And get it back I will.
***
The only thing more beautiful than springtime in New York is that week just before it yields to the grip of summer’s heat and dark green foliage. I’ve been back in the city for no less than three days now, and despite my convictions to move out and restart my life, I’m still safely ensconced in Vincent’s house, under lock and key.
This should upset me, piss me off, anything but the weird relief I’m feeling…but I can’t muster up the bitterness when I think of the eerie feeling of being watched that I’d experienced the moment I’ stepped off the plane.
It had been so bad I’d scuttled closer to Vincent, relaxing only when he’d slung an arm around me and pulled me closer into the heat and protection of his body.
“Please tell me you’ve at least started!”
“Calm down, Vern, I have two pieces ready and three months to finish the rest. Have I ever let you down?”
My ear echoes sharply with his heavy sighs and rantings, and it takes a supreme force of will and outright stubborn patience not to tell the man to freak off and go get a clue.
Seriously, had I ever really wished to be a success? It’s turned out to be more a pain in my ass than scrounging for every penny. ‘Be careful what you wish for’ has become the catchphrase of my life.
First I’d wanted success, something I’ve started to loathe more and more with each passing day, and then I’d wished for Vincent to love me. Well, he doesn’t love me, but he does feel something, and it turns out when Vincent Blake feels something—even possessiveness—it means he’s as stubborn as a mule.
When Vern finally lets me go, I do something I’ve been holding off for days and dial my lawyer, deciding once and for all to stop being a ninny and just get things done.
Then I quietly pack a few things, grab my latest canvases, and do what I need to.
“Where to, miss?”
I look back at the house for a minute, feeling a lump clog my constricted throat before turning back to the cabbie with a resolute set to my lips and giving him the address of the apartment Parker is renting to me.
It’s small for a place of its price, but in the middle of Manhattan, and close enough to all my old haunts that I can’t help but feel welcome when the doorman takes me up and places my things just inside the door.
“Mr Parker said you’re having some trouble with a stalker. No worries, ma’am, the other doormen have been informed and we have an excellent security system. This here’s the panic button, and there are three more, one in the kitchen, bedroom, and living room. The fire escapes also can’t be accessed without our alarms being tripped, and the elevator can’t be used without one of us seeing.”
“Thank you so much, that makes me feel a lot better,” I murmur, releasing the tension in my shoulders enough to take a deep breath.
“You’re most welcome, ma’am. This intercom patches directly to the main desk, so if you need anything or you’re feeling antsy, just call and one of us will come on up. Oh, I almost forgot. Here’s the key for your place next door.”
“What…what are you talking about?” I stutter, taking the single, ribbon-wrapped key with shaking hands.
“Mr Parker owns the unit next to this one. He said you’d need a place to work and he didn’t want you inhaling fumes or something.”
It takes me ten minutes to unpack before curiosity grips me in an unshakable hold and I dash next door, opening the door with a giggle and the stirrings of the first mirth I’ve felt in days.
The place is bare but for an empty easel, a few art supplies, and a note that urges me to paint his next investment. When I get back to the apartment, still shaking my head at the lengths to which Parker has gone to ensure my safety and happiness, it’s to find my phone blowing up with calls and messages.
Seems the big bad wolf has finally noticed that I’m gone, and you know what? That makes me smile more than anything else.
I’m not hiding anymore, but I’ll be goddamned if I’ll allow Vincent Blake to win this war. A war I’m fighting for my heart. Or what’s left of it.
“Hello.”
“Where the bloody hell are you?”
I pull the phone away from my blistered ear and meander to the refrigerator, looking for something to suit my mood. Parker, knowing me so well, has left a six pack of beer and a chocolate cake that’s worth its weight in gold.
“I’m at home in my new apartment.”
Short and sweet, Cecelia. Do not get into a war of words with the man; you know he always wins.
“Your home is here with me,” he barks, killing my smile. “Have you forgotten Brennan is still loose in the city?”
As if. I’d already bought a can of pepper spray, a tiny thing with one dose that’s small enough to carry around in my pocket and go undetected, or to hide under my pillow.
“Nope. Don’t worry, Vin.” I restrain a giggle because I know how much he hates me shortening his name. “The building has top notch security, and I’ve called a security agency to arrange a bodyguard to shadow me from a distance. Also, my lawyer will be in touch soon to hammer out the divorce.”
His breath hitches, the sound so muted I almost miss it. Someone’s obviously not on board with this, but at the moment I could give a damn. I’d warned him about this, and despite the way my chest hurts just thinking about never being with him again, I’m completely decided on this course of action.
I don’t trust him anymore, and that…it’s too hard to love someone I can’t fully trust with my heart or happiness.
“Dove, listen to me—”
“Nope. Have a good evening, Vincent.”
Chapter Thirty Three
“But Sis, you have to come over for Justin’s birthday! He’ll be crushed if you miss it.”
“Mama, I told you I already talked to him yesterday and explained how busy I am. He said it’s fine as long as the gift arrives on time,” I say for the hundredth time, frustrated by her nagging and the blob of color staring from my canvas.
