He laughed, but there was no pleasure in it. Then, finally, she saw some anger in his eyes. Cold, stony anger. “Nice touch, but I’m not a sucker. At least not today.”
She’d just bared everything to him, and he didn’t believe her. How was that possible? Couldn’t he see how much the truth hurt? “It’s the truth. I didn’t mean to fall in love with you, but I did.”
“You expect me to believe that?” His jaw clenched. “Now? After everything?”
Anger and hurt and desperation coalesced in her stomach and chest and pinched the backs of her eyes. Tears pooled along her bottom lids, then slipped over her lashes. “It’s true.”
“The tears are a nice touch. You’re a better actress than I thought.”
“I’m not acting.” She brushed the moisture from her cheek. The sick feeling in her stomach was far too real. He had to see that. She had to make him hear and believe her. “I love you.” She pointed a finger at him. “You made me love you even when I knew it was a really bad idea. You made me love everything about you.” She dropped her hand to her side as another tear rolled down her cheek. “You made me love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my whole life.”
“ife
He shook his head. “Right.”
“It’s true. Being with you these past few months has meant a lot to me. Please, believe me.”
“Even if I believed you, it doesn’t matter.”
It had to matter. She’d never pleaded with any other man. “I love you.”
He looked into her eyes and pounded the last nail into her heart. “I don’t love you.”
The air left her lungs as if he’d hit her and she turned her face away. He didn’t love her. She’d known he didn’t, but hearing it from his own mouth hurt more than she’d ever imagined. “I knew you’d hurt me,” she whispered through her pain. Raw pain and rage, at him and herself, swelled so big she couldn’t hold it in. “I was right about you from the beginning. You’re just another celebrity who thinks he can use people.”
“Sweetheart, you used me to get your hands on ten thousand dollars.”
“I told you it wasn’t like that. I’m not a user.” She looked back up at him. At angry brown eyes set in his face that she loved with her entire broken heart and aching soul. “But you are. You mess with people’s lives, then move on with your own. You don’t care. All you care about is getting what you want.” Her hands curled into fists. She wouldn’t hit him. No, but she wanted to. “You’re no different from every other celebrity I’ve worked for. You’re selfish and spoiled. I let myself think you were different.” She swallowed hard, past the bitter lump in her throat. “I let myself forget who you really are. You’re the man who insulted me the first day we met. You’re just a colossal tool.”
He laughed again. The same bitter laugh as before. “And you just said you love me.”
The most agonizing part of it all was that she did love him. No matter that he didn’t love her. She meant nothing to him. He’d pursued her, got her in bed, and now it was over. “And you always said you don’t play unless you can win. Congratulations, Mark. You win. I lose.” Everything.
He shrugged. “The Chinooks don’t know you slept with me, and I won’t be the one to tell them. You only have a few weeks until your contract is up and then the money is yours. You’ve earned it.”
She turned back toward the desk and grabbed her purse. Her throat got tight, hot, and she pushed past him on her way out the door. The last thing she wanted to do was break down in front of him. The last thing she wanted to hear was more of his laughter.
Somehow she managed to make it to her car. Her hands shook as she shoved the key into the ignition. She half expected him to run after her and tell her to come back. That he believed her and he’d only said she meant nothing out of pain and anger. That they could work it out, but that was the gullible side. The side that had wanted to believe falling in love with Mark would work out in the end. The other side, the rational side, knew that he wasn’t coming after her. Knew she’d lost more than ten thousand dollars. She’d lost something more important than money. She’d lost her dignity and her heart.
Tears stre“1emamed down her face as she drove the short distance to Bo’s apartment. Once there, she locked herself inside her room and let all her hurt and anger wash through her. By the time she heard Bo’s key open the front door, her chest hurt from crying and her eyes were scratchy and red.
“Chels?” her sister called out.
Chelsea didn’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone, but it was a small apartment and her sister would find her. “In here.”
Bo stood in the doorway, took one look at her, and asked, “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
Chelsea didn’t know where to begin.
