What the hell was I doing this for?
I knew why. I wanted to know more about her. I didn’t want to admit it, but I did.
“For Christ’s sake,” I said to the empty space. I picked up my beer and took a long sip.
It wasn’t like someone was outside my window, knowing what I was doing.
Wait.
There wasn’t some secret software or something that would alert a person when someone was searching their name was there? What if there was an app or shit that notified her, by alarm, someone was hitting up her name all over the interwebs? How would I even explain that?
I grabbed my phone and texted Wells—
Me: There’s no way she’ll find out I’m creeping on her all over social media and shit, right?
I stared at the phone screen like a pathetic fuck, hoping his response would be swift and reassuring. Luckily, osmosis was a real thing and his message came through.
Wells: How the hell would that even happen?
Me: I don’t know! I don’t do this shit. I didn’t know if there was some alert.
Wells: Ah. No. The Internet snoopers police isn’t standing outside your door with their Tasers, ready to drag you out into the middle of downtown and make you wear a scarlet letter.
Me: Fuck off. Why do I even ask you anything ever?
Wells: You’re certainly very worried about being found out for someone you’re not even interested in.
Dick.
Me: I told you. I’m just curious. I don’t want shit to get awkward, since we work together, if she found out.
Wells: Whatever. Go forth and HUNT!
No doubt he was on to me, but I had to keep doing as I had that morning. Deny. Deny. Deny. There was no other way. While it would be nice to confide in someone about all this Al business, there wasn’t a chance in hell I’d divulge that to Wells. He had a big mouth, and with him being as into Phoebe as he was, I couldn’t risk him slipping something to her. He was too close to Alexis, and he was too close to Aaron by being my right hand.
Aaron.
This was the time I needed him to hear what was going on with me and give me level advice. He’d always done that for me and vice versa, but that couldn’t happen either for obvious reasons. I couldn’t even imagine how that conversation would go.
“Hey, Aaron! What’s up, buddy? Great. Good to hear. Oh, me? How are things here? They couldn’t be better. Ginger has hit the ground running, and lines are out the door every night. It has all come together just like we’d hoped. Plus, as an added bonus, I hired a local baker who makes daily deliveries, in the sexiest like retro waitress dress thing, and she makes liquor-infused mini desserts. And guess what? You’ll never guess in your lifetime who it is that makes these treats, the most goddamn delicious sweets I’d ever had? Lexie! Yes! YOUR Lexie! Isn’t that a hoot? Are you surprised? Yeah. I didn’t tell you because I knew her involvement in the business was a win, and I let my selfishness about making sure Ginger was a hit trump telling you that Lexie was aiding in that. You know, she goes by Alexis now, but I hate that so I call her Al. By the way, I’m totally hot for her and kissed her and really would like to have sex with her, and maybe more. I know, right? I agree—I’m a total jerkoff who has no moral compass and who obviously has brain damage from all those years of drinking to have even taken it this far.”
I was being optimistic about how well that call would go. It wasn’t going to happen. Ever.
Which was why as I typed in her name into the search tab, I was more conflicted than ever. I was indulging, allowing myself to dip my toe into dangerous waters, by seeking out more information about her. Sure, I could pass it off as being nosy or some other bullshit, but what was the point in lying to myself.
So I typed in “Alexis Bell” and hit search.
The results came back, and I started scrolling through to see if any of it was about Al. Her name appeared in a few articles about Tipsy Treats, and there was a simple website for it as well. But I couldn’t find photos of her or any other information.
I dug deeper and deeper, feeling more and more like a creep the further I went. It was like I was sneaking through her attic or, even worse, her underwear drawer, looking for answers. To what questions? I didn’t have a fucking idea.
I rubbed my eyes, remembering as soon as I did it that I’d been knocked out in one of those eyes twenty-four hours ago. Pain radiated across my entire eye socket and into my cheek until it dulled to a burn.
I wasn’t getting anywhere. She had wanted to stay under the radar, and she had done that. She had done it well. Even when I searched under Lexie Matthews, a few things popped up, mostly career related, but even that ended abruptly six years ago. How does one not have any social media or Internet information out there on them? I wasn’t as savvy as most with the whole Facebook, Snapchat, or whatever everyone was using to keep tabs on others 24-7, but I wasn’t ignorant to it, either. Photos got posted every day of others without them even knowing it. With no idea about her family, either, to try and sneak through that way, I thought I’d hit a dead end. Then, it came to me. The one person in her life and who was probably on social media.
Phoebe.
But I didn’t know her last name. However, I knew someone that did.
Me: Hey. What’s Phoebe’s last name?
Wells: Why?
Me: Because of course, I can’t find shit on Alexis, and I bet Phoebe might be the only link where I can.
Wells: Williams. And do me a favor? If you find out any dirt on her, pass it along my way?
Me: Like what kind of dirt?
Wells: You know, like ex-boyfriends (or even ex-husband she has neglected to mention!) still sniffing around. Risqué or excessive partying or duck lip photos. Questionable political views. Overly vague status updates.
Me: Why does any of that, aside from the dude stuff, even matter?