“But… You haven’t spoken to Beau since you got back. Please, Sissy, just come home for a few days so we can clear things up between you. I can’t understand what’s going on.”
It’s the same conversation we’ve been having for the last two months since I left my husband and filed for divorce. She nags me for answers and I deflect, telling her my life is my business and mine alone.
If it hurts her feelings, well, too bad. I’m done with everybody running my life and pulling my strings as if I’m some kind of freaking puppet. I realize that I can put a stop to her three phone calls a day and constant nagging by just telling her the whole truth, but I’d already decided months ago not to ruin her happiness by pointing out what a dick my father is.
“Mama, I’m not coming home anytime soon because I’m very busy. I’m sorry if that upsets you, but that’s just the way it is. Now tell that idiot brother of mine that I love him and go potter around in your vegetable garden.”
“Fine, but if you and your father don’t pull your heads out of your asses soon I’m gonna get mad and bring him up to you.”
“Please don’t, Mama. I’m really too busy right now.”
And I don’t want to see Beau yet, not until this anger has dissolved enough that I won’t scream obscenities at him.
“Cecelia Blake, you can’t hide from life in those paintings of yours like you did when you were little. It won’t get you anywhere but to a deeper misery,” she says harshly.
I’ve heard all of this before, enough times that I just nod sagely at the phone and roll my eyes, keeping my opinion to myself. Her use of my married name, though, that gets me somewhere deep, in that place I’ve been keeping locked up to this point.
“I’m not hiding from anything, Mama; I’m just goddamned sick and tired of men trying to rule my life. If I let them, I’ll be locked up in the same gilded cage you are, and I can’t accept that,” I whisper raggedly, hurling the paint brush in a fit of temper. “I—”
“But—”
“No buts. You’ve obviously been looking at life from a vantage point that’s skewed, darlin’, so I’ll help you out here. When Justin was two years old, I left your father and took myself off to a cabin in the woods, fully intending to never lay eyes on the man again till he finally fessed up and admitted he loved me.”
The picture she paints is so far from Beau’s stories of love at first sight and months of wooing that I can’t get a word out before she starts speaking again.
“When he finally did track me down and haul my ass home, it was with such heartfelt professions of love that eventually I had to tell the man to shut up already.” She giggles, making me smile ruefully. “The point is, nothing worthwhile comes easy or without a fight. I had to fight to get the love I wanted. After that, well, I’ve been leading that man around by the nose ever since.”
“But I don’t want to have to fight for love, Mama. I want a man who’ll love me without reason. Someone who’ll give me affection for no other reason than he wants to, not because I’m nagging like a freaking fishwife.”
“Sis, honey pie, men are simple creatures. They don’t think the way we woman do. If you’re looking for some fairy tale hero who’ll profess undying love to you from the get go, you’re in for a lot of disappointment, honey. Vincent is just a man—”
“Vincent doesn’t matter anymore, Mama. My lawyers already served him with the divorce papers, and since I don’t want anything out of it he says all it’ll take to get things moving is both signatures. I’ll be single again in a few weeks,” I remind her, bracing myself for the inevitable.
“He doesn’t want a divorce.”
“Well, too damn bad. I refuse to stay married to a man who doesn’t love me. And if I may just point out, it’s really messed up that you’re commiserating with my soon to be ex.”
“At least he calls, unlike you, and don’t be unfair, Sis. He’s still family.”
Yeah, like that weird third cousin that lives in the hills in a trailer and grows ‘oregano’ out back. You know they’re there, but you just can’t bring yourself to deny the connection, out of loyalty.
“Mama, I gotta go. Love you.”
***
“If you’d sign here, Mrs Blake.”
I’m sitting in the conference room of the lawyer’s office—his lawyer—my lawyer beside me, Vincent and his lawyer across the huge glass expanse. I’d already signed the papers weeks ago and sent them to him, but thanks to him ‘misplacing’ the documents we’ve agreed to meet here and get things done.
Not a good I idea, I realize now as my pen hovers over the papers, my hand frozen and refusing to put ink to paper. When I’d signed before it had been hard, but after two glasses of wine and a tequila shooter I’d managed to get things done.
If I’d cried a little and eaten half a gallon of ice cream, that’s my business and nobody else’s.
“Mrs Blake?”
My lawyer’s voice invades the silent pity party in my head, and I nod once, forcing myself to scrawl my name across the line with a flourish I don’t feel.
You want the truth? Part of me, the really tragic part, had kind of hoped that Vincent would come storming at me with guns blazing, insisting that I stop my shit and come back home where I belong. I’d spent the better part of last night lying in bed, fantasizing about how he’d rip those papers up, haul me over his shoulder, and carry me off.
He hasn’t, though, and I feel my heart die a quick death when he glances at me for a brief moment before quickly scrawling his bold signature and flicking the papers away.
His eyes hold no emotion save for the trace of boredom as he glances at his watch before rising.
“I’ll have your things delivered to your apartment this afternoon.”
“Good bye, Vincent.”
