed to.
My decision made, I took the elevator down to the lobby. The city was already bustling with activity, and as I stepped out onto the street, I took a deep breath and told myself everything was going to be okay.
I was halfway to the subway when my phone rang.
Noah.
It had to be.
He was calling to take it back, to tell me what happened last night had been a mistake, that we needed to talk.
But it wasn’t Noah.
It was Professor Worthington.
Calling me at 7 am.
Whatever he was calling about, it couldn’t be good.
I cleared my throat before answering, but even so, I could tell my voice sounded scratchy from lack of sleep. “Hello?”
“Charlotte,” he said. “It’s Professor Worthington.” His voice was more muted than usual, almost like he was tired. Usually Professor Worthington was no-nonsense, barking orders and trying to get things done.
“Hello,” I said. I gripped the phone in my hand, not sure what else to say.
“Are you able to stop by this morning to chat?” he asked.
“Of course. I was on my way to campus right now, shall I come to your office?”
“I’m not going to be on campus today, I have…” He trailed off. “I’m taking a personal day. Is there any way you could meet me for coffee?”
“Sure.”
He rattled off the address of a coffee shop on the Upper East Side, and I jotted it down dutifully on a pad.
“Can you be there in an hour?”
“Yes.” I hesitated. It wasn’t that weird for Worthington to be calling me -- after all, he’d done it before. But still. It was early, and there was something off-putting about his call, something weird about him asking me to meet for coffee instead of just waiting until he was back in the office. It felt like something urgent and important had come up, but he didn’t sound urgent or hurried. It was a strange disconnect,and it made me nervous.
“Is there anything wrong, Professor?” I asked finally.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “We’ll talk abo
ut it when I see you.”
“Okay.” I swallowed. “I’ll see you in an hour.”
“Good bye, Charlotte.”
“Good bye, Professor.”
***
The coffee shop Worthington had chosen was one of those hipster places, the kind that served kale smoothies and wheat-free, dairy-free, everything-free pastries. I ordered an almond milk latte and found a seat by the window.
I was a couple of minutes early, and I used the time to set my email up on my new phone, taking a certain pleasure in the fact that Noah hadn’t been able to migrate over my addresses.
Professor Worthington appeared a few moments later, wearing jeans and a loose sweater, looking more relaxed than he usually did during class.
“Have you been waiting long?” he asked.
“No.” I shook my head as he slipped into the chair across from me. He’d already gotten his coffee, plain black in a white ceramic mug.
A moment of silence stretched between us, the kind of silence I knew I should attempt to fill with small talk, but I didn’t want to waste time on the weather or how good the coffee was. I wanted to know why I was here.
“I’m sorry for being so forward, Professor, but I have to admit I’m quite curious as to why you invited me here.” I congratulated myself on how professional and formal I sounded, how my voice didn’t shake even after everything that had happened last night.
Professor Worthington sighed. “Have you been happy, Charlotte?” he asked.
I frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
He smiled. “I mean, have you been happy working on the Cutler case?”
“The experience is gong to be invaluable,” I said. “I’m so honored to be included.”
He waved his hand, like he was shooing my words away. “No, I know the experience is great. What I meant is, have you been happy working with Mr. Cutler?”
His eyes bore into mine, and my face flamed. I gripped my coffee cup with both hands, letting the hot ceramic warm my skin. I needed to choose my words carefully.
“Noah can be difficult,” I said. “But every case has its challenges. Why do you ask?”
“Noah called me this morning, Charlotte. He asked me to take you off his case.”
“Take me off his case?”
“Yes. He said he wanted you to be removed, that he wouldn’t be speaking with you any more about it.”
“Oh.” I nodded. I could feel the words bubbling up to my lips, could feel them already forming. I’m sorry he feels that way. Of course I understand. I’ll respect his wishes. I’d love to be considered for any future cases.
But none of that was true.
I didn’t respect his wishes.
Noah was being a jerk, plain and simple – requesting to take me off the case after the things he’d done to me last night? Dropping my things off at my hotel room this morning, without a note or an explanation or anything?
How dare you.
He thought he could just brush me under the rug like I was a crumb, like I was something that could just be erased, the way he’d erased all traces of me from his apartment.
Fuck that.
“Professor Worthington,” I said, thrusting my chin in the air. “With all due respect, I wasn’t aware that attorneys were in the business of letting their clients dictate who they want working on their case.”
He shook his head. “Charlotte, I understand this might be –”
“No.” I cut him off. I didn’t care if I was being disrespectful or overstepping my bounds. I was sick of this. Yes, I’d done something wrong by getting involved with a client -- I shouldn’t have slept with Noah.
But Professor Worthington had known it was going on – he might not have wanted to admit it, but he’d practically pushed me at Noah, almost used me to get Noah to trust us. I wasn’t going to be punished for that. And I wasn’t going to let the fact that Noah had broken my heart get in the way of the experience I could gain from working on this case. Why should I deprive myself of something that could be good for my career?
“I understand if Mr. Cutler wishes to work with you on a more direct basis, but I should certainly still be able to help with any research or paperwork,” I said, surprised at how in control and direct I sounded.
