“I would expect nothing less. Make it really sexy too, okay?”
I started turning the knobs to set the temperature on my shower while toeing off my shoes and socks. “Wait, but I thought this was one of those ol’ blue-blood charity events. Wouldn’t you prefer me in something more…”
“Matronly? Like you’re a senator’s wife with a stick up her ass? Uh, no. I want you to look so good that everyone here will think I’ve gone straight.”
“Hold on, I’m putting you on speaker.” I hit the button and peeled off the clothes I only wore for home repair—an old Yale tee and sweats so threadbare, I wondered how they hadn’t disintegrated already. “Are you sure about that? I mean, DC’s a pretty conservative town.”
“Ugh, tell me about it. Nope, I’m sure. I’m hanging up now. Remember, bring on the sexy, Samantha!”
“Fine, Trick. See you soon.” I hung up and jumped in the shower. And let me tell you, after spending the day covered in drywall dust, that shower felt as transformative as a religious experience. As I scrubbed off the day, I thought back to Patrick’s point, about me hiding out because of what had happened between Kyle and me. I blushed in spite of the heat of the water just thinking about all the things we had done that night. “Can’t believe I let the fucker tie me up,” I muttered under the tap, letting the water flow over me, the shampoo bubbles stinging my eyes. His note had told me all I needed to know: he got what he wanted and now he was done. Moving on. Every time I thought about it, waves of shame and fury enveloped me. I wanted to kick his ass. I also wanted to be back in his bed, have him worship every inch of me the way he had. I couldn’t even remember the last time I had such an attentive lover. And that pissed me off all the more.
Of course, Patrick was right. I was ready to go in forty-five minutes and that even included me flat-ironing my auburn hair stick-straight and sleek. As per his instructions, I had chosen an indigo Gucci dress with three-quarter sleeves and no back. It was understated sexiness, probably not quite as va-va-voom as Patrick would want, but I knew that crowd and there was no way I was going any skimpier than this.
His driver was already waiting when I came out, and I arrived in Georgetown, one of the toniest neighborhoods of Washington, DC, in hardly any time. I rushed in to find Patrick waiting for me right outside the ballroom, with the cocktail hour still in session. I felt a bunch of eyes on me as I arrived, but even more so when Patrick came up to me, cradling my face in his hands and barely above a whisper asked me, “Remember the first rule of improv?”
“What?” I was totally confused for a half a second. “Um…it’s to always say yes to what your partner is doing in a scene. Why are you asking me that?”
“Because of what I’m about to do…” And right then Patrick kissed me. And I’m not talking about a friendly peck on the lips. I mean an Oscar-nominated-worthy, openmouthed kiss. With tongue. Like I was his long-lost lover who had just come back from war. Or the girl who got away and had somehow come back.
But since Patrick never steered me wrong, I returned his kiss with all the fervor and passion “the scene” called for. Totally confused, mind you, but still all in.
When he finally broke away, with both of us quietly trying to catch our breaths, I wiped around my mouth, trying to fix what I imagined was my smeared lipstick.
“Mind telling me what that was all about?”
He nodded. “Sure, but don’t be mad, okay?”
Oh no. This couldn’t be good because nothing good ever started off that way.
“Fine, what?” I was losing my patience with him.
“Oliver didn’t cancel last minute. I made that up. He’s on the other side of the room, seeing to some last-minute details.”
“What?” I was incredulous, trying to wrap my head around what he was telling me. “But why?”
“Remember you said you wouldn’t get mad…”
I glared at him in response.
“Kyle Masterson is here with that woman, his latest client…what’s her name… Shit, I forgot. Anyway, he’s here, staring daggers at me behind you, and you’re here, looking beyond fabulous.”
My stomach dropped to my knees and I clasped onto his forearm because I was immediately lightheaded. My mouth went dry and I thought I was going to pass out because the blood rushed from my brain in one fell swoop.
