LUCIEN: A Standalone Romance

by Glenna Sinclair

  “The fight, at that point, got ugly,” he said, examining the palms of his hands as if they held the answers. “Lots of accusations, lots of blame tossed back and forth. We could be like that sometimes. Meteoric. But that was the thing, really. No matter how angry we got with each other, we knew that it would get better. That we loved each other. That there would never be a fight that would end it all for us because the love there was too strong. The love would eventually overtake the anger and we’d laugh about it.

  “But there we were, on the side of that shitty little road, a popped tire, both of us lost and at each other’s throats. A car happened along and stopped—a godsend. Neither of us knew our way around changing a tire. And when a man and a woman got out to help us, even better. If it had been a couple of guys meaning to rob us, I don’t know how well I would’ve done at defending us. Instead, it was your parents.”

  I shook my head quickly. I didn’t want to hear anything else. I didn’t want to listen anymore, but Roland had closed his eyes and was plunging forward in his tale of woe, and I couldn’t stop him.

  “I learned all this later, of course,” he was saying. “When the drunk driver hit, I lost a lot of blood. This scar…” He mimicked its path with his finger, taking care not to actually touch it. “I got it from the impact, glass and sharp metal. Mina, your parents, they died instantly. I didn’t wake up until later, my brother looking at me like I was some kind of monster. And I guess I was…I am. If I hadn’t gotten drunk at her parents’ house just because I was nervous about our marriage, we would’ve never gotten lost, never gotten the flat, never been out there for your parents to discover in the first place, and you…you would still have your parents. And I would still have Mina…and not just this fucking scar.”

  My pulse hadn’t slowed since Roland started in on this subject. I was struggling to keep up, struggling to understand.

  “I…I saw the police report,” I said, my voice sounding like it came from some faraway place. “It just said…I didn’t know about…”

  “My brother thought it would be best to take our name out of it, and Mina, by extension,” Roland said. “He threw a bunch of money at the cop writing up the report to take out the information. It was bad press for the company, unwanted scrutiny on us at a time we didn’t need it.”

  How was this happening? If he’d been there, he should know the exact circumstances. Didn’t he know?

  “The driver…the drunk driver,” I tried to say, but I couldn’t find the right words for him. I’d never talked about this with anyone.

  “It was just some kid, and she died, too,” Roland said. “I killed her. I killed Mina. I killed your parents, too, Beauty. And somehow, I’m still here. I’m the only one alive out of that entire mess, and I deserve to be alive the least. I would give up everything to have them all alive again. I would give away my money, this company, this building, this life, my life. I would give it all up to see them walking this earth again. Yet, all I can give them is my face.”

  He mashed his finger into the scar tissue in his cheek so hard that the surrounding skin turned white, and I realized that the scar was the same kind of penance for him that my own exile had been for me.

  And then, in one awful, sickening rush, it hit me.

  Roland wasn’t responsible for my parents’ death. He hadn’t killed them.

  I’d killed them. My parents. Caro. Mina. Roland’s future.

  I’d killed all of that.

  “Will you ever forgive me?” Roland asked, a single crystalline tear dropping from his eye, getting lost in that twisting scar.

  The same scar I’d given him.

  I felt physically sick and knew it wasn’t just because of all the bourbon I’d tried to drown myself in. I was the cause of this man’s singular torment, the reason why he refused to get his face fixed, the purpose behind his self-exile, and his hermitage in this dark office.

  The reason why he hated the world.

  A sudden, clear thought cut through my fog of horror. I could tell him. I could tell him everything. That I’d been in Caro’s car, that I’d been there, that I’d caused all of his heartache, that I’d been the only other person to walk away from the wreck virtually unscathed, all because of some stupid kind of luck.

  Because my special hell was walking around, blemish-free, forced to go on after losing people I’d loved.

  I opened my mouth and closed it again. If I told him the truth, would it relieve some of his burden of guilt? Would he redirect the anger he felt at himself for putting Mina in that situation through the decisions he’d made? It had been my decision, after all, for Caro and I to be out on the roads at that time of night and in that state of being. He could loathe me from now on instead of himself, and I would deserve that. Yet another piece of penance I had to endure. I had to be punished for what I did.

  But then I closed my mouth, suddenly protective of myself. It wasn’t fear. That wasn’t it. I was well aware of Roland’s temper, of just how badly he was capable of making me feel.

  I just didn’t want him to hate me, for some reason, and I knew that if he understood that I was the one who ruined his life, who took away the woman he loved, he would hate me with every breath in his body.

  I couldn’t handle it if Roland hated me. I didn’t dwell on the thought, I couldn’t; I was in too much shock and horror. The wretchedly scarred but somehow beautiful man in front of me…I was the root cause of all of his suffering, and yet I couldn’t tell him that. I wouldn’t.

  “I’ll understand if you won’t forgive me,” he said, not bothering to chase that tear down. His scar was going to see to that. “But I also hope you understand that I need to do this for you. I need you to let me do this.”

  “Do…what?” My voice was strangled. He had no idea. Somehow, he had no idea that I’d walked away from that tragedy. He had no idea the integral part I’d played in robbing him of his happiness.