“Did Mark Bressler do something to you?”
Leave it to her twin to narrow it down without Chelsea having to say a word. She looked at her sister, and a tear slipped from Chelsea’s eye and dropped onto the pillow.
“What did he do?”
Nothing. Besides make her fall in love with him. She supposed she could make up a lie, but her sister would know, and Chelsea was too drained to think up anything believable. “I fell in love with him. I tried not to, but I did.” She shook her head. “He doesn’t love me. In fact, he doesn’t care about me at all.”
Bo sat on the bed. Chelsea expected criticism. Waited for a lecture on how her impulsiveness always got her in trouble. How she never learned. Instead her twin sister, the other half of her soul, the dark to her light, climbed into bed and spooned her. Let the warmth of her body heat up the cold places. Her life was in pieces. An absolute mess. There wasn’t a part of her that didn’t love Mark, and she didn’t know how she was going to get through the next few hours and days and weeks. She wanted the pain to go away. She just wanted to be numb.
But three days later, her emotions were still raw, and she couldn’t seem to stop her tears from falling. Her life was in turmoil, and the thought of living in the same state as Mark, and perhaps seeing his face in a crowd, was unbearable. Yet at the same time, the thought of leaving Washington, and perhaps never seeing his face in a crowd, was just as unbearable.
She went through the motions of living. Of checking out help wanted ads. Mostly she ate junk food and watched junk TV.
“Georgeanne Kowalsky has a catering business,” Jules told her over dinner Thursday night at a sports pub on Twelfth Street. Jules seemed to favor sports pubs, which was okay with Chelsea as long as he didn’t start spouting stats. “At least she did a few years ago,” he added. “I could call her and ask if she needs help.”
“How much does it pay?” she asked as she dipped a fry into ketchup. She knew her sister and Jules had taken her to dinner to try and cheer her up. It really wasn’t working, but at least the sports programming on the numerous flat-screen televisions filled any awkward silence.
“I’m not sure,” he answered, and reached for his fork. “Probably more than you’re making right now.”
Which, of course, was zilch. She needed the money. She had enough for first and last month’s rent, plus security deposit, on a studio apartment, but she needed more. Especially if she d“ciaecided to move to Los Angeles.
“Maybe wear your Gaultier tunic for the interview,” Jules suggested. “And brush your hair.”
“I think you’d be great at it,” Bo encouraged. She took a crouton off Jules’s salad and popped it into her mouth. The two were already at the sharing food stage. She and Mark had never shared food. Licking champagne from each other’s bodies didn’t count.
“Maybe I can do some catering.” As long as it had nothing to do with catering to celebrities and athletes. And as long as she didn’t know what she was going to do with her life.
For the first time that she could ever recall, she didn’t have a plan. Not even a vague one. She didn’t feel a burning desire for anything. The feeling of numbness she’d craved had settled about her and she didn’t have the energy t
o feel much of anything at all.
A commercial for athlete’s foot splashed across several of the flat-screen televisions, and she dunked another fry. She wasn’t going to get her breasts reduced. Something she’d always wanted, but she just really didn’t care now. Her agent called with walk-on parts in local productions, but she turned them down. She just felt…drained. Like her life had gone from a thousand vibrant colors to two shades of gray. Blah and blah-er.
Across the table from her, Bo and Jules laughed at something that was clearly an inside joke between the two of them. He whispered something in her ear, and Bo ducked her face and smiled. Chelsea was glad for Bo. Glad that her twin seemed so happy and in love, but a part of her wished that could be Chelsea too. She reached for her fork, feeling an odd mix of emptiness and envy.