Wells: It speaks to character. Plus, it’s annoying.
I shook my head at the phone because all of it was so ridiculous. Maybe it was a twentysomething thing. These were things that were important to them—status updates and duck lip photos. Here I was trying to figure out if the girl who had been married to my best friend, abandoned her daughter, and was once one of my friends had done a one-eighty since then. Maybe that was a thirtysomething thing.
I didn’t even want to consider what the fortysomething thing was. What a fucking shitshow that must be.
Me: I thought everyone was snooping on everyone? Don’t you know all this stuff about Phoebe already since you’re interested in her?
Wells: You never know when truths may rise to the surface.
Whatever, I thought, as I tossed my phone to the side and typed in “Phoebe Williams San Luis Obispo.” I hit search and, as I expected, jackpot.
Every social media and reference a twentysomething girl would be on popped up. Clicking on her Facebook link, it opened to her page, her profile picture of a smiling Phoebe, with a New Year’s Eve tiara on her head. I scrolled down her page but a lot of it was hidden, probably because of her privacy settings or whatever.
One photo that was in an album was linked to an Instagram account, so I clicked on it to see where it led me.
And it led me to right where I wanted to be. An unlocked, solidly stuffed with photos, Phoebe Instagram account. I picked up my beer and took a sip as I began to scroll through, looking for any sign of Al. My eyes scanned rapidly, knowing if she was there somewhere, I would catch her. As I took another long swig from the bottle, I saw it. I saw her, and I almost choked on the beer I was swallowing.
What the fuck? Who the hell is that?
I scrolled through the next several photos of Phoebe, Al, and others at some sort of a party. Al was mostly background in some, but there was one shot of her and Phoebe together, Al’s long hair curled into glossy twists and her lips a shiny pale pink, appearing to be having a good time. It was nice to see her having fun for perhaps one night, but it was the next photo that had me seeing red.
&
nbsp; Al and some…dude…her arms wrapped around his waist, as he kissed the side of her face.
She was smiling, a bright, strong grin.
His hand was resting on her lower back, dangerously close to her ass.
Asshole probably tried to cop a feel right after the picture was taken.
I had no idea why this angered me so much, why a blaze of rage was bubbling up inside of me.
Stupid fuckbag Marshall. Of course you know why.
She said she hadn’t dated since Aaron, but it was evident by the photo there was something—and by something, I concluded probably boning—going on between them.
I recalled her saying no, she hadn’t dated, but that it didn’t mean she hadn’t had sex or some variation of that. If sex had happened, was happening, this was probably the guy.
Or at least one of them.
I didn’t begrudge or judge any woman out to get hers in the sack. In fact, I found it downright sexy. The double standard between men and women’s sexual behaviors was fucking archaic, and a woman going after what she wanted, fulfilling her own desires was kick-ass.
However.
That was where the double standard ended.
No guy wants the girl he was interested in to be with other guys, even if it’s assumed he was with other girls.
And if a man was truly interested in pursuing something more with a lady?
Not only did he not want her sleeping with anyone else, he didn’t even want her looking at anyone else.
I wasn’t sleeping with Al, nor could I indulge in anything further with her. It didn’t stop me from reeling with jealousy, though, my desire to make her my own, to claim every inch of her body with a trace of my tongue and make her mind think of nothing else but me.
There was right and there was wrong.
Angel and devil.
You never knew what truths would rise to the surface was right, Wells.
Chapter Ten
Alexis—
Marshall: Can I see you? Ginger at eleven?
The message came through long after I was asleep at 1:48 a.m. It was an odd time to be texting me, but then again, what wasn’t screwed up with what was going on between us?
It was barely 5:30 a.m., and I was doing my morning ritual outside on the porch swing, waiting for the sun to rise. Considering how late it was when he texted me, my guess was he was still asleep and it was far too early for me to respond. However, he didn’t seem to have any second thoughts about reaching out to me in the middle of the night. This could’ve occurred for two reasons.
One: Something was urgent. Something had happened, and he needed to speak to me about it immediately. While that wouldn’t explain why he wanted to wait until eleven a.m. at Ginger to do it, perhaps there was a reason behind that as well. The uncertainty made me anxious…fearful. He was my only tie to my old life besides Leslie. I’d often wondered if she would reach out to me if something happened to any of them, and if she had, what would I do? My face appearing during a tragedy would only further whatever pain they were going through. The flip side: If I was made aware and did nothing, how would that appear to them? How would it affect me? These were those nuggets of disconnect that were never part of the equation, were never even a thought when I had to make the decision to leave. All the what-ifs came later. They still came, but I had no choice but to swallow them as they arrived. I’d given up any right to a decision when I left them.
Two: Marshall was just an inconsiderate asshole whose emotions came at him like a firing range, and instead of thinking through them, he had an immediate reaction.
I was leaning more toward reason two, to be honest.
I texted back.
Me: I’ll be there.
I sat back and swung, but there wasn’t much of a sunrise. Dark, ominous clouds lined the sky, blocking the day from making its full appearance. The wind kicked in, and I knew something was happening.
A storm was coming.
