Love, Chloe

by Alessandra Torre

  “Spread your legs, baby. Let me see you.” He stroked himself, his voice hoarse and I slid my feet along the bed, my knees parting, nothing hidden from his eyes.

  He stopped at the foot of the bed and stood, his legs slightly spread, and stared. “Touch yourself, baby. Put your fingers everywhere that you want my mouth.”

  If I was wet before, I was soaked by the time I ran my tentative fingers in between my legs. And with him there, his chest flexing, arm moving, breath hard, I showed him exactly what I wanted him to do.

  And then, he did it better.

  I knew I’d said it before, but I loved this man.

  88. Chanel No. WTF

  If I ran fast enough through life, I couldn’t see its cracks.

  Nicole’s drama.

  My looming unemployment.

  Carter’s parents.

  Vic.

  In the moments since that horrible night when Vic proposed—I’d run fast, and love had blurred my vision. Carter and I fit so perfectly together, in this new relationship of I love yous and orgasms and God you’re beautifuls that I managed, for almost a week, to ignore everything else.

  Then real life came calling.

  Cammie was coming over, and late. I eyed the clock and sipped my wine, turning up my playlist. The buzzer sounded and I skipped the speaker, letting her in without complaint, my hand swinging open the door at the first sign of a knock, my buzz kicking, pajama pants imperfectly paired with a Current-Elliot top. We were going to make cupcakes, drink wine, and watch a movie. Plans that stalled when I saw the couple at my door.

  “Mom?” I almost checked my wine glass, to see if I had chugged it all, had slipped in pills, had done something to imagine my mother, her arm slipped carelessly through a Gucci crocodile bag, my father towering behind her. I hadn’t seen them in over a year, and yet, somehow, they looked exactly the same. No extra wrinkles from stress, no salt and pepper roots betraying the months since a proper dye job, no worn suitcase in hand. Mother was in a St. John suit, her hair perfect, smile wide, a mink stole around her shoulders. My father was in his typical garb: an oxford shirt tucked into dress pants, sunglasses perched on his thick head of hair despite the late hour. As handsome as ever, they looked like a million bucks. A million highly illegal bucks.

  “Chloe, where are your manners?” She scowled at me as if she still owned my dwelling, her hand pushing open my door, and as she swept past, the scent of Chanel No. 5 catching me, a thousand memories tied to the smell.

  “Chloe.” My father nodded stiffly and I nodded back.

  “What are you guys doing here?” I didn’t close the door, just pivoted in place, a little wine sloshing out, and stared at them. Mom didn’t respond, too busy surveying my apartment, her lip curled in a manner that clearly indicated her disapproval. Something inside of me snapped.

  “What are you doing here?” I repeated. “Aren’t you both under house arrest?”

  “Oh,” she said airily, waving her hand. “Nothing so barbaric as that. I mean … the hearing is tomorrow morning. Then we’ll probably be restricted to the house.”

  “If the judge doesn’t send us straight to jail.” My father said the statement mildly, lifting up my bottle of wine and examining the label.

  “It’s turned into such a mess, it’s really quiet humorous.” Mom turned back to me, her eyebrows raised, and she grinned at me, as if we were teenage girls sharing a delicious secret.

  “You have a hearing tomorrow?” I tried to follow this.

  “Yes.” She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around my neck, hugging me tightly. “We came all the way up here just to see you, Chloe. You should really act happier to see us.”

  I didn’t have a response. I patted her back awkwardly and looked to my father, who was busy tipping back a glass of my cheap wine. “So … you fly home tonight?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure.” Mom pulled back and reached in her bag, finding a tube of lipstick and pulling it out. “We may do a little traveling. We tried to deal with the investigators, but…” She waved a hand in the air like the FBI was a pesky little kid who was stomping through her hibiscus.

  Then it hit me, and the only thing that really surprised me was that they had stopped in New York first. “You’re running?”

  It was a waste of words. I knew, before my dad even coughed on my wine, the answer.

  Twenty minutes. That was how long they stayed. How long I got to say goodbye. Long enough for a glass of wine, some critical comments on my apartment, a lot of evasive answers, and a brief set of hugs before they left. And when they did, I swore I smelled relief in their departure.

  They missed Cammie by minutes. I met her in the lobby, my wine glass still in hand. I managed a hello then burst into tears. I didn’t know why I was crying. Why, after all this time, did I expect more from them? What did I want? A mention that they were proud of me? Recognition that I found my own way, got on my own two feet? They didn’t even ask if I was seeing someone. They didn’t even tell me they loved me.

  Cammie got me upstairs, found a box of tissues, and refilled my wine glass.

  “I’m sorry,” I sniffed, leaning into her arms, us side-by-side on the couch.

  “Don’t be,” she chided. “You were overdue for this.”

  I sobbed out a laugh. “You damn bloodhound. You must have smelled my tears.” Benta and I used to joke with her about it. If you were ever going to have a breakdown, do it with Cammie. She’d kick your ass into shape while feeding, nursing, and loving you through your pain. She sensed emotional weakness, and she came running.

  She smiled. “It was good timing.”