Patrick gave me a stern look. “Now you need to listen to me. I know that twisty li’l brain of yours has you convinced that you deserve a karmic bitch slap delivered by that gorgeous male specimen over there, but—”
“I cannot believe you’ve done this, Trick!” I interrupted while pushing him back with my palms. “Of all your maneuvers, this has got to be—”
“Look at me, Samantha, and tell me you haven’t been moping over him this past week?”
I clamped my mouth shut. Because I had. Big time. I had only seen him less than a handful of times, slept with him once, but not only was he the best sex of my life, but I found everything about him engaging. Compelling. Addicting, even. And I had been going cold turkey all week. Just like Patrick had said.
“Exactly,” he huffed, with a gleam of self-satisfaction in his eyes. “And I don’t care what you say, but you don’t ‘deserve’—” he used air quotes, “—to be dumped. With any of these guys, you have always been upfront, to a fault. That’s the chance they took trying to tame a wild filly like you.”
“But I did get dumped, Trick,” I interjected, “and now you’ve created a situation where I’m going to be even more uncomfortable. How does that solve anything?”
His expression became solemn. “Never seen you so taken with a man before, honey.” His voice was lower now as he rubbed my upper arms. “I figured that, as much as I can’t stand how he blew you off, there had to be something special to capture your attention the way he did.” Then he cupped my face in his hands again and touched the tip of his nose with mine. “At best, you two see each other and work things out and, at the very least, you torture the shit out of him because you are completely smoking in that dress.”
I let out a sound between a giggle and a snort, shaking my head. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Well, nothing more than what we just did,” he teased, “because as scrumptious as you are, I’m not switching teams anytime soon. Now let’s go out there, mingle and torture all the good-looking men.”
I wished I had enough nerve to turn around and see if Kyle was still watching us, but instead, I took Patrick’s arm in mine, gave it a warm squeeze and let him lead me into the main ballroom. I could feel dozens of eyes upon us. I only hoped a set of those belong to the man who had bruised my heart.
Everything was decorated in rich, sumptuous velvets and satin fabrics, along with shimmers of silver, mostly with clever placement of mirrors not just on the walls but being used in groups as centerpieces. The visual effect was decadent and surreal, being able to see yourself from almost every angle at any time.
“Want a drink, Sam?”
“Sure, an El Presidente.”
Patrick winked and headed over to the bar while I placed my handbag at our assigned table and took in the sights around me.
Who was I kidding…I was looking for Kyle. I was hoping to pinpoint where he was in the room so I could be prepared. Part of me was dying to find him, to see if he would approach me, and the other half was hoping I’d never have to lay eyes on him again. I took in a breath meant to calm me, but all it did was solidify how shaky I was inside.
“Hello, Samantha.”
I knew that voice anywhere and it was right behind me. Time for your game face, I thought, as I smoothed over my expression and retrieved a neutral smile. Then I turned around and found those golden-whiskey eyes lit electric and hot, perusing me slowly from head to toe and back again, and something inside me crumbled. My resolve whittled into a stump of itself. It took everything I had not to throw myse
lf at him. Crawl under his skin and burrow deep.
Then I forced myself to remember the ridiculously lame note he left me with the cab fare. Like I was a hooker. The memory refueled my anger into something cold and smoldering at the same time.
“Oh hey, Kyle,” I responded, sounding almost bored. God, I’m good, I couldn’t help but think to myself, making just the edge of my mouth curl up slightly.
“‘Oh. Hey…Kyle’?” he practically spat back, his jaw getting tight as he over-enunciated. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
My eyes widened, because I was genuinely surprised he was giving me attitude.
“Who the hell is that guy you’re with?”
Surprised evolved into full-out fiery pissed-off in a nanosecond. “Excuse me? Are you serious right now?”
He took a step into my personal space and I automatically backed up, my behind hitting the chair, which I was now grasping with both hands. I narrowed my eyes and straightened my spine, but I never knew why I bothered. Even with my high heels on, I barely reached Kyle mid-chest. Then again, it was still an unbelievably fine view. Damn him for looking impeccably delicious in a Tom Ford suit.
