by K. L. Kreig
In my experience with Willow, begging won’t work, but maybe the truth will. It’s my last play.
“Some bad stuff happened to her that night, Willow. Even I didn’t know the details until recently.” I pause, the next part hard to think about let alone say. “She was almost raped by some druggie asshole boyfriend of hers and…yes, she was impaired, but she was in a bad place mentally even before that.”
I shouldn’t be doing this here, only I may not have another chance after tonight. If she decides this is over, it’s quite possible I may never see her again. She’s stubborn and determined and steadfast in her decisions. Like me.
“I’m not making excuses but Annabelle doesn’t remember what happened that night after she fled. She doesn’t remember trying to jump, or your father coming along, or…the accident. None of it. She didn’t even realize there was a connection. None of us did until Mergen threatened to tell you about it if I didn’t back off.”
Those bewitching eyes pop open now. A myriad of emotions runs through her and I see every one of them transition to the next. Confusion, realization, sadness, then concern.
“I wanted you to know the whole story, not the shady version your ex was trying to peddle. I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you, Willow. I was just trying to figure out how to deliver the blow with the least amount of impact. To everyone. But I always intended to tell you. Please believe that.”
“Annabelle was outside the room when I left. She looked…”—she pauses, thinking—“distraught.”
I nod. “She learned at the same time you did. She followed me and was eavesdropping. I’d been trying to find a way to tell you both without…” I scrub a hand over my face, wanting to lay it all open. How selfish I’ve been. “Without losing either of you.”
Her face is scrunched in disbelief as she quietly understands what I’m telling her. “Oh my God.” She breaks from my hold and steps to the side, running her gaze over the room.
I’ve intentionally stayed away from my mother and father tonight. Per my instructions, Annabelle is attached to their hip, with Noah watching guard. I didn’t think it would be a good idea for either Annabelle or Willow to have to interact tonight. Wounds are too fresh.
“Is she okay? I mean, is she…you know?”
Oh, how I love this woman. She’s so damn selfless. And the fact she’s even worried about Annabelle means something. I refuse to believe it doesn’t.
I wrap my arm around her. “She’s been staying with me.” Though she’s bitched about it all hours of the day and night. “She started seeing a counselor last week and I have her sponsor on speed dial. She’s not spending much time alone these days. I’m making sure of it.”
She lets out a long, measured breath. “Good. That’s…that’s good.”
“That night.” I have to clear my throat and start again. “That night, the police picked her and three of her friends up about a quarter mile from the accident site. I’ve never been more scared in my life when I walked into that holding room and saw a ghost of my sister sitting there. We immediately put her in rehab and I’ll be honest, she’s struggled. She slipped last year and voluntarily went back again and…” I blow out a ragged breath. “Terrified doesn’t even touch the surface of how I feel about her falling back into that again, Willow. This is a lot for her to handle. For all of us to handle.”
Quiet falls on us. I wonder what she’s thinking. I’m getting ready to demand she go somewhere private with me after the results are announced when she grabs her pendant between two fingers and starts running it back and forth along the silver chain, saying quietly, “My sister, Violet, died from a drug overdose when she was seventeen.”
I suck in a hard breath. Jesus Christ. Her entire family has been decimated. No wonder she’s this closed off. She’s clutching that necklace as if it’s giving her strength. Suddenly I don’t care if Mergen had anything to do with it. I don’t care about anything but her.
“Willow, baby, I am so, so sorry.” I draw her closer and let my lips linger at the top of her head.
“I was twelve. She was my best friend and the best big sister anyone could ask for.” I physically feel her pain seeping into me. I can hardly bare it. “She was a musical prodigy. She played the piano like no one I’ve ever seen before.”
“Like Annabelle,” I find myself whispering. My eyes happen to connect with my baby sister’s and she offers me a forced smile.
“Yeah, like Annabelle. Your sister reminds me a lot of Violet. She’s gifted and smart and beautiful. She has unlimited potential.”
“She does,” I agree, wishing Annabelle would see all the good bits in her that others do.
Willow tilts her head up, meeting my gaze. Her blue eyes are soft and sad. “She’s also volatile and haunted and teetering on the brink. She has the same look my sister had before…”
It takes a few beats before I can respond, “I know.” Hence why someone is with her 24/7.
“She needs you right now. Your family needs you right now.”
I don’t like the feeling that benign sentence leaves behind. I shift her body to mine, pressing us together, knees to stomach. “What are you trying to say?”
She tenses as if she intends to pull back. My grasp becomes implacable.
“This isn’t over between us, Willow. It will never be over. You are family. You’re meant to be mine. My lover. My wife. The mother to my children. I know it won’t be easy to get through this, but I’m not letting the love of my life walk away from me.”
She opens her mouth right as the entire room erupts in cheers. I automatically release her to see what’s caused the chaos and, glancing up at the screen on the wall, I see that the race has been officially called.
With 52 percent of the popular vote, my father has won.
My father won.
Sweet relief runs through me. I catch my father’s eye from across the room and grin when he gives me a brief acknowledgment of thanks. My mother is beaming and Annabelle is trying to act happy but she’s edgy. I’m torn between going to her and staying with Willow, but when I see Noah throw an arm around my sister’s shoulder and she playfully punches him in the gut, I know she’s in good hands.