  I wished I had Cammie’s parents. They would have stayed longer than twenty minutes. Then again, they wouldn’t be on the run. They wouldn’t have broken the law.

  “I can’t believe they are running.” I grabbed the tissue Cammie offered and blew my nose. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I should have known. Mother wouldn’t do prison. Father would probably come apart at the seams. And both of them, regardless of their actions, seemed to think they were above punishment. And they must, despite all of my thoughts to the contrary, still have money. When I’d walked them outside, I’d watched their designer shoes clip right into a chauffeured Mercedes. No taxi for Mom and Dad.

  “It just seems unfair,” I continued. “They aren’t getting punished at all. And I’m here, trying to pay off my tuition and…” And Mom was sashaying around town with a twenty-thousand dollar purse. It was so unfair that they were headed to a new life and so frustrating to know that any chance of us regaining a relationship was disappearing in that flight.

  “Chloe.” Cammie pushed me upright. “Not to be bitchy, but I think this was actually good for you.”

  “What?”

  “You were pretty entitled before.” She shrugged. “You’ve changed from all this.”

  “Entitled?” I raised my eyebrows at her. “You aren’t exactly scraping by on your Tahitian vacations.”

  She leveled me with a look. “You were spoiled.”

  “We were all spoiled.”

  “But you’re nicer now,” she said gently. “You’re smarter. You see things differently. Before, you wouldn’t have given Carter the time of day.”

  I laughed into a fresh tissue. “I kinda didn’t. Not in the beginning.”

  “I’m sorry about your parents.” She said the words quietly and I hated the change in topic, the return to this ugly reality.

  “Thanks,” I said flatly. “I just don’t know what to do with them.” I didn’t even think of calling the police. It seemed, no matter how flawed family may be, they were still that: family. They still required your love, your acceptance, your protection. Or maybe I’d just watched too many episodes of The Sopranos.

  I crawled into bed that night and lay in the dark, the room spinning a little from the wine. Was I happy they had stopped by to say goodbye? I couldn’t, through all of my emotions, decide.


  90. Was I Reading Too Much Into This?

  I sat in the backseat of the Brantleys’ SUV, Chanel in my lap, and stared at the text from Carter.

  We should talk. Dinner tonight?

  Hmm. My first instinct was to run in the opposite direction. We should talk?

  I hadn’t told him about my parents’ visit. Had sworn Cammie to secrecy so it was a non-event, something that had never happened. If the cops or FBI ever showed up, I wanted his statement to be truthful and non-discriminating. And it wasn’t like I was lying to him. I was just excluding facts.

  Which … was kind of exactly what he did with me. Like how he conveniently failed to mention his parents’ wealth or their eight-million-dollar Fifth Avenue penthouse (Benta’s research, not mine). Granted, I really should have asked more questions. Or any questions. The ironic thing was, a few weeks ago, I didn’t really want details, assuming that his poor upbringing would make me feel guilty for mine. HA. Silly me.

  I glanced up, toward Dante, the SUV idling at a red light. “I just got a text from Carter. He wants to talk.” The clear enunciation of the last two words would have had any female lifting her head in interest, eyes widening, full understanding instant. Dante simply sat there. Silent.

  I leaned forward. “Did you hear me?”

  “So?”

  “So?” I repeated. A typical man’s response. “So what should I do? What could he want to talk about?”

  “Why don’t you just ask him?” He said the words slowly, as if my brain might not process words spoken at any other rate of speed.

  “Right now?”

  “Yes.”

  I hesitated, my fingers over the phone. What a simple and novel idea. One that might reduce my stress in the six or seven hours before dinner and This Talk. I blew out a breath, Chanel jumping up, her tongue licking at my jaw, and I smiled despite myself.

  What do you want to talk about?

  I stared at the question, then sent it, my text bouncing off satellites and landing before him, three little dots indicating an impending response.

  My parents. The things I haven’t told you.

  Oh thank God. I let out a sigh of relief and saw Dante’s eyes flick to me in the rearview mirror. “It’s nothing,” I blurted out. “I thought it was about me.” Or us. Or something Vic did. Or breaking us. Or a hundred other things because it seemed like all I’d done lately was mess up.

  He coughed out a laugh. “Girls are so weird.”

  I smiled despite the insult. It was kinda true. We are, in a million complex and unexplainable ways, weird.

  But at least this dinner would be about him. I pulled my notebook from my purse and started to write down a list of Carter questions that I still needed answered.

  Not just weird. We were organized. And procrastinators. Speaking of which, I still needed to quit. Dante pulled up to the Brantleys’ and I glanced up, deciding to put it off just a few more days.

  91. A Grown-Up Conversation

  “I didn’t mean to lie to you.” Carter pushed aside his bread plate and looked at me, the restaurant quiet, warm light from the candle between us flickering over his features.

  “It wasn’t really a lie. More an omission.” He was too serious, his face drawn, and I watched him, trying to find the source of his tension.

  “I knew what you thought, and I didn’t dissuade you. I’m sorry for that.”

  “Was it a test?” That had been one of the first things I’d wanted to ask him. “Were you wanting to know if I was dating you because of your money?”