  “I had Daniel track you down after I’d…recovered, somewhat,” he said. “I wanted to offer you an internship with Shepard Shipments, give you a foot in the door somewhere because I knew it would be hard to get a career started without the support of your parents, and I’d taken your parents away from you.

  “But you vanished. You left school. I told my brother to do whatever it took to track you down, hire whoever he needed to hire to find you and make sure you were seen after. He said you wouldn’t take a handout, that in order for us to help you, we’d have to hire you. And then Myra announced her retirement, and I decided that I wanted to keep you close. To try and do the right thing.”

  Bile rose in my throat. He thought he was doing the right thing by hiring me, by giving me an opportunity I would’ve never had otherwise because I was too depressed, to horrified at myself to seek it out. I didn’t deserve this position. That was a truth I more than understood now. There were no skills that qualified me to work at Shepard Shipments. There hadn’t been a friendship with a business professor at my university. This was a pity hire, a way that Roland could throw money at me to ease his conscious.

  And he had no idea just who he was giving money to. I’d bought all those things with his credit card to furnish my new life here in Seattle, and he had no idea he’d been buying things for the individual responsible for his torture.

  It was too much. I couldn’t do this. I had to leave immediately; I had to get in my car and leave everything behind. He couldn’t know. He couldn’t know that it was my fault. He would hate me. He would hate me so much, and I just couldn’t do it.

  “I have to go,” I mumbled, standing up suddenly, eager to flee. That’s when all that bourbon reared its ugly face and showed its true colors after going down so easily. I swooned and almost passed out on principle before my stomach upended itself and I started gagging.

  There was a strong hand on my waist, another on my neck, and I was staring at the contents of a garbage can…and soon, the contents of my stomach. I heaved and retched every last drop of that bourbon into the trash
can, belatedly upset at the waste of such obviously good liquor, at the waste of my life.

  If I could go back and change everything, I’d keep myself from ever being born. I’d been a grenade that exploded, harming so many people beyond those I’d killed upon impact.

  If I couldn’t change the fact that I’d been born, then I wanted to die.

  “You’re not going to die,” Roland said, a smile in his voice, and I realized I’d voiced my despair aloud. “You’ve just had a little too much to drink. You’re going to vomit yourself empty, then you’re going to have some crackers and water, and then you might vomit again, but you’ll go to sleep.”

  The thought of crackers made me gag again, but I managed to wet my mouth and rid myself of the acidic taste of my own stupidity.

  “I’m going home now,” I said, Roland helping me to stand.

  “You’re going to sleep it off,” he corrected. “You think I’d let you anywhere near a car after what I just told you?”

  “Taxi,” I offered.

  “Absolutely not. In your state?”

  I was out of options. I just didn’t want to be conscious anymore. I couldn’t look at Roland; I couldn’t take his misplaced kindness and charity. I squeezed my eyes shut. It would be too much mercy if I never had to open them again.

  Chapter 9

  I woke up comfortable, safe, and with no idea why I deserved either of those things, or where I was. Whatever I was on was soft, and it smelled rich, good—like a new car.

  I opened my eyes, blinking slowly, fully expecting the morning’s light to blind me like a spotlight illuminating my life’s mistakes, but the room was dim, a golden light from across the space reducing everything to a comfortable glow.

  That’s when I figured out I was lying on the leather sofa in Roland Shepard’s office, sleeping off a nasty drunken night. I had to get out of here.

  My mouth tasted like something had died inside of it, and I located a glass of water I’d barely touched the previous night, chugging it in one breath. A quick dash across the office and a peek out of one of the heavily curtained windows told me that it was early morning. The sun was barely up, and people were only just now getting up and moving.

  That meant I had even less time than I thought.

  I found my shoes placed neatly beside the couch—had Roland taken them off for me last night? I didn’t know how I felt about that, and I didn’t have the time to think about it as I hopped into them, prayed that no one was outside in the main office this early, and left.

  Luck was with me as I grabbed my purse and my phone. It was still early, only just now after seven. I would have plenty of time to make my escape.

  A fuzzy-headed dash across the office, well aware of what this looked like, still wearing the rumpled clothes I worked in, charging out of the president’s office.

  But luck—and a very confused lobby receptionist—were in my favor as I fled, the morning traffic only just starting to pick up. I careened toward my apartment, wincing as the hangover started to squeeze my head tighter and tighter in its vice.

  Such was my distraction—parking, running into my home, wriggling out of yesterday’s clothes, and swallowing two aspirin before ducking my head beneath the kitchen sink to gulp some water to help usher the pills on their way to numbing my pain. It wasn’t until I was in the shower, hurriedly washing the smell of bourbon and vomit out of my hair that it all hit me.

  Roland had been there when my parents and Caro died. He’d lost someone he’d loved, too—a fiancée. Mina. And that’s where he’d gotten that terrible scar—and the terrible temper to go along with it.

  The enormity of the situation made me sit down suddenly in the middle of the tub, the hot water raining down on my head.

  What was I doing here? I needed to leave town. I had to get out of here before Roland figured out the entire truth. How could he not know? The fact boggled me, but one thing remained: I couldn’t let him know that I was the one to blame for everything.

