Raphael, that slime-ball who'd just about date-raped my best friend Kayla the night I'd met Conall. (Although he had raped her, technically, before that, with his drugs and his persuasions and his lies...) The guy Conall pummeled so hard and then threatened to break his kneecaps. Yip, I recalled the day after, when Conall had told me about his years of searching, digging, trying to find some way to stop the trade which had taken the life (or not!) of "his lover, his soul" — Alexandra. This Alexandra in front of me!
"Yes, I remember that," I said.
"Well, when I got back to England, I discovered that they'd found...Alex. In Hungary."
Alex.
Alexandra shuffled in her seat. "I think I'll go to the other room." She got up abruptly, headed to the bedroom, closed the door.
Conall opened his mouth to continue, but he didn't need to. I'd filled in the pieces. Conall was that type of guy. The one who'd put himself at risk, who'd put his own life at risk, for those he loved. Just like he'd done for Kayla, and his brother, when he beat the crap out of Mr. Raphael Drug Dealing Scumbag.
"I get it," I said to him. "I guess you found her, alive, somehow, I don't get how, and you, being you, got her out, and, I guess, well... That part I get. It's the rest that is a bit fuzzy to me." Like, why did you leave me behind? Why didn't you tell me? And, more importantly, how many times have you screwed your "lover, your soul"?
"Leora," he said, his voice a gentle whisper. "I've been faithful to you, all these months. I can promise you that. Please, come with me to my home. It's more comfortable there. I asked you to come here because, well, you needed to see her, her face, how she looks... You needed to understand that she is a soul in trouble, still trying to survive the ordeal she went through. And that is why I've helped her all these months."
"At my expense," I said. And as I said it, I felt its callousness, its cruelty. It's...selfishness. I shook my head. "Conall, I'm sorry." I put my head to my hand, rested my elbow on my knee. I felt myself shivering, but the room was warm, So warm I needed to take my coat off. Still, I shivered.
"Leora, there's more. Just know this: I did what I did for you, not for Alex." Again with the "Alex" instead of "Alexandra"... Damn it, I was being so cold-blooded about her! I hated myself for it. And I couldn't stop thinking those thoughts.
"I need some air," I said, getting up.
"Wait!" said Conall, suddenly to his feet, his hand out to me. "Leora..." He stopped. Moments of booming silence passed between us as I waited for him to say what he clearly wanted to say, but was avoiding.
He bit his lip, sighed, looked at Alexandra's closed bedroom door. This was a very big suite, I noticed. He'd really "taken care of her" well... (And there I was doing it again!)
"Leora..." He clutched his fist, shook his head, looked down. "They took her..." He ruffled a trembling hand across his wavy hair, looked up. "They — those bastards! — took her..." His eyes quivered. Fountains — tumultuous fountains — jackhammered behind his eyes, yet zero tears came out. Then he said it, his voice lower: "They took her because of me, Leora. I brought upon her the horrible things they did to her. And if they'd known how I felt about you, they would've — " He sucked in air, gathering himself, his words escaping through clenched teeth now.
He moved closer, put his hands to my shoulders and moved me toward him. He steadied me as he glared down at my eyes.
"If they knew I felt more for you than I've ever felt for anyone, Alex included, they could've... I could never let that happen to you. I had to play it cool. I had to... Leora, I can never lose you. Never. But it's over now. We got them. It's over. And if you'll have me still, because I know I've hurt you..."
His grip eased. I felt momentarily light-headed as it happened, snapped my hands to his palms! "Don't let me go," I said. "This is too much to take in. Just don't let me go while it goes through my mind and I try and make sense of it."
He held on tighter, moved me into his chest. The motion was slightly uncertain — very unlike Conall — but I sensed it was because he was wondering if I would "take him back" after what he had "done to me"... Right. And what had that been? If I'd understood it correctly (and I was struggling to understand most of it still) then he'd, so it seemed, protected me from someone who'd kidnapped and, what, raped?, beaten?, a girl he'd loved before...
And he, apparently, cared more for me than for that girl that he got his entire back tattooed for...