It’s all I have the strength to say as he turns on his heel and walks to the door. He pauses, his hand gripping the knob, and turns to me with a slow smile that sets my heart beating erratically, and then walks away without so much as another word.
Chapter Thirty Four
“You’re standing up for me, right?”
“Of course,” I answer, adding the last touches to my last piece with a feeling of accomplishment that I haven’t felt in ages.
In two months I’ve done what I never thought possible. I’ve completed the work Vern had been hounding me about, and now, with this last painting, I’ve managed to fulfil the promise I made all those months ago.
I’ve finished Vincent’s landscapes. One for every month of the six I’d originally agreed on.
“Sis, are you listening to me?”
“Yes, Parker, I heard every word. You want me at your wedding, wearing a suit and a top hat. Have I told you yet how truly stoked I am that you guys are finally getting married?” I ask in an overly cheery voice.
Truth is, I feel like shit as the wedding gets closer. It’s totally bitchy, but I’m green with envy that Parker has managed to get his happily ever after while I’m divorced and considering adopting the stray cat that keeps screeching from the alley beneath my window.
It totally makes sense since I’d started leaning out in the wee hours and am now invested in an ongoing conversation about life and the evils of love.
Sometimes I swear Marty—that’s what I’ve named the flea ball—understands what I’m saying, and once I could have sworn he even answered me.
To be fair, I think he’d been telling me to ‘fuck off and get a life’, but seeing as that’s the only real conversation I’ve had in the two weeks since I’d offloaded my stuff on Vern, I’m just grateful I have someone who understands me.
“I have something to tell you, something that you may not like,” he says after a beat of silence that has my hackles rising.
Parker only ever hesitates to tell me stuff if he knows it’s gonna upset me. Like four days ago when he’d called to tell me that the police had stopped looking for Eric.
I’m super glad I’d decided to keep Henson, the bodyguard I’d hired months ago and like so much I can’t think of firing. We play a cutthroat game of poker every Thursday afternoon when I get back from kickboxing classes.
Keep your mouth shut, I’m really low on friends and Henson only judges me for my addiction to Jerry Springer.
“Spit it out, Parker.”
“Jules, well, she forgot to cut a few guests from the list we made originally, and…Christ, there’s no easy way to say this, Sis. Blake RSVP’d. With a plus one.”
Every ounce of strength I’d fooled myself that I’d found these last two months drains away in that moment, leaving me floundering and breathless and miserably aware of the fact that despite my best efforts, I’m still sickeningly in love with my ex-husband.
Asshole.
“That’s fine,” I lie, grasping the paintbrush so hard I feel it snap between my fingers.
Of course it isn’t. I can’t stand the thought of watching him saunter in with whichever tart he’s banging this month. Not when I dream about him—not every night anymore, thank God—but at least twice a week.
It also doesn’t help any that I’ve started second guessing my actions to the point where I’m ashamed to admit that I may have thrown a tantrum and gone overboard with the whole divorce thing.
Right now I’m almost positive that I should have taken Mama’s advice and fought Vincent tooth and nail to admit that he loved me.
Too late now, asshole. He’s definitely moved on.
“Are you sure, Sissy? I could maybe call him and explain—”
Over my dead body would I allow Parker to let on how crushed I still am about the whole divorce—a girl has some pride. Plus, and it’s more than tragic, I really want to
see him. It’ll be torture, but God, the painting hanging over my bed is not equal to the flesh and blood man, and I know it.
“Get over yourself, Parker. It’s fine. I’m so over it all,” I assure him, crossing my fingers guiltily.
At this point I suspect it would take a marriage proposal from Ryan Reynolds to get over him, and I’m not completely sure even that breathtaking wet dream would do it.
“If you’re sure?”
Not even a little.
“Totally.”
“Okay then.”
I force myself to endure another five minutes of conversation before Parker takes the hint and lets me go, leaving me alone to stare sightlessly at the landscape I’d been so proud of only minutes ago.
I’d felt optimistic, hopeful even as I’d made plans to wrap them all and have them delivered tomorrow with a note that said…what? How much I miss him? That some foolish part of me was hoping that maybe we could reconnect and—
I cut the thoughts short with a deep scowl that hurts my eyeballs and glare mutinously at the painting, with its bright green leaves and baby pink cherry blossoms.
They mock me as I grit my teeth and physically force away the moisture coating my corneas.
I’m so fucking stupid and pathetic that I’ve spent two weeks building castles in the sky while a man I shouldn’t want anymore hasn’t given me so much as a thought.
Well, that does it! Tonight I’m luring Marty inside. If I’m gonna be this weird, I might as well go all out!
***
“Stop staring at the ceiling! You look drunk.”
I suck in a breath and hiss at Parker, discreetly flipping him the bird from my place beside him at the altar, my legs practically wobbling like a plate of Jell-O as we stand, waiting for Jules to finally make an appearance.
I know it sounds unbelievable, but I’m more nervous than Parker is right now. I’d spotted Vincent out of my peripheral vision twenty minutes ago when he’d strolled in, my eye twitching blearily enough that I’d yet to see his date or fully focus on his face.
JACE (Lane Brothers Book 3) Page 29
