Stranger

by Robin Lovett

  I eye the shopping bags Penny gave me, still sitting on the table days later. Those clothes should be good for something.

  I dial the law firm’s number on Penny’s landline. “I’d like to make an appointment with Blake Vandershall.”

  “What’s this regarding?”

  “A restraining order,” I respond. “Someone is harassing my wife.”

  * * *

  So that Logan can’t hear me, I press my mouth closer to the phone. “We’ll be there in twenty minutes.” If I can convince Logan to get in the car.

  Amisha says, “We’re already at the bar and you haven’t even left yet?”

  “Well, things are . . .” I glance at him, still switching TV channels, like he has no plans to leave the condo, ever. “ . . . taking longer than expected, but we’ll be there.”

  “If he’s not coming, say so and come anyway.”

  “He’ll come.” He has to. There’s no other way.

  He’s watching me. In between when he teases me with his hands and his mouth, never giving me what I want—like last night on the kitchen counter or this morning right on that couch—his eyes follow me around the room.

  He’s getting angrier every day, his shoulders and jaw tightening, his voice more clipped, his growls lower. It could be because my brother won’t give him the money. Or maybe it’s because his torturing me is actually torturing him and he’s got balls as blue as the sea.

  Maybe both.

  More likely it’s because I still won’t believe him.

  I don’t know why he keeps trying. I won’t believe anything bad about my father. At some point Logan is going to accept that.

  I sit in my chair across from him. His eyes heavy on me, intense, calculating, and filled with the dark lust he oozes whenever he’s in the room. I can’t decide which he wants more: to punish me or have sex with me.

  I’ll take either. Or both.

  My thoughts are so far gone I don’t know if they’re mine anymore. I can’t call them his thoughts because he’s not inside my head, but it’s like he’s shaping them, retraining me how to think.

  I like thinking his way.

  I like this game he plays with me. He’s like having a bomb living in my house, I never know when he’ll explode. I want to make him lose his temper and come at me, to unleash all that brooding frustration on me. Maybe I am stupid, but his manipulation is working. I’m ready to pretend I believe his lies so he’ll fuck me already.

  Well, maybe not quite that, but I am ready to tease him into giving me what I want.

  Leaning back in the chair, I let my skirt ride up my legs. His eyes flick downward as though I’ve directed them there.

  All my life, everyone has wanted me to be kind and adorable, feminine and lovable. He wants none of that. His mission is to rob me of it. It’s supposed to be a bad thing. He’s doing it to hurt me. But I like it. I like being his idea of me.

  Taunting him my way, I let my knees fall open. It’s a tight skirt. The fabric stretches across my thighs and if he looks, he’ll see . . .

  “What are you doing?” His gaze flicks from under my skirt to my eyes, back and forth.

  I sit up but don’t close my legs. I lean on my elbows and let the neck of my shirt gape open. I don’t have much to flash up top, but it’s more the temptation than the goods, going by his eyes.

  “I know you want to,” I tease and let my voice drop in imitation of his sexy growl.

  “To what?”

  “Go out and show off to my friends how I’m yours.”

  His brows perk. “I’m going nowhere.”

  “Do you or don’t you want this money?”

  “What does meeting your friends have to do with me getting the money?”

  “My brother’s going to be there.” Maybe. I don’t know for sure.

  He sits a little straighter. “You didn’t say that.”

  “Because I don’t want to invite him unless you agree to go and show some . . . some . . .” Saying the words around him is awkward.

  “Some what?”

  “Affection.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Learn. Pretend. Act. My brother has to believe that . . . that . . .” Oh boy.

  He rolls his eyes. “Quit with the Miss Prim and talk.”

  I mirror his glare. “He has to believe you’re in love with me.”

  He snorts and looks back at the TV. “Then we’re not going.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s not possible.”

  I stand. “I can’t do all the work. I can tell him you love me over and over and he’ll never believe it.”

  “Because you’re a horrible liar. Learn. Pretend. Act.”

