Maybe I’m assigning meaning to nothing. I do that sometimes. I think too hard about things I have no business thinking about. I dissect people until there’s nothing left.
“So what is it that you write?” he asks.
Finally!
We’ve been fucking a week now and he finally wants to know a smidgeon more about me.
“Everything,” I answer, checking a nearby clock. I’m going to be up late tonight.
“Everything as in ...”
“Blogs. News articles. Fiction.”
“Do you have a pen name?”
“Nope. All me,” I say, returning to his room and realizing all my clothes are in the foyer. “You a reader?”
His eyes linger on my body. He drinks me in like he’s parched, like I didn’t just basically fuck his brains out a few minutes ago.
“Little bit,” he says, leaving it at that.
“You get my lifetime supply of coffee?” I ask, winking.
“Gift card is on the counter actually.” He climbs out of bed, his cock still swollen, and heads to the bathroom. “You didn’t think I would, did you?”
“A gift card is not the same as a lifetime supply, Rhett.” I saunter to the kitchen and swipe the card from the counter. Five hundred bucks. Not bad. Grabbing my clothes by the door, I return to his room to get dressed. “This will do for now.”
“Where would you even put a lifetime supply?” he counters. “Logistics, Ayla.”
“I’d find a place.” I step into my jeans, my legs already sore from riding him for the last half hour, but it’s a good kind of sore, like I worked out really hard. And I did. I bet I burned enough calories fucking him to earn myself a pimento stuffed double cheeseburger from Whitman’s, my newest NYC addiction thanks to Bostyn.
Rhett throws on a clean t-shirt and a pair of sweats, and I secretly like that he doesn’t immediately wash me off of him. That tells me he’s comfortable with this; with us. That I’m not some dirty little plaything.
“What are you doing this weekend?” I ask casually, the way I’d ask any other person in any other situation.
His gaze whips in my direction. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I shrug.
“Don’t try to make future plans with me,” he says.
“Who said I’m trying to make plans? I literally just asked what you were doing this weekend. I’m trying to make conversation, not date you.”
“That’s how it starts.”
I roll my eyes, chuckling. “Right. One minute we’re screwing, the next minute I’m asking what you’re doing this weekend, and then bada-boom, bada-bing we’re dating. That’s exactly how it works.”
“You’re mocking me. In my own apartment.” He comes up behind me, slapping me on the ass. “You better get out of here before I decide to punish you for it.”
I zip and button my jeans, gifting him a playful glare. “Just so you know, you don’t intimidate me. At all.”
Except he kind of does. The undercurrent of something darker, angrier is always there, even when he’s smiling. I see it in his eyes. Beneath it all, he’s a bit of a ticking time bomb.
The reason I was asking was because I wanted to know if he was going to the charity skate-a-thon this Friday at the Spartans’ rink.
I don’t think he would go and support Bryce’s cause ... but if he does, and he sees me, this will be over, and it’s kind of just starting to get good.
I enjoy Rhett. I have fun with him. And I kind of think, in a weird sort of way, he needs this.
He needs me.
Slipping my arms through my shirt, I pull it over my head and tug it into place. “I’m kind of busy this weekend with ... obligations ... so that’s why I was asking. I have limited availability, is what I’m trying to tell you.”
Rhett saunters toward me with the confidence of George Clooney and Ryan Gosling combined, and his lips pull into a smile that incinerates my core and elevates my heartrate. My gaze locks on his, and I wonder if this will be the last time he’ll ever look at me—like this.
It’s a very real possibility.
I think about telling him the truth.
I think about it every day.
And then I tell myself I’m in too deep; that I missed that exit miles ago.
“You make time for what you want,” he says. “If you want this, you’ll find time for it.”
Yeah. True. But I still need to know if he’s going to be there Friday night.
Lingering in the doorway, the truth bubbles on the edge of my tongue. I should tell him. I should come clean with everything right here, right now. Get it over with. Do the right thing.
“Rhett.” I inhale, practicing the words in my mind.