Over Jules’s shoulder, a local news conference splashed across the screen. Chelsea glanced up as the television filled with the images of the Chinooks’ general manager Darby Hogue, coach Larry Nystrom, and Mark Bressler. Everything around her seemed to still, fall away as she stared up at the screen. The sound was off but the closed caption was on. Chelsea read the announcement that Mark had just signed on as the assistant coach to the Seattle Chinooks. He sat at a conference table wearing the charcoal suit and black dress shirt he’d picked out at Hugo Boss the day he’d threatened to have sex with her against the wall. The ends of his dark hair curled up around the bottom of a Chinooks’ ball cap resting on his head. His brown eyes looked out from beneath the dark blue bill, and her empty soul drank him in like cool water. His face was a bit tanner than it had been a few days ago. Probably from coaching Derek without his hat.
Bressler: “I’m honored to be given this opportunity. I’ve worked with a lot of these people for eight years, and I look forward to standing behind the bench as we make another run at the cup this season,” the caption read as he looked out at Chelsea from a dozen or so big-screen televisions.
Her heart squeezed and she set down the fork. Love and loss tore at her, and it felt like he was ripping her heart out all over again.
“What’s wrong?” Bo asked, then turned and looked behind her. “Oh.”
“He took the job,” she said just above a whisper.
“Yeah. This morning.”
On the screen, he reached forward and adjusted a microphone sitting on the table in front of him. His stiff middle finger pointed up as if he was flipping off the world. That same big, injured hand that had slid up her thigh and heated her up all over.
He’d accused her of having sex with him for the bonus money. He’d thrown her feelings for him back in her face like she was nothing, yet still her heart reacted to the sight of him. Still her body craved the touch of his hands.
“Are you okay?” Bo asked.
“Sure.”
The one person who knew her as well as she knew herself wasn’t fooled. Bo rose from her seat and moved beside Chelsea. “It will get better.”
Tears blurred her vision, and she tore her gaze from Mark’s image and looked into her sister’s face. “He ripped my heart out, Bo. How will it ever get better?”
“You can get through this.”
“How?”
She shook her head. “You just will. I promise.”
Chelsea wasn’t so sure, but Bo was trying so hard to convince her, Chelsea nodded. “Okay.”
“What can I do?” Jules asked from across the table.
“You can go kick Mark Bressler’s ass,” Bo answered.
Chelsea glanced at Jules’s face through her tears and almost laughed. He looked like a deer caught in the cross-hairs. “She’s kidding.” She didn’t want Mark hurt. Not even now. Not even after he’d hurt her so badly she could hardly breathe past the pain.
He’d taken the coaching job, and if she stayed in Seattle,...
Chelsea brushed her cheeks. She needed to get out of Seattle. It was the only way to get over Mark. “Could you call Georgeanne Kowalsky tomorrow?” She needed a job, maybe two. The sooner the better. The sooner she got enough money together, the sooner she could move past the pain and loss. The sooner she moved past the pain and loss, the sooner she could get her life back. A life that had nothing to do with Mark.
Mark lifted a corner of his cards and raised one finger. The blackjack dealer hit him with a queen of clubs and he folded. His luck was shit. Had been since he and the guys had arrived in Vegas Friday night. That had been two days ago, and he was already down eleven grand. Not to mention the couple of hundred he’d spent on shitty lap dances at Scores.
He sat at a table with Sam and Daniel inside the Players Cub in Mandalay Bay. His hip ached from the late hour and his head hurt from too much booze. This had been Sam’s idea, of course. One last blowout before –Mark became the newest assistant coach. Before he was no longer one of the guys. Before he was officially part of the staff.
He felt good about his decision. Good about doing something other than sitting at home while life passed him by. If he couldn’t shoot goals, calling shots from behind the bench was a good alternative. A few months ago, he’d been filled with so much anger he hadn’t even wanted to consider a coaching position. Now, he looked forward to getting back into the game and making another run at the cup. Maybe getting his name on it twice.
“I’m out,” he said, and picked up his chips.
Sam looked up from his cards. “It’s early.”