  I only had time to blow dry my hair to dampness if I was going to be on time to start the new workday, so I pulled it back into a tight bun to hide the fact that I hadn’t had enough time to prepare. A sweep of some mascara made me look more awake, and I smeared on some concealer to hide the dark circles under my eyes.

  Jumping into some wide-leg trousers and a nice blouse, I pondered eating something and shuddered. At least I’d save some time in my abbreviated morning routine by avoiding food.

  It was better to be like this—rushing around, my brain occupied only on the next task at hand—rather than rolling the situation over and over again in my head. I just had to always keep my next move in mind in order to avoid dwelling on what I’d caused, on the fact that I’d mortally wounded yet another person. The cycle wouldn’t stop. Just when I thought I might be ready to move forward, some other facet of that terrible night arrived to rear its ugly head and make sure I knew that there was no going forward from what I did.

  People like me didn’t deserve closure. And I could never forgive myself.

  No. I parked my car in the company lot, shook my head quickly, and pulled myself out of that destructive loop of thought. What did I have to do? What was the next task?

  Get out of the car. Lock the car. Walk to the vendor. Pay for a Times. Walk into the building. Smile at the lobby receptionist, who is just as confused seeing me now as she was seeing me an hour ago. Ride the elevator up to my floor. Walk across the office. Smile at everyone who makes eye contact. Put my purse at my desk. Go to the break room. Make sure the coffee’s fresh before pouring it in a clean mug. Walk the coffee and the paper back across to Roland’s office.

  Stand in front of the door and dread going in.

  No. I had to go in. This was the next task, the way I started every day, officially, here at the office. Roland needed the coffee and paper, and that’s what I had to do.

  I lifted my hand to open the door and hesitated. I could appreciate that this was difficult and awkward, but this was the next task on the list. I had to give Roland his coffee and paper. Then I’d go collect the box of files for digitizing, check the agenda for the day, get some coffee for myself, and start checking off more and more tasks.

  I had to open the door.

  Aware that I probably looked like an idiot just standing there, motionless, in front of a closed door, I finally physically forced myself to enter. I couldn’t quite stretch my mouth into a friendly smile; I didn’t know if that was even what Roland expected out of me; and I just urged myself forward.

  I set the newspaper down on the desk and was putting the coffee down next to it before I realized the desk was empty. I straightened, able to breathe a little easier, and looked around. Unless he was hiding, Roland wasn’t in here. Where could he be? In the time that I’d worked here, he had never neglected to be in his office when I came in to deliver his paper and coffee. Sure, he was usually here to offer a sharp criticism or tell me to do something else, but not having him in here today upset the balance of everything.

  Or maybe it was last night’s conversation that had upset the balance of everything.

  I tiptoed across the thick carpet to inspect the scene. I’d only been in here hours earlier, panicking and scrambling to escape, but there were no signs of my transgressions. Sniff as I might, there was no telltale whiffs of stale vomit. The crystal snifter of bourbon had been refilled and replaced on its tray on a side table, and the pair of heavy cut glasses had been emptied and cleaned, gleaming in the dull light.

  And there was the leather couch I’d passed out cold on, its pillows carefully arranged as if in an effort to erase what had happened.

  Had Roland cleaned all of this up as soon as I’d run away?

  I shook my head and frowned. That was improbable, at best. Stupid, even. He was a billionaire. There was probably a housekeeping army contained in this building, waiting at the ready to mop up mistakes, slipping in and out of the shadows, remaining unseen.

  I didn’t know whether
I was more relieved or more disappointed that I hadn’t had to face Roland yet today. Being disappointed didn’t make sense to me at all. I didn’t want to see him. I wouldn’t know what to say. He thought he was the wrong one in that horrible situation, the one who ruined everything, but he had no idea that I was actually that person.

  For an ugly moment, I considered believing his truth. What if he hadn’t been there that night with his fiancée, stuck on the side of the road? My parents wouldn’t have had a reason to pull off, wouldn’t have had any business being there when Caro and I came spinning around that curve in the road.

  Could I live with myself by accepting Roland’s version of events?

  No. Absolutely not. I couldn’t. It didn’t matter that he and his fiancée had blown a tire. It didn’t matter that my parents, being the caring people they were, had stopped to help out a pair of strangers.

  What mattered was that I’d drunkenly urged my drunk best friend to take me on a drunken joyride through the countryside, thinking that I was beyond consequences, thinking selfishly that I never wanted the night to end.

  That last part was true, at least. For me, that night never had ended. It haunted me from place to place, kept me awake in my bed, kept me from living normally because that kind of comfort wasn’t something monsters like me deserved.

  I couldn’t let Roland’s truth be my own truth. And I didn’t know how long I could keep the whole truth from him. He deserved to know, but I was too afraid to tell him.

  My chest tightened as I walked out of his office. Had he decided not to be there because he thought I would hate him? It wrenched my heart. I didn’t hate him. I hated myself. I wished I wasn’t such a coward. I should’ve been able to tell him last night that none of this was his fault, but I hadn’t been able to scrape up the courage.