  “He thinks you’re manipulating me.” Which is true. “So even if I lie perfectly, unless he sees it from you, he’ll never believe me.”

  “You really think I could act like I’m in love with you?” The annoyance in his gaze is like a barb in my chest. I shouldn’t be insulted. But for anyone to think I’m unlovable, even him, hurts.

  I stare at the ceiling to cover it. “All you have to do is be nice to me. Don’t insult me. And maybe touch me a little.”

  “Touch you?”

  “Yeah. Like hold my hand. Play with my hair. Brush my cheek.”

  He turns to me, fully away from the TV, with a gloating smirk. “You’ve thought about this.”

  “Well, yeah. Doesn’t every girl?”

  “You want me to do those things?” His upper lip peels back in disgust.

  I fling up my hands, frustrated. “You want this money. I’m telling you how to get it. But if you refuse to do it, I’m the one who’ll get fucked over in a week if you still don’t have it.” Saying the reminder makes me nervous.

  I spin a circle and think aloud. “Maybe you don’t really even want the money. Maybe the whole point of this is to manipulate me for your own sadistic ends and then expose my father to the world regardless. I have no proof that if you do get the money, you still won’t spew all of your lies.”

  I feel him before I see him.

  He breathes on my neck. “Are you ready to listen?”

  I turn to him, and I’m hit with his smell.

  I hadn’t realized it, but I’ve memorized it. I smelled it on my clothes last night when I went to bed. He must spend time on the beach every day because I smell the ocean, which is my favorite smell, but underneath it there’s more. It’s a heavenly, devilish smell, like life and death. Like something that’s been burned, then frozen.

  A thick blend of sinful and destructive, but also something deeper, richer. Something I don’t recognize.

  “Listen to me,” he repeats. “Hear what I have to say.”

  “I’ve listened enough.” I say it quietly, against his shirt.

  “Soon you’ll have to. You’re not going to like what happens.”

  “Even more reason for me to pretend I can’t hear you.” My nose presses to his shirt. My fingers grip the fabric and caress the muscle beneath.

  “Penny.” I expect him to push me away or grab my hands and hold them down like he always does, but he doesn’t.

  His hot breath ruffles my hair, and his chest rises and falls under my hands. I flatten my palms and run them over his shoulders that go on and on, and I realize—this is the first he’s let me touch him. Not fingers digging into his hair while he kisses me like a starving wild man, but gentle touches, caresses.

  I trail my fingers over his neck, the column of his throat, his warm skin, the corded muscle, the hollow at the base, the hair at his nape. His lips in front of my eyes. I move to touch them.

  He catches my hand. “Are you done?” The liquid green of his eyes contradicts the darkness of his tone.

  “No.” Touching his hair is too tempting. I lift my other hand and stroke the strands curving over his cheek. “How come you don’t like to be touched?”

  He pushes my hand away. “Why do you ask all the wrong questions?”

  “What are the right q
uestions?”

  He growls and rolls his eyes. “Do you want to go out with your friends or not?” The sting of his words is tempered by the lightness of his eyes. “Penny?”

  I jump. “Okay. I’ll get my purse.” I have no idea what changed his mind, but I smile to myself. I got my way.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I never should have agreed to this. But I had to get her out of the house.

  I can still feel her hands on my neck and in my hair, her gaze on my lips. It was too intimate—too eerie and confusing. Like she cared about me.

  Why the hell did she do that?

  She takes me to a trendy bar serving girly drinks and tapas. If it weren’t for the promise of Blake Vandershall being here, I’d leave now.

  I should’ve forced the truth on her. Like I’ve been meaning to and avoiding for days. But the piece of me that detests pain, the small part of me that isn’t corrupted, is still pretending. Pretending that I don’t have the vicious truth buried in my truck. That I don’t have tales of evil trailing me everywhere I go.

  “You need a drink,” she says.

  I’m going to have to show her. And I don’t want to. Her innocence, her sweetness, I abhor it. I may want to damage it. But it doesn’t mean I want it gone.

  “Logan, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I ask the bartender what’s on tap.