It was after midnight. “See you guys in the morning.” He cashed in his chips and made his way out of the exclusive club and down the hall to the elevators. When Sam had called him Friday afternoon and mentioned that he and some of the guys were hitting Vegas, Mark had jumped at the chance to get out of town. He hadn’t left Seattle since before the accident, and a trip to Sin City had sounded like a great plan. He figured he’d hang with the boys one last time, check out the strip clubs, and gamble. Surely two of his favorite pastimes would help take his mind off his problems.
Problem, rather. He had only one. Chelsea Ross.
Even as he made his way through the casino filled with people, he felt alone. A dark anger he hadn’t felt in months filled his chest and lowered his brows. He’d fallen hard for her. Harder than he ever remembered falling for a woman. Harder than he’d even known was possible. She’d brought light and laughter into his life when there had been nothing but darkness and anger. She was like a comet streaking across the night sky, lighting it up for a few brief moments. Now all that darkness was back.
He pushed the button to the elevator and one behind him opened. He got inside and rode it up.
He’d fallen for her, and she’d been with him for money. She’d made him want her, made him believe she wanted him too. When the whole time she’d wanted money. And the really messed-up part was that he might have forgiven her for lying. Ten thousand dollars was a lot of money, and he knew why she needed it. Hell, he wanted her to have it, and he could have forgiven her just about anything just to have her light up his life for a while longer.
Anything but her last lie. She’d said she loved him, and something hot and angry and bitter had hit him hard. Right in the gut like a raging fist. He might not be the man he’d been eight months ago. He might have been a sucker for her sweet-smelling skin and soft hands, but he didn’t like being played for a fool. God, did she really think she could lie right to his face and he was so desperate that he’d believe her?
He’d thought getting away with the guys would get Chelsea out of his head. He’d been wrong. She was front and center no matter what he did or how far he ran.
Once inside his room, he stripped to his boxers and climbed into bed. He stared up at the dark ceiling, trying and failing to get Chelsea out of his head.
You made me love you even when I knew it was a really bad idea. You made me love everything about you, she’d said as tears slid down her cheeks. You made me love you more than I’ve ever loved any› evone in my whole life.
He’d wanted to believe her. He’d wanted to grab her up and press her into h
is chest until her lie became the truth. Until he smashed it and molded it into what he wanted. Until he believed it.
Mark reached for the remote on the nightstand and turned on the television. He flipped through the stations until it returned to the pay-per-view channel. He checked out the porn selection, but nothing sounded interesting. He arrowed across and hit the horror button. Up popped the latest movies and some “classics” like Psycho, The Omen, and Slasher Camp.
A brow rose up his forehead and he sat up straighter in bed. Who would have thought Slasher Camp was a “classic”? He pushed the select button and settled back against the pillows. The movie started off innocently enough. With counselors moving into the cabins and getting the camp ready for the season. About ten minutes into it, Chelsea stepped out of a school bus wearing cutoff shorts and a tiny tank top hacked off just above her navel. Her blond hair was pulled to the back of her head in a clip, and her blue eyes peered over the top of a pair of sunglasses. She’d been right. They’d hired her for her boobs, but it was her bottom in those shorts that drew his attention. A heavy weight settled in the pit of his stomach and his chest got tight.
“Hey, everyone,” she called out as she dropped a duffel bag onto the ground. “Angel’s here. It’s time to party.” She looked like a slut. Like a camp counselor slut. Like every teenage boy’s fantasy. Like his fantasy too.
For the next ten minutes or so, Mark watched the counselors put away groceries and sweep out cabins, his attention completely focused on the few shots of Chelsea. He listened to the sound of her voice and laughter, and he watched her bottom in those shorts. Just the sight of her in a five-year-old horror flick twisted him into knots.
An actor with shaggy brown hair like a surfer and wearing a green Abercrombie shirt found an axe stuck in a wall. He pulled it out and placed it on a shelf next to the fire extinguisher. Then he stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a bag of weed. Mark remembered Chelsea telling him the bad boy was always the first to get it in a horror flick, and Mark figured Mr. Shaggy Hair Surfer would be the first to go. The camera panned to the window and what looked like someone in a mask watching from the forest.
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