“Yeah?” He lifts a brow. And then his phone begins to vibrate. With a finger in the air to silence me, he answers. “Hello ... yeah, hey.” He takes a seat. It’s going to be a while.
“I’m leaving,” I whisper. He nods, angling his back toward me as I leave.
I have to end this.
13
Rhett
Irena’s face lights up when she spots me from across the room at her favorite restaurant Friday afternoon. She gives a little wave before smiling, and my stomach twists when I realize how much she reminds me of the one woman I’m trying to forget ever existed.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she says, motioning toward the spot across from her. She whispers a quiet thank you to the host, though she’s unable to take her eyes off me. Her fingers flit and fuss with her short dark hair, and she can’t seem to sit still, which isn’t like her. “Thanks so much for meeting me today. I know it was short notice.”
“It’s fine.” I take a seat, reaching for the glass of wine she pre-ordered for me.
Her dark red lips flatten as she exhales, and her eyes search mine. “I’m in the city today handling a few affairs for my daughter’s estate, and I wanted to talk to you about something that has been bothering me for a while now.”
“Okay.”
“There are some things I feel you should know,” she says, eyes flitting to the untouched bread basket between us. “Some things about Damiana.”
I say nothing, and I honestly don’t want to know, but I’m not about to walk out on Irena. She did nothing wrong.
“Last year,” she begins, clearing her throat. Her cheeks grow pink, and she stops herself, offering a nervous smile. “Goodness, I’m getting all worked up.” Her lashes flutter, like she’s blinking away tears, and she looks away for a second. “This is very hard for me to say, Rhett. I want you to know that. I say none of this lightly.”
“Irena, you’re making me anxious here.” I sit up straight, glancing around the room to see if anyone’s paying attention to us, but it’s three in the afternoon and the place is dead.
“Okay, let me try this again.” Her nervous smile fades quickly. “Last year, my daughter found out she was with child.”
The room spins. My ears ring, my chest tightens.
Irena places her slender hand across the table, resting on top of my balled fist. “It wasn’t yours, sweetheart. It was his.”
There’s a tight clench in my jaw that sends pain radiating up the sides of my face.
Not only had she been fucking my best friend, but she’d been doing it since the first year of our relationship. And the sly son of a bitch knocked her up because of course this fucked-up sundae wouldn’t be complete without the proverbial goddamned cherry on top.
“She was so upset,” she says, tacking on another blow. “And I was the only one she told. She thought she was going to lose you ... and her career. Everything she cared about was at stake. She didn’t love Bryce—she never did. And we’ll get to that, Rhett. But she was thinking about, you know ... but she lost it. It was very, very early, and she lost it. And that’s why she never told you. She didn’t want to hurt you, and she loved you so much. She still wanted to marry you, and George and I told her, she was never going to find anyone as perfect for her as you were.”
>
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I huff. I’ve never spoken to Irena in that tone in my life, but all I can see is red and my thoughts are scattering to all the deep, dark places I generally try to avoid.
“Rhett.” She seems taken aback, her hand reaching for the diamond pendant hanging from her neck.
“What was your reason for telling me this today?”
Her jaw hangs, and she stammers over her words. “Sweetheart, I just thought you should know. I couldn’t bear to spend the rest of my life harboring this secret of hers.”
She squeezes her hand over mine again, leaning forward.
“My daughter was a very complicated woman,” she says. “Her heart was truly a chamber of secrets. All these doors and locks and keys. No one ever really got in. They might get past the first set of doors, occasionally the second. But that was it. Everything else was locked up tight. Only she knew what was there, at the core of it all.”
“Poetic.”
Irena’s head tilts and her eyes soften. “I knew her better than anyone, Rhett. So believe me when I tell you she loved you. She truly loved you. I asked her, once, why she did what she did. I wanted to know what drove her into the arms of a man who didn’t love her when the man who did was right beside her, through thick and thin. She told me she did it for the rush. At least at first. It was never about Bryce. She didn’t love him, you should know that. When I told her how selfish she was being, she broke down. She vowed never to do it again because you were the one for her. The only one. I don’t know why she didn’t stop, Rhett. I don’t. I wish I had answers for you. I know you need closure. And peace. And it pains me to know you’ll never get those things. Not from her. Not in the way you need them. Not in this lifetime.”