“Charlotte, Mr. Cutler has made his wishes very clear.”
“Again, I didn’t know we were in the business of letting our clients dictate how to give them the best defense.” I paused and took a sip of my coffee. Despite my strong tone, my hand was shaking, and as I set my latte back down on the table, liquid sloshed onto the side of the cup, threatening to spill onto the table. Fortunately, Professor Worthington didn’t notice. He was staring out the window, contemplating.
He was on the fence, I could tell.
So I decided to take a chance. I had nothing to lose.
“If you want my opinion, Professor, that’s the thing that’s going to sink this case. Letting Noah Cutler think he can provide a better defense for himself than you can.”
I saw Professor Worthington’s eyes flinch just a little bit, and I knew I’d gotten to him. If there was one thing that defense attorneys, good ones anyway, had in common, it was their egos. They wanted to be the best. They wanted control.
Professor Worthington’s phone rang then, and he reached into his pocket and pulled it out. He frowned at the caller ID, and my heart sank.
Please don’t be Noah, I thought.
“Yes, Camilla?” Professor Worthington said, and my heart returned to its normal rhythm. “No,” the professor said, sounding annoyed. He looked at his watch. “No, you said ten o’clock. Well, that doesn’t work now, Camilla, does it? It’s – ” His jaw hardened into a line. “Fine. Bring him to my office. I will meet you there.” He hung up the phone and drained the rest of his coffee. “Sorry,” he said. “I have to go.”
“Is there anything I can help with?” I asked.
“No, it’s my wife. Well, soon to be ex-wife. We’re still working out custody, and she doesn’t understand that leaving our son with whatever man she’s fucking this week isn’t acceptable.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Charlotte, that was inappropriate.”
“No, it’s fine,” I said. “I’m sorry to hear you’re going through that.” I shifted on my chair. I had that same weird feeling I always got when I was allowed a glimpse into the life of someone extremely successful, whether it was a doctor or a lawyer or a pop star. Their personal lives all seemed like a mess.
Professor Worthington stood up and grabbed his bag.
“So about the Cutler case…” I said.
He sighed and looked at me. “Fine,” he said. “You’re still on. But only in a research capacity. You’re not to have any direct contact with Noah. Do you understand?”
I nodded. “Of course.” That would be easy, since he’d basically thrown me out of his house and his life. “Thank you, Professor.”
“There’s an evidentiary hearing we have to prepare for,” he said. “I’ll send you over Katie Price’s email address, you can start going through her emails, looking for anything we might have missed.”
“Sounds great.”
“And Charlotte?” Professor Worthington said, right before he turned to leave. “Please be careful.”
“I will.”
***
I forced myself to go to class and then spend a few hours in the library, catching up on my reading and answering “roommate wanted’ ads on Craigslist.
I was dying to get back to my hotel suite and begin going through Katie Price’s email account – Professor Worthington had sent me the log in info, just like he’d promised – but I also needed to keep up with my classes. If I flunked out of law school, it wouldn’t matter how much trial experience I had.
It was six o’clock by the time I got back to The Hawthorne, and I ordered a turkey club and French fries from room service, making sure to pay for it with my own credit card and not Noah’s.
And then I dove into Katie’s emails.
I started at the beginning.
There were thousands and thousands of them. Katie didn’t delete anything, and she was very chatty.
Most of her emails were to a girl named Madeline. From what I could glean, Madeline was a friend of Katie’s and couldn’t text while she was at work, so the two of them would have long conversations over email. Most of it was banal and almost made me want to fall asleep – they’d talk about clothes they’d bought, tv shows they’d seen, plans for the weekend.
But somewhere around six months or so ago, Katie began mentioning a man she was seeing. At first, he was just a guy she was flirting with. But soon it became more serious.
“I can’t give details,” she wrote. “We have to keep it secret for now.”
“Who is he?” Madeline demanded. “I need to know!”
“Call him Mr. X,” Katie replied. “He’s the hottest, sexiest man I’ve ever known. He’s not a little boy, Maddy. He makes me come over and over and over again. He likes to tie me up and spank me, and we pretend I’m his little girl.”
Bile rose in my throat.
Mr. X.
Noah had drawn an X on me the first night I’d met him, and I’d called him that in my head. Could Katie have been talking about Noah? Could he be the one who was tying her up and making her come over and over again?
He’d told me he hadn’t been involved with Katie. But was that true? Had he been lying?
I’d done so well all day, constantly moving and focusing on school, keeping my personal feelings for Noah from invading my thoughts. But now they threatened to pull me under like a tidal wave.
You don’t even know him, I told myself. He was never yours, not the way you wanted him to be.
Of course, that was part of the problem –I’d wanted so desperately to be the one to break down his walls. I’d thought I’d be the one to finally convince him it was worth it.
But the truth was, there was no such thing as fairy tales. I was like every other stupid woman who’d met a damaged man and though her love for him could heal his wounds. And the realization that it couldn’t – and the fact that I didn’t even really want to let go of that hope – left me feeling so sad and pathetic that my eyes welled up with tears.
