Need Me (Truthful Lies Trilogy Book Three)

by Dunning, Rachel

  As I weave through the mushy roads and get onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, looking out at brown and red low-rise buildings covered with white caps of snow, it starts dawning on me, slowly, as if the shock of last night had made me immune to it: Declan loves me deeply, or at least loved me, even after we split up. Because he didn’t have that ink when we were together. And the ink isn’t small, it’s gargantuan. It’s the kind of ink you’d get only if you were certain of something to your very core.

  I get off the Expressway. Barbed wire fencing covers a flat construction site on my right, man-sized rocks sitting dully in the center of it. The city, gray and winter powerful, looms sullenly behind that, far in the distance beyond the East River. The sky has gone dark when it was a bright shade of blue earlier; another storm coming. I make it to Brooklyn Heights. Pier Six appears, the newly-built park ahead of it smiles with barbecues and swings and shrubs covered with fresh and innocent snow. Deck must have quite a view from his apartment. Excuse me—technically a penthouse isn’t an “apartment” per se.

  I get inside the marbled lobby and hear my feet echo as I make my way into the elevator. A uniformed dude at the front desk smiles and tips his hat at me while I walk. He picks up the phone. Just before the elevator doors open, I hear him say in a French accent, “Monsieur Cox. She eez ’ere.”

  That didn’t make me nervous...

  The elevator smells of expensive wood and carpet-glue. Gold and silver trimmings sparkle under soft lighting. The music is...classical. Sounds like Vivaldi. Yes. I recognize it. L’Inverno—The Winter. Appropriate. I wonder how many people riding up this elevator actually appreciate the light touches owners of places like these put into the little things like...like...well, the elevator music!

  I chuckle meanly as I consider the idiocy of it. L’Inverno as elevator music. Oh brother, how high-browed! Tatiana Watkins would be just the type of person to complain if, in the middle of winter, the music had been, say, one of the other seasons Vivaldi wrote concertos for! Like Spring...

  Tatiana. The thought sends blood up my throat, dries my mouth, and breaks a sweat on my brow.

  The elevator dings at the top floor, and the doors open up to splendid opulence.

  There’s a short walkway to double-doors, fit for the entrance to a castle. The doors are dark and heavy wood, almost red. Brass handles looking more like thick railings sit firm on each one. There’s a mock-portico, a column on each side protecting the entrance. Protecting it from what? I wonder. The step to the door is also covered in red carpeting with intricate designs on it. Two pot plants hang on either side, lush and green. For a second I think they must be fake, until I catch the faint scent of their aroma.

  Incredible, I muse. Someone must water those every day... Or change them. Or have an entire greenhouse just for the penthouse owner!

  The doors start to crack open, and my heart pauses.

  When I see Declan, standing tall, muscles bulging from behind a tight white tee, eyes looking at me with unspoken anger, I forget to breathe for a second. His eyes are furiously blue. His hair is a tangled mass. I half expect to see a tall woman (taller than him, even) walking around in his shirt behind him. But all there is is him, his body adorned by a soft golden light seeping out from inside his city mansion, and his hand gripping the door like he’s about to snap it.

  I believe he could if he wanted to.

  “Come in,” he says.

  He opens the door wider, exposing a glorious suite of stairs climbing up in a spiral and lamps washing the home in warmness and kindness. The floor is wooden, shining, except for the sunken living room, which is carpeted. The place is welcoming. Comfortable. A woman could lose herself in this house, I think. The ceiling climbs easily twenty feet. Luxurious couches surround a cream marble table in the sunken living room, each couch inviting me to sit, to take my shoes off, to relax and have a drink...

  ...with Declan Cox...

  I push the thought of how many women he must have entertained here, out of my mind.

  No less than nine flatscreen TVs line his wall, combining to form one mammoth screen where he no doubt watches football when he’s not playing it. I remember the huge flatscreen he used to have over at his apartment on the corner of Bushwick and Bed-Stuy back in the day, miniscule in comparison (both the apartment and the screen!) He’d told me then that he liked big TV screens for watching football.