* * *
It was ten minutes before eleven a.m., our agreed-upon time, but I was nervous and couldn’t stand waiting around any longer. Plus, I was driving Phoebe up the wall, and she all but kicked me out of my own house.
The sky had grown even more threatening, a late-morning darkness that was so unusual to see. It looked like any moment everything it was holding back would be unleashed. I wondered what it was waiting for.
Marshall’s car was the only one parked in the small lot that backed up to the alley of Ginger. That meant he was alone and that Wells wasn’t in yet, either. We were going to be alone. I had no choice but to assume he wanted it that way.
I entered through the unlocked back door, careful to close it behind me, before making my way through the quiet, empty bar. My fingertips ran across the length of the marble bar, everything shiny and untainted. I glanced into the office and saw him sitting there, his eyes concentrated on the screen of his laptop in front of him.
I watched him for several moments, taking in the handsomeness of his face, his strong jawline still visible from underneath his neatly trimmed beard. His tattoos, streaming from under his fitted, white cotton T-shirt, were a wash of colors and stories that even though I got a glimpse at the other night, I still wanted to know more.
“Al?”
I jumped, startled and embarrassed at being caught gawking at him. I didn’t even want to know how long I was doing it or how long he noticed I was doing it.
“Hey,” I said. “Sorry.”
A slow grin materialized. “What do you have to be sorry for?”
“I was…staring.”
“Yeah, I noticed. I certainly don’t think it’s anything to be sorry for, though,” he said. He leaned back in his chair and bounced against it. “Although there are other things you might be sorry for.”
“Really? I can’t imagine I’m sorry for anything else, but I’m sure you’ll tell me what I did wrong.”
He let out an exaggerated breath and stood up slowly, his hand moving to his bruised rib’s side. “I don’t want to start today with the bickering or whatever,” he said.
“Neither do I,” I said. I attempted my best flippant tone, even though my brain and heart were telling me there was something to be concerned about. “But you asked me to come here, so I’d appreciate it if you’d just come out and say whatever it is you have to say.”
“Why do you always have to do that?”
“Do what?”
“That,” he said, waving his hand up and down my body. “Challenge me. You always take whatever I say to immediate defense, like you have something to prove.”
He was 100 percent correct, but I wasn’t going to readily admit that. It would be like handing him a piece of my dignity and letting him play catch with it. It was one of the only things I still had, and even with all the chemistry floating between us, I couldn’t let my guard completely down. There was no telling when anger would rise to the surface with him, in regards to me. There was no choice but to always be on defense.
Also, he was one hell of a hypocrite.
“And you don’t think you do the same to me?” I asked. “Nothing is ever said or done without you coming back swinging at me.”
His jaw tightened. “Listen, Al. I’m doing the best I can with all of this, okay?”
“So am I.”
“Are you? Why did you kiss me yesterday?”
My jaw dropped down from shock. Was he kidding me with this?
“Um,” I said. “I seem to recall you kissing me.”
“That was only after you wanted me to walk you to your car, and then…other stuff.”
“Do you seriously want to argue about who kissed who first? The fact is we were both there, and I’ll take half the blame. There is obvious regret, so let’s just leave it at that, okay?”
I knew it was wrong, but I didn’t regret the kiss. Regret meant you wished it had never happened, that it was a disappointment. I felt neither of those things.
He, though, appeared full of regret, and disappoint
ment, and both were pointed toward me.
I understand, though. How could I not?
“How about we just discuss what I asked you to come here for, okay?” he asked, his face shifting back into a neutral expression.
“Fine.”
“I was considering our talk yesterday, about how to increase the inventory of Tipsy into here,” he said.
“Good. I was considering it as well.”
“Oh? And what are your thoughts?”
“My thoughts are that I do two drop-offs a day instead of one,” I said. “Phoebe can do one, and I can do the other. We can uptake the inventory a bit, but spreading it out like that will hit the right-after-work crowd, and then the second one will hit late-night people.”
He ran his hand down and across his beard while staring at the floor. “Huh.”
“What?”
He began to smile again, shifting his eyes to mine before the grin disappeared. “I was actually thinking the same thing.”
“Well, how about that,” I chuckled. “We can agree on something together and come to the same conclusion independent of each other.”
It could’ve been so simple. We could’ve been so simple.
Regular.
Boy and girl meet. They do the dance, play the required games, and then give in.
But we weren’t simple.
A lifetime of baggage followed me wherever I went, and I was going to be damaged for the rest of my life because of it. He only saw a piece or two of that baggage, but he had no idea of all that I carried before he even knew me.
And I didn’t think he realized that Lexie died when she left Chicago. That the girl he knew, the investment banker with meticulous plans for her future, a sharp, ice-cold demeanor, and the picture-perfect boyfriend, was dead.
Alexis rose from it, and while I wasn’t unhappy, I knew the part of myself I closed off to the world was the same thing I wanted, I needed, so desperately.
Love.
But whoever could? Who could ever love, respect, and accept a woman who gave up her daughter? The woman who ran away from her family, but also ran away from her other family before that? Who could ever comprehend why I had to do any of it?
So Wicked Page 12