As I stood there, his hand now on the back of my head, my nose to his freshly pressed shirt, soaking in his cologne, I understood enough to process the next step. I believed that Conall had not betrayed me. I believed that the hell, the complete and utter inferno, that I'd experienced in the last six months could've been, apparently, worse. I could've been the one sporting a scar from my eyebrow to my lips, my eyes slightly skew. And I wasn't as beautiful as this "Alex." Not by a long shot. Such a scar on my face would all but destroy any hopes of me ever having a normal life.
Or it could have been worse. Much worse. I could've ended up like Kayla. Only the rape would've been more physically painful —
I stopped pondering it. Just hearing the word in my mind was too much to bear. I'd always known — and especially since she'd opened up to me in the hospital — that Kayla was so much stronger than me. I would not have survived any such ordeal. Alex looked strong as well (although the boozing seemed a little like a problem...)
As the pieces fell into close-enough place for me, I, still afraid, still, on some level, spooked that Conall wasn't really here, that his scent was not really his, but of... Dorian —
Oh, God. Dorian.
I lost my train of thought, eased my arms around Conall's waist, felt his chin land on my head. I clutched his shirt. "You're really here?" I mumbled into his shirt.
"I'm really here. And I'm so sorry — "
"Don't!" I pulled back, my hands still gripping his shirt behind his back (no doubt creasing the shit out of it.) I looked down, as if looking at him was still too much to bear. One step at a time. And that step, now, was feeling him, with my hands, like a piece of clay. "Don't apologize," I said. "I don't understand it. But I believe you."
He put his index underneath my chin, trying to lift my head up to look at his eyes. But my eyes were wet as water. The tears, sometime between the time he'd first held me and now, had made their way out in small drips. I felt them on my cheeks. They tickled. But I couldn't look at him. Not yet. I shook my head.
"No," I said.
"Come. Let's go to my place. Or do you have other plans today?"
I chuckled — a lonely, sad chuckle.
With air-quotes and all, I said, "No, I have no 'plans.'"
"Then let's go."
He turned me, moved me to his side, put his arm around me, my head now nestled by his chest on his side. Before we left, I looked over at Alexandra's door. She was there now, the door only a crack open.
She scowled at me, I was sure, and shot back another glass of whiskey, then closed the door.
I didn't know what to make of it...
CHAPTER SEVEN
-1-
In the train, I texted Kayla telling her as much as I could in 160 characters or less. She called, but I squashed it, forgetting our agreement to always answer each other's calls, no matter what, no matter, even, if we were in the middle of...the deed!
It still hadn't fully settled in my mind that she was here, in England, with me! I called her, telling her only that I couldn't talk.
"You sure you OK? That fucking punk isn't taking advantage of you, is he?"
Conall was next to me, his hand steady on my knee. He no doubt heard her speak. I pressed the volume down surreptitiously. He remained silent, stoic. I could tell there was so much he wanted to tell me, to explain.
"No, it's all good. Look, I'll call you as soon as I can."
"Hmmm," she said, "I don't like this, Leo. You want me to break his fuckin kneecaps? I'll call Brad. You know he'll come over if I tell him to!"
I l
aughed. "No, it's all good. I'll call you as soon as I can."
"Fine! But if Dani becomes my best friend you have only yourself to blame!"
"She's cool, isn't she?"
"Yeah, she's alright. The two of us will bring you over to the dark side somehow. Two against one now."
"I love you, sweetie."
"Love you, too, you idiot. Idiotically in love, that is!"
"Bye." I put the phone down.
Almost immediately, Kayla sent a text:
Kayla: The offer's still up. I'll kick that mofo's ass if he fucks with you. Just say the word...
Leora: Will do. Xoxo. Tx.
-2-
They'd taken Alexandra because of him?
I noticed some agitation in his gaze and I tried not to get freaked out about it. Had he really gotten "them"? And who were "they" exactly?
I heaved a sigh, tried to clear my mind as the English countryside — brown, ugly, brick-faced houses mostly — passed by me outside the train window.