“Please, Irena,” I say with a sigh. “I’ll be fine. What about you? You holding up okay?
I turn the tables, trying to get the heat off me. For a woman who just lost her only daughter, Irena handles it with the grace and poise of an English diplomat.
“You say that, but when I look at you, I see it. I see the hurt in your eyes. I see it because I know it. You and I are the same, Rhett. We put on a good front. We distract ourselves, pretending like nothing happened. We stuff the painful feelings down so deep we don’t feel them anymore, but at the end of the day, they’re always there.” She clasps at her heart. “I wish you could see it too, but you’re too busy pretending you’re okay to look in the mirror and realize that you’re not.”
“Where are you going with this, exactly?” I check my watch.
“I’ve always been a believer in transparency,” she says. “And I never could stand to have secrets. You know, George and I know everything about each other. Everything. Anyway, I guess these last few weeks, I’ve been putting myself in your shoes, and I thought that perhaps, if you had all the information that was available to you, it might help you come to grips with this situation so you might have a chance at moving on.”
“I am moving on.”
Irena sighs. She doesn’t buy it. “You should go visit her.”
I scoff. “I’d rather not.”
“You should. It would bring you closure.” She takes a small sip of wine, her first since I sat down. “She’s buried in the family plot in Hampstead Township, at my parents’ estate. You’ll need a key to get through the gate.”
“I’m not going.”
“Maybe you’re not ready now,” Irena suggests. “And that’s fine. But forgiving her, Rhett, is the only way you’re ever going to be able to move on.”
I say nothing.
“Forgive her, Rhett. Not for her, but for yourself.” Irena pleads with her eyes.
I toss back the remainder of my drink and gather my composure. “I should get going.”
“Rhett.” Irena watches me stand, her almond-shaped eyes searching mine. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
I leave. I leave because if I don’t, I’ll explode. I’ll lash out. And I don’t want to do that to her. She’s a nice person and she means well, but goddamn it. This is the sort of bombshell you drop on someone in private. Not at a Michelin star restaurant on the Upper East Side in the middle of a perfectly good Friday afternoon.
The second my feet hit the pavement, I’m on my phone, texting Ayla. It hits me as I round the corner that the last time she was over, she said she had a busy weekend, but I need her. I fucking need her taste on my tongue, her pussy on my cock, my hands in her hair, and that smart little mouth of hers on mine.
If I don’t get it soon ...
I text her.
Me: COME OVER. NOW.
Her: EVER HEARD OF THE WORD PLEASE? LOOK IT UP. MERRIAM-WEBSTER DICTIONARY. PAGE 603.
Me: I’M SERIOUS. MY PLACE. ONE HOUR.
Her: I’M BUSY TONIGHT. :( SORRY. MAYBE I CAN SQUEEZE YOU IN TOMORROW?
Me: COME OVER LATER, WHEN YOU’RE DONE DOING WHATEVER THE HELL YOU THINK IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN ME.
Her: I’LL THINK ABOUT IT. COULD BE LATE. MIGHT BE TOO TIRED.
I slip my phone in my pocket, convinced this is Ayla pushing me away. Maybe she’s over our little arrangement. Maybe a week in, it’s too much for her. It’s hard to find a girl who’s truly into the no-strings thing. Most of the time they just say they are, hoping you’ll change your mind after you see how absolutely perfect she is for you. Or maybe she just doesn’t like being someone’s sex toy on standby.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and just when I’m assuming that maybe she’s changing her mind, I’m proven wrong when I spot a text from Shane filling my screen.
Shane: TOTALLY UNDERSTAND IF YOU DON’T WANT TO COME TONIGHT, BUT COACH STILL THINKS YOU ARE. AND YOU SHOULD. STARTS IN AN HOUR. DO IT FOR THE KIDS.