I ignore Mergen staring at us and turn to Willow at the same time she turns to me.
She smiles, but genuine happiness isn’t blanketing her face right now. Ending and closure are. It almost knocks me on my ass. “Congratulations. You did it.”
“We did it,” I retort, wrapping my arms all the way around her again. She puts her hands to my chest, keeping distance between us. I loathe those inches. Every blessed one of them.
Shaking her head, she says, “I had nothing to do with it. In fact, I think maybe I almost cost him the win.”
“That’s not true. You had everything to do with it, Willow. Everything.”
You’ve changed my life. My world. My focus. Me.
Willow balls my shirt in her fists, pinching a few hairs in the process but I don’t balk. She rises on her tiptoes and places a chaste kiss on my cheek. It feels final. I close my eyes. They’re already watering.
“I have to go,” she whispers, her mouth still lingering against me.
“You need to stay.” I tighten my hold. “Please,” I beg her. I’ll grovel, throw myself around her ankles, sell every possession I own. I have nothing without her anyway. “Please, Willow. I’ll do anything you want. Please don’t walk out that door without me.”
If she does, we’re through.
“I just can’t.” She brushes her lips along my jaw, up to my ear. “Tell your father congratulations and that I’m sorry I couldn’t tell him myself. And take care of your sister. She needs you now more than ever.”
“I need you, Goldilocks. Now more than ever.” But if she heard me she doesn’t react because she’s already walking way. As if the clock struck midnight and her coach was morphing back into a pumpkin, she’s walking away.
With each clipped step she takes toward the exit, another piec
e of my soul is violently ripped from me and I know…
This is good-bye.
Chapter 28
I ring the bell, then turn toward the driveway as I wait.
It’s chilly today, with temps in the upper forties. And it’s dreary, even for Seattle. A perfect mirror of my temperament.
Dark skies opened up an hour ago and it hasn’t stopped pouring since. Cold rain slices through the air at a thirty-degree angle and I scoot closer to the house to keep from getting even more drenched than I already am.
My jeans are plastered to my legs. Water drips from the tips of my hair, all from a quick run from my car to the front stoop. I reach up to wipe underneath my eyes in case my mascara is running. One look at my finger shows it is.
I try my best to make myself presentable, cursing the fact that the umbrella I usually keep in my car was taken along with my Fiat when Shaw had it hauled away. I haven’t gotten around to replacing it yet.
I stare at the black Audi and remember the day in his office when I tried to return it. The fierce look of possession that sharpened his jawline and darkened his eyes. The feeling of weakness when he demanded I strip and the feeling of power when I drew a long groan from him as he bent me over his desk. The sense of being owned and revered and consumed when he fell over me, replete.
I remember things I don’t want to remember but can’t force myself to forget.
Why can’t I get him out of my head? Why can’t I find that damn splinter and pull the fucker out so the wound will heal? When will I wake up and not ache without the feel of his arms surrounding me?
I think maybe never.
It’s been nearly two weeks since I left him to celebrate Preston’s win with his family and yet I’m no better off than I have been since day one without him. In some ways, I’m worse.
He texts me daily, even calls now. All of which I ignore.
I hate myself. I hate the way I run and hide. I hate the fact I feel more broken inside than I ever have before, and it’s because I’m nothing without him. I did the exact thing I swore to myself I wouldn’t do.
I let go of his hand.
Once again I ask myself the same question I’ve been asking day and night: Am I making a mistake? Is there a way we can move beyond this? Do I have it in me to forgive Annabelle? That’s the question I’ve been trying to answer.
My heart and mind are at war and I’m not sure who’s going to win.
“It’s considered good manners to call before showing up on someone’s doorstep, especially on a Sunday.”
I spin at the sound of Randi’s brusque voice, surprised she answered the door herself. And by the look of her in a plain white tee and ragged jeans, both splattered with paint, I caught her completely off guard.
“I’m sorry,” I sputter, noticing splotches of red and yellow dotting her face and blond hair, which is thrown up in a messy bun. I’m stunned. Randi is always polished perfection. Relaxed this way she’s casual and fresh. Approachable. Almost like a real person instead of someone who has struck the fear of God in me. “Uh, this couldn’t wait.”
Showing up unannounced is not the smartest idea I’ve ever had. Randi was furious when I finally plucked the courage to call her, though I wasn’t sure if she was mad at me or the situation.
Her gaze floats down my sodden body and briefly over my shoulder. She purses her lips, and for a few seconds I think she’ll send me packing, but she moves to the side and waves me in, holding the door open with one hand.
“Stay there,” she barks the second my feet touch the throw rug. “You look like a drowned rat and I don’t want you tracking mud on my clean floors.”
“Okay,” I mumble as she saunters away. I don’t have mud anywhere on me but whatever. I’ll deal with her wrath if it means she’ll see me. She returns a full minute later with a bath towel. I’ve already hung my raincoat on the coat rack and removed my shoes, sans the invisible mud. I take the towel and wipe my face, running it over my hair a couple of times until she seems satisfied.