He shoved his fingers in his luscious, silky chestnut hair, looking as if he was ready to pull it out by the roots. Kyle expelled a harsh breath and then surprised me once again by reaching for me, wrapping his arms around my waist. I tried to push him back with my hands, but he was like a marble statue. Immobile and unyielding.
“Fucked up with you, Samantha,” he muttered, resting his lips on the top of my hair. “Shouldn’t have left the way I did after the night we had together.”
My hands, which had been on his chest in an attempt to get him away, now balled up into fists, my eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to quell my reaction to his small confession.
In a soft voice, I asked, “So why did you?”
He pulled away from me, and just as he opened his mouth to respond, I heard a woman’s voice. A really peeved and whiny woman’s voice.
“Kyle, what the hell are you doing over here with that woman?”
I whipped my head around to see the same woman I had seen with him on TV. His latest divorce client. She had one hand on her hip, jutted out to the side in an exaggerated manner, with eyes turned into laser-focused slits, looking up and down the length of me. Her dress was definitely a size too small and her silicon-enhanced breasts were about to make an escape out of her deep V. She was also just a shade lighter than Willy Wonka Oompa Loompa Orange. It was a shame because the woman was actually very pretty and didn’t need the whole Real Housewives tacky franchise look. It was also obvious that she wasn’t a longtime DC resident either, because the women of the area didn’t dress like her. They were into subtle elegance. Didn’t mean they didn’t get a lift or tuck, but it was all meant to look timeless. Ageless.
Not like the train wreck in front of me now, who had obviously taken her beauty cues from the porn industry. So sad.
“Don’t worry, sweetie,” I said, my pensive coming out more than my sass, “he’s all yours.” Then I stepped aside in time to see Patrick walking up to us with two drinks in hand. I grabbed my clutch off the table.
“Sorry it took so long, baby girl. The line was forever!” His eyes moved toward my handbag. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Huh,” the woman huffed. “Looks like you’re trying to collect all the hot men tonight. Take yours and back off of mine!”
Kyle grabbed her by the upper arm and practically growled in her face, “Damn it, Yasmine, we are not together. You asked me to accompany you tonight as a favor and that’s it.”
Patrick put the drinks down and came over to me, wrapping his arm around me. “You okay?”
“She’s fine,” Kyle spat out, “and we were in the middle of a private discussion.”
“I’m not fine,” I retorted, glaring back at him, “but I am done.” Then, turning back to Patrick, I said, “I’ve got to go, sweetie. I’m sorry.”
His face immediately softened. “Sam…”
I plastered on a fake smile, which I just knew didn’t reach my eyes. “Everything’s fine, Trick. Really.” I was trying too hard and it showed. So I sighed, gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll call you later.”
And without looking at Kyle or the divorcée or anyone else in the eye, I bolted straight for the exit. I could hear Kyle calling for me, but I didn’t look back. My hands slammed onto the metal handles of the double doors, and, as soon as they opened, I was practically blown sideways by a harsh, cold wind. Luckily the doors emptied right by a cabstand, and I was immediately whisked off, back over the Key Bridge and home to the place that had become both my salvation and my prison.
Chapter Six
Out with Henry. Don’t wait up! Insert squeaky girly noise here. :-)
See ya mañana,
Jess
“Well, at least one of us is having a good night,” I mumbled into the air, while tossing the note into the recycling. I had forgotten that Jess was going out with one of the teachers from her school, some guy who taught the advanced classes to sixth graders. Personally, I thought he was all wrong for my sister, a guy filled to the brim with his own self-importance. The first time I met him, the douchebag somehow managed to “slip” in that he had published a book and was voted Teacher of the Year in the state of Virginia—ten years ago. And that meeting had only lasted fifteen minutes. Jess didn’t usually have a lot of patience for what she called puffed-up-peacock arrogance, but she had heard his back story during lunch with some of the chattier staff members, about how his wife was killed by a drunk driver years ago. Just like our parents. And that’s all it took. My sister was a sucker for romance and lost causes, a die-hard rescuer. Couple that with a shared tragic history and I knew that spelled at least getting to third base with my sister.