"No one in their right minds drives into London," Conall had said before we'd jumped in the train. "Not even millionaires with limos."
It was the first time he'd referred to himself as a millionaire, although I'd long-since known it. But I didn't give a shit about that. I had money. I came from money. Money was so far from my interest with Conall that he could've been a pauper on the side of the street and I'd still love him. At least I think I would.
Thinking of paupers made me think of Dorian. And I suddenly regretted my times with him — both nights, when he'd touched me and I'd touched him. I felt, somehow, unfaithful...
"Conall," I said, "I... I was...with...someone — "
He put his hand up to stop me, closed his eyes briefly — a gesture of pain. "I know," he said. "There was no way you could have known — "
"It was nothing — "
"Leora, it's fine. It's not your fault."
"No, please, let me speak. I need to say it."
Conall looked at the seats next to us. A guy with earphones and a colorful tattoo on his forearm lay with his head to the window and his foot on the seat ahead of him. A cap covered his eyes. He looked like a One Direction wannabe. But he was clearly not going to hear any of what we were saying.
In the seat up ahead and to the right was a natural blonde with green highlights. She looked about fifteen, and she looked very interested in what we were saying as she chewed her gum and pretended to read her Nylon magazine.
Conall looked at me, made a gesture with his eyebrows that said: Go ahead, but only if you must...
"It's fine," I said. "But I have to tell you, when we get to your place. Please."
It looked like I'd just kneed him in the nuts or something. I could tell this was going to be hard for him. But all of it was hard. The whole thing had been hard. The only way to get through it would be to face it, wasn't it?
As we rode the train, I came to see that, despite Conall's honesty, despite his faithfulness (so he'd said), he and I weren't going to be able to pick up where we'd left off like nothing had happened. Because something had happened. Something bad. And I could feel it. And I could also feel that I loved him. Loved him with every part of me. But that feeling of love seemed to hurt, as if every time I thought about the love, my head went heavy, and my palms became sweaty.
I put my head to the glass, and let the momentary pain of the window bumping against my forehead take my mind off the other more painful ache that had taken root in every part of me. All the way to my bones.
-3-
We got into Conall's Mercedes at Crawley — a metallic off-purple beast that looked more like a sports car than a "traditional" Merc. It had white interiors and reflective surfaces. Conall drove faster than the speed limit, much faster. We went through some green areas (England is very green, trees and plants growing everywhere from the year-round rain) and, finally, slowed down into a back road of some sort that had the most god-awful speed-bumps (and dips, to carry off rainwater) you could imagine. Even the Mercedes's suspension couldn't stop my body bouncing uncomfortably.
We went by a few houses until we got to some wrought-iron gates. I figured this must be his house. I saw little else. Trees over the street made it quite dark even though the sun had not yet set. The gates opened and we drove in. The driveway was about a mile long. The front lawn looked like a forest — a clean and well-trimmed forest. Up ahead was his house — massive mock-Tudor style, double-story. On the right was a cottage. I tried to count the rooms but gave up. It looked easily like twenty or so. And it was one of the few houses I'd seen in England where the roof-tiles weren't covered in moss and were actually clean!
Inside, my wearied mind was taken aback for a second as I inhaled the fresh scent of wood. The whole house had wood all over it — on the walls, the ceilings, the floors. Ahead of me was a painting of a nymph in a forest. Conall took me to what looked like a dining room with a fireplace, three red couches (low, stylish) and a coffee table in the center. The Financial Times lay on it, as well as a few car magazines, another about tattoos. The floor was also wooden.
But the most breathtaking part, was the exterior:
I looked out through the massive windows and the back lawn was longer than the front driveway. There was a Hollywood swing, some lanterns. The sheer size of it all made me forget, for a moment, that things had been so rough for us for so long. But I did forget, and I saw, then, why Conall had brought me here. Because it was peaceful, and huge, and, well, romantic.
"Can I show you around?" he asked.
"Sure," I shrugged, my fingers in my denims.