  But ultimately, the most exquisite, most breathtaking part of this palace, is the view. Manhattan stands proud, baring itself to gray skies and misty vistas. It stares at us, at the world, stands guard, and tells it, “I am here, folks. I’m New York. And I am here to stay.”

  A kitchen counter with dim lights and silver amenities glows on my left. An expensive-looking bar shines brilliantly a little further back, on the right. The bedrooms must be upstairs.

  And there’s a huge terrace, covered in white...

  “You like?” he asks.

  I close my mouth and move my tongue inside to moisten some of the dryness from having had it open for so long. “I do,” I croak. “It’s...exquisite.”

  “It’s home.”

  I hear footsteps behind me, ladies’ shoes, and shivers travel up my spine as I prepare myself to see...who?

  “Meester Cohkks?”

  I turn to look at the bearer of the frail, accented voice. It’s a small lady, probably in her forties, in a maid’s uniform with raven black hair and small shoulders. Her smile could tame the devil’s heart it’s so kind. Her eyes are tiny, and gentle.

  “Maria,” Declan says. “Let me introduce you to Blaze.” He extends his hand to my shoulder, eases me toward the tiny woman.

  “Eez a pleasure,” she says, melting me with a motherly smile. She shakes my hand lightly, then holds for a second while she peers into my soul. Her black eyes sparkle with something magical. She looks up at Declan, says, “Enjoy your Christmas, Meester Cohkks.”

  “You too, Maria. I’ll see you in January.”

  She pauses before leaving, as if wanting to say something to me. Then simply smiles, eyes sparkling, turns, and leaves.

  The door thuds closed. Suddenly I feel like I’m in a jail cell, hard and cold despite everything to the contrary in here. The lighting, the furnishings, the colors, all of it screams Home and Comfort. But that’s not what I’m feeling now. Home and Comfort left when Maria closed the door...

  I turn to face my gaoler.

  In his hand is a bottle of orange Gatorade. He puts it to his lips, sips loudly, thirstily. Only now do I notice the sweat gleaming from his brow, the light stain of sweat on his shirt by his chest. He’s been working out.

  “Blaze.” His voice is indifferent, almost cold. It’s the same deep and baritone purr that it used to be. The same voice that’s always set my skin on fire, even when it’s angry.

  I’m suddenly overwhelmed, suddenly lost in an ocean. He’s here, in front of me, and I let him go.

  And I’m afraid... So afraid...

  He drains his drink, says, “I’m sorry, I needed to blow off some steam. I’m gonna take a quick shower. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen or the bar. I’ll be about ten minutes.”

  I almost don’t get the words out I’m so stunned. “OK.”

  Blow off some steam. So I guess somewhere in this mansion there must be a workout area as well...

  He lingers a second, looks me over, looks me up, down... His eyes flicker once away, then he shakes his head. “This is a... Never mind. I’ll shower, we’ll talk. We’ll...end things properly this time.”

  End things. So that’s what he wants as well. To end things... And wasn’t it what I wanted? So why does it feel like I’ve just been sprayed by an Uzi?

  He disappears, gone.

  Poetic.

  I stand in the imposing apartment. He still has a tablet connected to some speakers. I remember putting music on his Asus tablet once for him, naked, and waiting as he’d slid up behind me. Then I’d turned...

  A weight bears down
on me, heavy and solid. The weight of regret.

  I stroll over to the tablet now, notice he’s got B&W speakers, just like I used to have, on either side of the huge multiple TVs. The tablet he’s sporting now is a lot more expensive than the Asus he once had, and bigger. Everything about Deck seems bigger. And he’s bigger, much bigger.

  I flick his tablet on, notice he’s been listening to Florence and the Machine. The song playing is Girl with One Eye. One of the first songs we ever made out to.

  Next to the tablet is a picture of him in a baseball cap being hugged by his mother before she’d “gotten bad.” On the wall behind the bar is the famous signed 56 jersey he had in his old apartment. Same old Deck...

  The setting may have changed, but the actors haven’t.