  “I don’t really have money, Chloe.” He leaned forward. “My parents pay me a salary for my work at the apartment. And for the other two that I super. It’s not a lot.”

  “But you will.” He was an only child, one thing I knew. And there had to be something to protect, his Mother all but accusing me of stealing her family fortune.

  He nodded slowly. “When I’m thirty-five I gain access to my trust. My apartment—it’s part of that. As are a few other things.”

  “Okay.” I shifted in my seat, unsure of why this conversation was so stiff. Unsure of, really, why we needed to have this whole production at all. He could have just shared this, over coffee in his kitchen, at some stolen point in the last three days.

  “My mother called me. I wanted to talk to you about it, apologize to you properly for her actions at dinner.”

  I didn’t know how I missed all of the clues. His excellent diction. His manners, almost formal at times. The way he held a glass, a fork. Maybe it was because I’d seen these things, men like him, my entire life and was blind to their traits. Maybe it was because a part of me liked the thought that he wasn’t like the boys I grew up with. Maybe I’d invented an alternative Carter in my mind and formed him into a rough creature he wasn’t.

  Because the man before me was all polish and tact. Showing his breeding, his training, the expensive education. Then I remembered Vic’s bar, Carter’s launch into the room, the fists, the blood. I remembered being in the engine room with him, the dirt on his hands, the sweat on his chest, the grunt in his throat when he fucked me against the wall.

  He wasn’t pure gentleman, not the silver spoon assholes of my past. He had the fine edges but was something more, stronger. Maybe it was his mother, making him earn his keep, her stingy fingers tight on the purse-strings, this age-thirty-five rule a good one, one that shaped him into the complex man who sat before me.

  “It’s okay.” I smiled, suddenly warming to the idea of his mother. I leaned forward and linked my fingers through his. “She’s protective of you. I get that.”

  He looked at me warily, his next sentence stiff. “She hired a private investigator, Chloe. I just found out this morning.”

  I pulled back my hand. “What?”

  “She wants to know more about you. He’s been following you.” He leaned forward. “I’m so sorry. I’ve told her that I won’t—”

  “For how long?” I saw spots between us, bits of black, my head spinning with everything that…

  “I’m not sure. Two weeks at least.” His jaw was tight, eyes apologetic, but all I could think about was hugging my parents outside our building. Them getting in their car and making their escape. This investigator seeing it all.

  “Are you mad?”

  “I wouldn’t say that I am mad…” I said carefully. I swallowed and met his eyes. “What happens if she doesn’t like the investigator’s report?”

  He didn’t look away. “If she doesn’t like you, I lose my trust fund.” The words came out matter-of-factly, as if his whole future wasn’t tied up in their vowels.

  It was so unexpected; an outcome I had never imagined. I might have fallen in love with a poor man after all. And I might be the reason he loses everything.

  My phone rang as I opened the door, and I answered it, stuffing it against my shoulder as I lifted out Nicole’s groceries.

  “Chloe Madison?” a stiff male voice asked.

  “Yes?” I said warily.

  “This is Agent Peter Hertslem. I’m calling about your parents.”

  I shouldered the door closed and leaned against it, my hands full with bags, my heart beating hard in my chest. “I don’t know where they are,” I lied. Dad had pulled me aside before they left, whispering their itinerary, which had included a stop in the Hamptons before their flight to Dubai.

  “I’m not calling for that, Ms. Madison. We know where they are.”

  “You do?” Dante paused, and I waved him on, my chest growing tight, the life of a fugitives’ daughter stressful.

  “Oh yes,” he said, with an air of superiority. “I’m looking at them right now.”

  The FBI picked up my parents at the airport just an hour after they’d left my apartment. Yet, it took four days to get that call from the FBI, one that was apparently “just for courtesy” to inform me of their detainment.

  Four days since they had been arrested and flown back to Florida, an
d that call was the only one I’d received. One from a smug stranger. Didn’t prisoners get phone calls? They must have made theirs to someone else.

  I wondered, for a day or so, if they thought that I’d turned them in, if that was the reason for their silence. But if they thought I was a daughter who’d snitch, they wouldn’t have come to say goodbye. And they certainly wouldn’t have told me their plans—my mind stalled, bits of the agent’s conversation coming to mind. The airport. Wait. Mom and Dad wouldn’t have flown to the Hamptons. They would have driven. Much less inconspicuous, much less chance of being caught—plus Mom loves that drive. And the Hamptons were northeast of the city, not south. They wouldn’t have been at the airport unless…

  It took me longer to connect the dots than it should have. For the last hours, my mind had just conveniently skipped over the fact that my father had completely lied to me about their itinerary. Either as a safety measure in case I ratted, or as a way to throw the cops off their trail in the expectation that I would rat. Both options dismal signs of my parents’ faith in me.

  Inside, I felt one of the last bonds between me and my parents break.

  I was torn. I wanted to be selfish, to hold Carter tightly to me and never let him go. But then I’d be responsible for him losing his inheritance. How could I do that to someone I loved? Wasn’t the sign of true love putting the other person’s needs before your own?