He showed me the pool-house with a heated pool and shower in it, full-on sound-system. Then the other side of the back-yard (yes, there was a whole other side, the yard was split by a row of trees along the center.) There was a swing hanging from a branch there. There were also lots of hiding places where people could...you know... I mean, if they wanted to.
He showed me upstairs: Two bathrooms, six bedrooms. Downstairs was a colossal kitchen, a pool room (the other kind of pool, the cue and table kind), a guest room, another bathroom. A complete gym! "My, God!" I finally said. "You, um, live here...alone?" It seemed unlikely...
Conall paused a second, his angelic eyes making that "I'm thinking" look... "Yes," he said. "It does echo a lot at night now that I think about it."
"Why did you buy something so big?"
Again, the eyes, thinking. He smiled shyly. "Well, at the time, um, I figured..."
He hedged, as he always does when put in a spot.
"Tell me!"
"Well, one day...I want lots of kids. Like, well, six, maybe. And the house was on special so — "
My mouth dropped. "Six!"
He shrugged like a little boy with his thumb in the plum pie. "Five?"
I frowned.
"I'd settle for four..."
The joking — were we joking? — eased my mind. I'd missed him. I really had.
"Come, let's get a drink," he said, taking me to the bar at the end of the house. Yes, a complete bar with all kinds of liquors, a friggin monstrous flatscreen TV (no doubt for watching sports) and another kick-ass bad-ass sound-system.
Conall went behind the bar. "What are you drinking?"
"Whiskey," I said. It had been a joke, but also not. I definitely didn't drink whiskey, but, damn, I felt like I needed a kick in the head or something!
Silence.
I turned to face Conall. I'd been gawking at the room. He was staring at me, no doubt stuck in some parallel universe vortex of disbelief or something. "Conall?" I asked. "I'm the one who phases out, remember?"
"Er, right, I remember," he said, flustered and batting his eyelids just like Hugh Grant... "But you're not getting a whiskey! Most certainly not!"
"Most" certainly... The words acted as a memory-trigger. It was the accent that had done it. I remembered when we'd met at Cringe, then our first coffee, me trying to guess where he was from — Australia? Ireland?
"If
you absolutely must drink alcohol, then it will be wine. Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc?"
"Huh?" I said. It was me who'd phased out now.
"Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc?"
Wow, I actually knew what those were! It helped that I'd been working at a pub for the last three months... Although I had no friggin clue what they tasted like. "Um, I really don't know."
Conall chuckled, shook his head. "I recommend the Sauvignon Blanc. But I see — " He looked in a cupboard above his head, then ruffled in one below. "Hmmm, I'll need to get one from the cellar. You'll be OK?"
"Sure."
He walked out.
I was still in a light reverie from his accent, like an old song earworming through my mind... I watched him leave, not fully appreciating what had just transpired: Wine? Sauvignon Blanc? Oh, right, and a cellar! Wow. So he had one of those, too.
I went to the sound system while I waited. There was an iPod plugged into it. I scrolled though his albums. I saw the Soundgarden album. That had been Alexandra's favorite. I felt a cold chill, kept scrolling. I saw the Twilight Soundtrack — Breaking Dawn, Part I. I remembered that. He'd snooped my own music and then bought it. Then we'd gotten hot and sweaty to Christina Perri's A Thousand Years.
I smiled, a smile filled with sadness at our situation. He'd gotten more Twilight albums... The first, the second... Heck, he'd bought them all!
And he also had Paramore. That was strange.
I also owned Paramore... I had everything they ever wrote.
Like a sledgehammer, I was back at the Marriott, just about to be pushed up against the table as Conall moved in behind me:
Conall: "Sorry, I was snooping your iPhone while waiting for Kayla. I bought a few of the songs you had on there. It's time to try something new."
Me: "You bought the fucking Twilight soundtrack to try something new?"
Conall: "Could you shut up now? I'm trying to create a mood here..."
So, he'd clearly bought more than only Twilight that night when he'd snooped my iPhone.
East Rising (Naive Mistakes #2) Page 7