“I give it two months,” I said to no one but myself, while looking in the fridge and seeing nothing I wanted to eat, in spite of being half-starved at this point. So instead, I opted for a glass of red wine and went to my room. The one I had been in since my first memory. Of course, I had redecorated it as soon as Jessica and I had moved back after our parents’ accident. It went from swirls of pinks and purples, well-loved during my teen years, to its current palette of celadon blue and white with touches of green apple accents. I stripped out of my beloved Gucci dress, kicked off my heels as if they were on fire and plopped myself on my bed. My stomach growled, which made sense because I hadn’t eaten since lunch and, because of that, the wine went right to my head. My brain was now fuzzy and warm and my belly had been quieted. And there, alone in the dark of my room, wearing nothing but my underwear, I let the tears roll down.
Silently. Steadily.
I missed my mom and dad. Like a phantom limb. I longed to be able to hear their voices, especially after a disaster of a night like tonight. Usually, if this had happened while they were alive, I would have gone back to my apartment and called them. Or waited ’til my next visit to Vienna, when I would spill the sordid details over my dad’s French toast and my mom’s perfectly crispy bacon. And by the time I would have finished with my story, both of them would have had me laughing ’til my sides hurt. My mom would have reached out to play with my hair, which she loved to do, and say in that melodic, breezy cadence of hers, “Sam-Sam, when God feels it’s time, He’s going to bring a man worthy of you because you are one of His most extraordinary creations. He will not be perfect, but he will be perfect for you.”
Then my dad would stop eating and stare at my mother. With awe. With even a tinge of incredulous disbelief, like a man who had won the lottery and couldn’t grasp the magnitude of his good fortune. My mom would beam back at him, wink at me and proclaim, “Samantha, that’s the kind of love worthy of a girl like you. Enjoy your playtime for now, but when the time comes to settle down? Don’t settle. Never settle.”
Both my
parents considered themselves blessed to have found the other, but there was always an extra element of wonderment for my dad. I always figured it had been because he was the guy from the wrong side of the tracks who had fallen head over heels in love with a breathtakingly beautiful redhead from Southern Virginia. A girl who came from family money and impeccable breeding, someone expected to marry a physician or a senator. They had met at the College of William and Mary, where he was on full scholarship, studying economics. She was a sophomore and he was a senior, just accepted into the combination master’s/PhD program at Princeton University. A handsome man with a bright future with barely two cents to rub together.
He started the academic year as her tutor and was her husband by the following summer, eloping when she was only nineteen and he was twenty-one. She transferred to Princeton, and they lived in student housing for six years while he earned his graduate degrees. Even though they continued to pay for her schooling, her parents didn’t directly speak to her for two years, until I came along. Once he secured a position with a prestigious economic policy think tank based in Washington, DC, most of the family rifts had mended.
“I may have lost you both,” I whispered in the dark, “but I didn’t lose what you taught me. Not a word of it. So I want you to know I’m done playing. I’m ready to find my man, the one who may not be perfect, but the one who’s perfect for me.” I took in a trembling gulp of air and closed my eyes, hoping sleep would take over my fatiguing body and spirit.
Instead, I heard a series of pings on my bedroom window.
I was used to scrapes, but not sharp, irregularly staccato sounds. That’s because planted right in front of my house was an oak tree and I had spent my life listening to its branches and foliage brush against my bedroom window.
I crawled across the bed and grabbed the robe I kept hanging on the back of my door. As I walked to the window, I cinched the sash belt tightly around my waist and, this time, I could actually see small pebbles hitting the window frame.
Heart Breaker (Break on Through) Page 8