  He looks at me like I walked off Mars. “We only have bottled beer.”

  I turn to Penny. “If they don’t have beer, this isn’t going to work.”

  “They do have beer. Pick something.” She waves at the menu.

  A girl pops out of nowhere, squeals at Penny, and gives her a hug. There are way too many happy chicks in this place, and all the cuteness makes me want to hurl. Or grab Penny and haul her back home.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  I choose a beer and decide I need some entertainment. I could do a “husband” thing and order her a drink. I pick the sourest thing on the menu. She’s a sweets and sugars girl. She isn’t going to like it.

  She introduces me to her friend. “This is Layla.”

  Layla’s hair, the frizziest red bob I’ve ever seen, bounces like she’s happy to see me, or amused.

  “Going by that look, I’d say you’re not happy to be here. Similar to what I expected.” A wry smile graces her pale peach face, and freckles crinkle across her brow.

  Penny raises her eyebrows at me, and I realize I’m scowling.

  I do my best to fake a smile and say to Layla, “You’re exactly like Penny hasn’t described but even more like I expected.”

  Penny elbows me in the gut, but Layla laughs. “Okay, maybe I like him.”

  The bartender sets out drinks, and I pass the cocktail to Penny. Her eyes light up like I handed her Christmas in July. “You got me a drink?”

  “Yeah.” But I’m not wasting the twenty bucks in my pocket on a frou-frou cocktail and a shitty beer.

  She pulls a credit card from her purse and pays. I wait for her to sip her drink and am rewarded with a grimace. “Blick! What is this?”

  “A Sour Patch Doll.” I can’t help a real smile stretching my mouth. This girl is way too predictable. She needs a wake up to her senses.

  “A what?” She picks up the menu and stares at the description. “Ew, gross!”

  “Let me try.” Layla sips from Penny’s martini glass that looks like it’ll spill with a flick of my finger. “Ooh, I like it.”

  “Here, you have it.” Penny tries to give it to her friend, but I decide to make things interesting and whisper in Penny’s ear, “Drink it, and I’ll hold your hand.”

  “Seriously?” Her appalled expression is almost as interesting as the view down her shirt. She has these perky little breasts almost as enticing as what she flashed me between her legs at the house. “Keep looking at me like that and you won’t need to hold my hand.”

  “How am I looking at you?”

  “You’ve got that can’t-wait-to-eat-me look.”

  “Is that what you want? For me to eat you?”

  She sputters and spits out her drink.

  Her friend pats her back. “Don’t choke yourself.”

  Penny’s eyes water. “Amisha, meet Logan.”

  Amisha’s reaction is the opposite of Layla’s. No wry smile, no jokes. She flips her midnight-dark hair over her shoulder and a scowl mars her delicate umber complexion. She says nothing.

  “Say hello, at least.” Penny prods me.

  “I think Amisha would rather I not speak. Or, more likely, prefer I leave.”

  Penny and Amisha draw in breaths, eyeing each other for what to say.

  “Uh-oh. Play nice,” Layla mocks. “Mr. Vandershall.”

  The name burns my ears, but I realize she means me. “Mr. Vandershall?” Anger surges in me like a wild fire. I force myself to breathe and contain it. I don’t think she could insult me in a worse way. But I can’t show her that.

  “Whoa, macho much?” She chuckles. “It’s a joke. She’s never told us your last name.”

  “Kane.” The stiffness I feel filters into my voice, and Penny shakes her head at me with a warning in her eye. I hide my expression in my beer, trying to suppress the rage that lives and boils in me.

  “So does that mean you’re Penelope Kane, now?” Amisha asks Penny.

  I answer for her. “She signed Penelope Elizabeth Vandershall on the marriage certificate, if that’s what you mean.”

  The three girls stare at me with surprised eyes.

  Amisha breaks the silence and says to Penny, “I didn’t know your middle name was Elizabeth.”

  I forget to stop myself before I say, “It was her mother’s name.”

  Layla balks. “She told you that?”