  The news sites make Deck out to be someone I don’t recognize, someone I don’t know. He’d always been a ladies’ man, that I knew. But he’d had heart. I’d known him inside. The way the papers put it, he’s a brute, an oaf looking for nothing more than a good lay and hard fuck on an off-game night. (Sometimes on an on-game night!)

  That’s not the Deck I remember. And I hope it’s not the Deck he’s become.

  When he returns to the room, looking fresh and massive, my heart begins fluttering at a mad pace. The shine on his skin reminds me of our own times in the shower, how I’d ridden him after...

  This is a lot harder than I expected.

  A towel is around his shoulders. He’s got a white tank top on, each of his muscles shaping it like Batman’s cape. Strangely enough, none of that gets me hot for him. I don’t care what he looks like. But his face, his familiar face...it kills me right now. His water-blue eyes, his hair, wet and matted...

  A lot more difficult than I expected.

  “I’m sorry about the sites today, Blaze. I didn’t mean—”

  “No, no, it’s fine. You didn’t know.” I realize I’m speaking fast, nervously.

  He waits, lets me catch my breath. Lets me settle into the surreal reality that here, in front of me, is the man I threw away, the man I once loved with all that I was and am. After what feels like a minute, he says, “Want something to drink?”

  Whiskey would be good, to soothe my nerves.

  I shrug. Fists of tears and sudden dawning punch me from the inside out.

  “Tea?” he asks.

  I laugh. “Since when have you been a tea drinker?”

  He grabs both sides of his towel, smirks playfully. “I’d prefer a spiked coffee, but it’s a bit early.” He looks at his watch. “Actually...”

  “No! No. I don’t want alcohol this early!” Although I really could use it...

  More silence follows. The subject of What to Drink seems to be fading fast. I wonder how long we’ll chew on it until we move onto How Have You Been? and chew on that and then move onto Long Time No See. How long will we last before we ask or tell each other what we really want to say?

  He clears his throat and the sound is like nails on a blackboard.

  I want to tell him I’m sorry, but suddenly feel strange doing it.

  I look up at his TV, then at the marble table in the center of the living room...

  He takes a step closer to me and I feel the movement as if it were a hand to my shoulder, as if his hand were sliding under my shirt and then caressing my stomach. It gives me butterflies and turns my chest in on itself.

  He steps back again, sighs out frustratedly, clears his throat.

  I wrestle with what to say, what to tell him, where to start, how to clear away four years of silence with only a few words. I wrestle with saying that final goodbye to you, that last We’ll-Stay-Friends talk, when all I feel now is how much I want to be with you, touch you, hold you, pick up the shattered pieces and see if we can glue them together.

  After endless pondering, endless self-discussion, I decide what to say. Apparently so does he. Because we speak at the same time. Only, we say completely different things. We say two things so different, so utterly contrary, that the feeling I’m left with afterwards is nothing short of nauseating, sickening, destabilizing.

  What he says to me hits me at the knees and takes my legs out from under me. It’s compounded by what I said to him.

  My words were those of weakness, and his were a sword.

  What we said was this:

  Me: “I’m sorry.”

  Him: “I cheated on you.”

  -3-

  There’s not a moment of silence, there’s an hour of silence. In my mind the Brooklyn Bridge cracks and creaks and starts to fall as if some tidal wave or earthquake has unhinged it, has bent its steel and started to bring it down into the river, ready to be swept away into the vast blue ocean.

  The stunned moment continues with thoughts of the building we’re in—this very building!—bending because of some force of nature, turning and twisting, being wrenched out from its supports and skeleton structure. The walls crack, the roof falls on me. By now I’m on the couch, sitting, no blood left in my legs. Deck’s still standing, like Hercules mowing someone down with a machete. And I’m the person being mowed down.

  His words cut me, ripped me, sliced me in two like no four words could have ever done. I cheated on you.

  Four words. Hmpf. How ironic. Not I love you, Blaze. No. Instead: I cheated on you.

  Hearing it again in my mind sends the whips out, lashing, scraping and searing against my cheeks, my mind, sending blood dripping down my already scarred face. And behind that, behind it all, a dark man, a shadow, Fear, laughs with an echo, an echo which grows and bounces and redoubles and pokes fun at me and roars in its hilarity at my misfortune!

  Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! It’s the sound of gagging laughter in an empty cavern. HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!

  Old Man Fear.

  Fear.

  That’s all this is, Blaze. Fear. You know better now. You know better. Get a grip. It’s just Fear. It killed you once, made you irrational once. Don’t let it do it again!

  The Voice of Reason whispers at me, behind the HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA of Fear and tells me to think, to not overreact, to keep the slashes of words and vitriol that begs to be spewed and sprayed out from my lips, at bay.

  Don’t let it overwhelm you, Blaze. It’s just Fear, remember? What good are rearview mirrors if you never use them?

  Slowly, the sound of this room begins to enter again. Before, it had been only the maddening screech of this building falling, and now it’s the more natural sound of wind outside, the beginnings of a cold rain which will wash away the snow. It’s a forming pitter-patter against the window-doors to his terrace. It’s the sound of Deck clearing his throat, his sigh, his deep breath as he waits for me to catch up with him, to recover after being winded by the blow of his words. I smell the fresh scent of wooden flooring, of carpeting, put my hand on the leather couch and feel the sweat of my palm rub off on it. I clear my throat, feeling minutely more under control. I look up at him. His face betrays nothing. He says nothing, just looks at me, waiting for me.

  “Wh—when?” I finally say.

  “When we were going out, near the end. With Gina. Gina Moretti.”

  Slam! The noise in my head is unbearable, a scene from a children’s fantasy with gods at war and weather patterns going haywire. I bite my tongue, fight the urge to hit him, to attack him, to lay into him!

  “It wasn’t sex,” he says, “not even a kiss—not really, at least. But it was...companionship. I sought another woman’s companionship over yours.”

  His words confuse me. It takes me a moment before I process them. “I’m sorry—what?”

  “I started spending more and more time with Gina at St. Dymphna’s. I’d go there after work, just to talk to her. I was basically...courting her...if you will.”

  “And then you kissed.” My voice is incredulous, confused, accusative.

  “No. I mean—yes—once—just a peck. She pecked me on the lips. Dry kiss. I put a stop to it by telling the Doc I wanted a chaperone every time I visited.”

 
I shake my head, put my hand up to stop him. “Deck, wait, wait, wait. Stop! Start again. Did you actually sleep with someone else while we were dating?”

  “No. But that’s not the p—”

  I stop him with my hand. Utterly confused.

  A moment of doubt. Fear. Then belief. “OK? Did you...uhm...do anything sexual with someone else while we were dating?”

  He looks outside. Rain has picked up and I hear it forcefully against his floor-to-ceiling windows. “Uhm, except for that kiss—”

  “Forget that damn kiss!” I’m a little angry now, a little angry at how this is not making sense. Did he cheat on me or didn’t he? “Aside from that...peck...or whatever it was...did you have sexual relations with anyone else while we were dating?” (I’m half expecting the TVs to go on and Bill Clinton to appear at a press conference saying in his drawl: I did not have sexual relations with that woman...)

  “Uhm, no.”

  My heart rises hopefully. “I’m so confused.”

  “Maybe I’d better sit, and explain it. Explain it all.”

  “Yeah, maybe you’d better.”

  He sits, and the freshly washed scent of his skin only makes me feel lonelier, because if he did cheat on me, having him this close to me would make no difference to our future. There’d be an insurmountable chasm between us, an unforgivable sin. No, not unforgivable, I could forgive him, as a friend, but it really would be over for us as lovers.

  He tells me the story of him and Gina, how he “courted” her, he says. It seems childishly sincere, and a little old-fashioned. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I know I was mad-rampaging in those days, that I pushed him away. Xavier’s death had really pushed me over the edge. I was...half-mad...in a way. Heck, if all he did was seek female companionship in the form of conversation, hell, what’s there to worry about?

  I try and process it, look at it from different angles. If he had sought that companionship with, let’s say, Vikki, would I feel jealous? Not at all. Why not? Because I trust Vikki. And I would trust the advice Vikki gave him about me, for instance. Wait a minute... “Did you ever discuss...us...with Gina?”