“Just drop it there.” She points to the floor beside me, turns, and walks away. I assume I’m to follow, so I do. I expect she’ll head to her office but without a word, she leads me through a part of her house I’ve never seen before, not that I’ve been given the grand tour the two previous times I’ve been here.
When we arrive at our destination, I stand still in complete and total awe, seeing a whole new side to Randi Deveraux, Queen of Hearts.
We’re in an enormous room with exposed wood beams on the ceiling and a wall of glass sliders that overlooks her spacious backyard. Every other wall is lined with mismatched, eclectic built-in work tables covered with what I imagine is every paint supply known to man. Several easels are spread throughout the middle of the room, each holding various sizes of canvases. All are in different stages of completion, but the theme is consistent.
They’re nudes.
Randi paints nude women.
Tastefully nude women. And she’s…good. Really good. Like she could sell these and make a living good.
She strides over to the largest canvas, probably nearly two feet wide, and picks up a brush from the table beside it. I quietly come up behind her for a better look.
A naked woman is lying on a pastel comforter, her back to us. Her arm is thrown over the back of her head and her fingers have disappeared in her long chestnut hair. There’s a berry-colored throw over the tops of her thighs, but it doesn’t cover her heart-shaped butt. Her spine is pronounced, her lower back curved in as if she’s pleasuring herself with the hand we can’t see.
It’s stunning. And sad. And uniquely erotic.
“Wow. You did this? It’s so good.”
She dips the tip of her brush in a touch of black paint and mixes it with bright red to create rich maroon. Then she brings it to the painting and taps lightly, shading along the blanket thrown over the woman.
“What’s so life shattering you forgot your manners?” she asks tersely, not acknowledging my compliment.
I take a couple of steps back, not wanting to crowd her.
I’ve thought nonstop about what I need to do, the cords I need to cut, and the next steps I need to take. Working for Randi was a lot like crossing a bridge. The structure is there for a reason. To move over rough terrain with ease. But I’m at the other side now, and while I’m grateful for her support, going forward is the only option.
Besides, we both knew when I took the job with Shaw this was coming.
“I wanted to thank you for all that you’ve done for me, for taking a chance on me. I don’t know what I would have done without you,”—I don’t know what I’ll do without you now—“but I can’t work for you anymore. So I guess I’m giving you my notice.”
Her eyes slide to mine briefly as she picks up her brush from the canvas. “What makes you think I’d let you continue working for me after what happened?”
Damn. That slap smarted. I unconsciously bring my hand up to my cheek and rub. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t respond. She just goes back to painting. She hasn’t said and it’s probably none of my business, but, “Is everything…I mean has anyone found out about you because of this? Because of me?”
She scoffs and reloads her brush. “Don’t worry about me, Willow. It’s going to take a hell of a lot more to bring down my kingdom than one measly insinuation in a disreputable newspaper. You don’t think I’ve been threatened this way before? You do what I do long enough and this sort of shit happens.”
Threatened? Her?
This wasn’t about her.
“But this was about the election and—”
“This was about someone getting his entitled dick in a twist because he couldn’t have what he wanted.”
I am so confused. Who wanted what? “Which was?”
“You.”
Say what? “Me?”
“Yeah, you.”
I shift my weight to the other foot and slip my hands into my front jeans pockets
. The damp denim abrades the back of my hands. “I don’t understand,” I say when it’s clear she’s not going to offer more.
“Of course you don’t,” she mumbles, concentrating on her art. My brows scrunch together and right as I’m about to ask another question she offers, “Powerful men with God complexes don’t like being denied.”
“I’m sorry, Randi. I’m not following at all.”
She drops her paintbrush into a cup of muddy-looking water that’s stuffed with other paintbrushes and faces me. “Paul Graber.”
Paul Graber? “What about him?”
“He wanted you. I said no. He didn’t like it and tried flexing his small dick the only way a man like him knows how.”
My hand goes to my throat as I digest what she’s telling me. “Paul Graber did this? He was the 7-Day’s anonymous source?”
Her nod is clipped.
Whaaat? This makes no sense. He did all of this because I wouldn’t sleep with him? I knew the asshole gave off a bad vibe the second his hand touched mine, but I never expected a man of his stature would be so petty.
I think back to the cryptic conversation between him and Noah that night long ago. He seemed peeved at Preston for something. Even if he was the culprit, it seems entirely political, not personal. “Are you sure?”
Snorting, she answers, “Very.”
“But—”
“I know what you’re thinking. Trust me. This was about me, not the mayor.”
“How do you know that?”
She snatches up the cup, spilling a few drops of dirty water in the process and saunters over to the sink, telling me, “It’s not important. What matters is I’ve dealt with him. He won’t be a problem again. I promise you that. And I’m sorry. I take pride in vetting my clients, and in this case, I clearly failed you.”
Wow. An apology from Randi. Mark the date.
She keeps her back to me as she washes paint from the synthetic bristles. Part of me suspects she’s ignoring me because she wants me to leave, but she’s not getting rid of me that easy. I have one more thing to do so I breathe deeply and confess the other reason I’m here.