  I start to correct her. It’s the name of the hospital they founded for her in Nashville. “No, I—”

  Penny talks over me. “Yeah, I told him.” She reaches down and squeezes my hand. She links her fingers with mine, and I fight the urge to brush her off.

  When she touched me in her condo before we left, it was awkward and strange. I don’t know why I didn’t refuse her. Same thing now, for as strange as it feels, I should throw her hand away. Delicate touching, affection makes me think of when I used to have it—before Louisa died and how she’s gone.

  But I stand there, feeling Penny’s little fingers, too soft, too small, and I’m filled with dread for what I’ll have to do to her girlish sensibilities later. I’ve waited too long.

  She stands on tiptoe and kisses my cheek. Her lips too moist and too gentle. I fight the urge to wipe the kiss from my cheek. I don’t need to feel where she kissed me like a brand, claiming me in front of her friends.

  She shakes her head as if to say, Go with it.

  Her friends whisper between themselves and I whisper to her, “Now you have to finish that drink.”

  “If you say so.” She winks at me and sips it.

  The ring on her finger, the one I supposedly gave her but she bought for herself, twinkles. I have the strangest urge to replace it with something of mine, to change her name so she’s mine, to put my stamp on her.

  It’s only because I want to annihilate the Vandershall that she is, to erase the Penny she and everyone else knows her to be, to replace her with something I create. To obliterate her father’s daughter until there is nothing left of him about her.

  “Careful there, lover boy. You might want to save that look for private.” Layla points at me. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

  “Lover boy?” I glance again at Penny, who has blushed a shade of cherry so fierce, her face looks aflame.

  “Let’s get a table,” says Amisha. Layla and Penny follow her toward the back.

  I try to drop Penny’s hand, but she clings to it. “Be good,” she says.

  “You have no idea what good is for me.”

  “Maybe later you’ll enlighten me.” She sways her hips and brushes my fingers across her ass as she walks in front of me.

  We pas
s a dance floor pounding with loud music. I bend to her ear so she’ll hear me over the noise. “Don’t flirt with me. You don’t want to find out what happens.”

  Her sly look implies she has no intention of stopping. It’s a dark look, a pointed look, one I never thought to see on her pretty little face. And it has me envisioning her spread out for me, letting me touch her and eat her the way she said I look at her.

  The girls sidle up to a table on the edge of the deck, overlooking the ocean, and I wonder if there’s anything in this town that doesn’t revolve around the beach. I’m so sick of hearing the crashing surf.

  “Blake!” Penny waves across the bar.

  I see the dark head of her brother bobbing toward us. He sees me and glowers. The sight of him makes me want to hit him, which I can’t do yet. I need an excuse to get her away from here. But there isn’t one.

  I angle in front of Penny. I don’t trust Blake near her. Not for a second. I know who his father was.

  Chapter Sixteen

  My brother’s insults are embarrassing and childish. “What is he wearing? Did he come straight off the beach?” He points to Logan’s cutoff shorts, flip-flops, and T-shirt. Compared to Blake’s button-down, khakis, and boat shoes, Logan does look like he came off the beach.

  I start to defend him, but Logan intervenes. “Last I checked that’s what ocean plus sand is. The beach.” He points to the water.

  Layla laughs. “It’s a bar, Blake. Not a five-star restaurant.”

  Blake glares at Logan and neither of them attempts to hide their mutual hatred.

  “Give him a break,” Layla says. “He’s a nice guy.”

  I can’t help but laugh. That has got to be the funniest thing I’ve heard in weeks. Logan laughs too, and the look on my brother’s face, seeing us laugh together, is one of horror.

  Layla pokes Blake in the arm. She’s known my brother for ten years and neither his size nor his intimidation tactics scare her. “Stop being an asshole. They seem like a good couple together.”

  He stares at her like she’s grown horns. “No.”

  “He knows your mother’s name.”

  Blake’s shock mirrors mine. We never talk about our mother, partly because I never knew her, partly because my coming into the world killed her, but mostly because it’s too damn painful for both of us.