14
Ayla
I found myself short of breath by the time I was halfway here, and it wasn’t because of my brisk pace. The pressure in my chest is almost unbearable, and there’s nothing I can do to relieve the tightness.
If Rhett comes tonight—if he sees me, it’s over.
I should have waited for him to finish his phone call the other day so I could have come clean.
I’m not good with coming clean, because I’ve never really had to do it before. I’ve always been straightforward and honest from the get go, with everyone. I’m not a seasoned liar. A good liar could lie their way out of a lie, but not me.
Maybe lie is too strong of a word? Omission of information sounds better. Does that make it more forgivable? I have no idea.
Guess I’ll find out soon enough.
I head through the automatic doors at the Spartans’ rink and make a beeline for the arena where kids in green t-shirts with Bryce’s face on them line up along the edge, decked out in hockey gear.
The stands are already filling with parents and spectators and this thing doesn’t even start for another hour. The skate-a-thon was Coach Harris’ idea. I’d never heard of such a thing. I guess people pledge money on some kind of tiered system, and the more minutes the guys skate, the more money they make for the charity.
Which is weird to me because the charity will already have a good amount of money behind it once I receive my inheritance, but that attorney guy Coach hooked me up with said it’s better to fund it with donations than money out of my own pocket.
I insisted we do both if that was the case.
“Hey, hey.” Shane spots me almost immediately, skating over to the side. He and some of the guys were gliding around the ice, showing off shots and moves as the kids watched. “Glad you made it.”
“Everyone here?” I ask. And by everyone, I mean everyone.
His brow furrows as he scans the room. “Wignowsky and Zagami aren’t here yet.”
My heart pounds faster, harder. Rhett’s going to come around the corner any second now, I just know it.
“So everybody’s participating then? From the team?” I’ll rephrase my question as many times as it takes to get a definitive answer. I’m set to give a quick speech soon, and I need to know before I get
out there if he’s going to be watching.
Shane’s lips bunch at the side. “Um, I don’t think Carson’s coming. I texted him earlier. He read it but didn’t reply. I wouldn’t put my money on it.”
Shit.
So much for getting a definitive answer.
“You ready to give your speech?”
“Yep.” Not really. I hate public speaking. Hate it.
“Cool, cool.” He lingers, like he wants to talk to me some more but has run out of things to talk about.
“Shane, come on,” one of the other players yells at him.
“I’ll catch up with you later, yeah?” he says, flashing a sweet smile.
“Sure.” I stick my hand in my pocket, pulling out my typed speech and reading it for the four hundred thirty-seventh time today. Occasionally I glance up, scanning the perimeter for that one familiar face, but he’s nowhere to be found.
“Ayla.” Coach Harris chucks his arm around my shoulder and infiltrates my personal space with his old man cologne. “Good to see you. Guys are all on their way here. Let’s get this started, shall we?”
All ... the guys?
My knees weaken and my stomach churns. A quick check of the time on my phone tells me I won’t be able to get a drink of water, use the restroom, or bolt out of here like a crazy person.
“You ready?” he asks, guiding me toward the ice. There’s a carpet laid out for me to walk on since I don’t have skates. It goes to a makeshift temporary riser. Some young girl in headphones hands me a microphone, whispering that it’s on.
This is all happening so fast.
The lights go dark. There’s a spotlight on me. The crowd is hushed, and while I can’t see them, I know their eyes are on me.
Smiling, I take my place.
“Welcome, everyone, my name is Ayla Caldwell, and Bryce Renner was my brother,” I say. “Thank you so much for coming tonight to celebrate the life of Bryce Renner and to kick off the foundation we have established in his name. We hope to utilize Bryce’s charity as a way to reach inner city youth who may be interested in playing hockey. We also hope to provide scholarships and mentoring, special training opportunities with the players, one-on-one workshops, and camps. If there’s one thing I knew about my brother, more than anything else, it’s that he was passionate about hockey. He lived for this sport. And now, with your support, his legacy and love of the game will live on through so many others. Thank you.”
Cold Hearted Page 8
