LUCI (The Naughty Ones Book 2)

by Kristina Weaver

  “Where else would I be?” I asked, smiling.

  “I’m very honored to welcome you to the family,” Peter said formally. “I’m glad that all misunderstandings were ironed out.” He looked at me. “Well, nearly all of them.”

  “The usher will give you your cue for when to walk down the aisle,” I reminded my mother. “And you’ll hear the music change, too. That’s how you’ll know.”

  “I know, I know,” she said impatiently. “Go on, you two. Leave me to it.”

  I followed Peter upstairs and begrudgingly took his arm when he offered it to me.

  “Now, tell me this isn’t nice,” he said, patting my hand. “Our wedding would be a lot better than this, though.”

  “Shut up. I’m not interested.”

  “On my mark,” the usher whispered, “proceed.”

  We started walking down the aisle, both of us with frozen smiles on our faces. There were so many people here, cameras flashing from all directions.

  “I adore that slinky number you're wearing,” Peter said conversationally. “Are you wearing any panties? My guess is…no. You wouldn’t want the lines. And I hope I was able to impart that little practice to you during our time together.”

  “If you keep on speaking to me, I will make a scene,” I said through my smile as we continued to talk slowly down the aisle, letting all who had assembled take a gander.

  “You wouldn’t,” he responded in kind, his grin not losing a single watt. “You care about our parents’ happiness too much to make a scene at their wedding.”

  He was right. I fixed my gaze ahead, on the officiant, trying to picture my mother in my mind, reminding myself that this day was all about her, all about her love for Frank that had very nearly been derailed. I had to be good for her, even if I didn’t feel like it. Even if Peter was grating on my nerves. Even if my hand tucked beneath his arm right now tingled with electricity at being in contact with his body. I hated the way my body insisted on reacting to him. I hated that it was one thing I couldn’t ignore about still having helpless, unwanted feelings for Peter. I couldn’t ignore my shudder, the way I pressed my legs together almost subconsciously when he got so near, sending a shock of arousal through my body. It was present even now, walking down that too-long aisle, a reminder at each step of what I could have if I just gave up, gave in.

  No. If I gave in, that would be one more piece of property that Peter had conquered. I’d said no. I needed to stick with that decision, and he needed to respect it.

  “What’s so wrong with telling you how beautiful you look, anyway?” Peter muttered as we approached the front, finally about to separate. It would be a mercy, and hopefully I could avoid touching him for the rest of the night.

  “It’s a compliment I don’t want or need from you,” I said pertly. “I know I look good in this dress.”

  Peter shook with laughter. “You’re impossible. It makes me want you even more. What’s even more impossible is how I’m going to hide this stiffy during the ceremony thinking about you.”

  “You’re disgusting.” We both smiled at the officiant, who nodded at us, and parted ways at the altar. It was a physical relief to not be touching him, but the way we were arranged on either side of the altar meant that we got to stare at each other for the duration of the ceremony.

  The arrival of Frank helped diffuse some of the tension between us. Frank was jolly but sweating in his tuxedo. If it had been up to him, he probably would’ve gone for short sleeves. The day had been hot, and the evening wasn’t quite crisp enough for his liking.

  “You look lovely,” he whispered to me.

  “Thank you so much for saying so,” I whispered back, smiling. I could see Peter roll his eyes in my peripheral.

  The music shifted, and all of us looked toward the entrance to the chapel. My mother stood there, holding her bouquet, looking immaculate and classic and modern all at once, smiling like a woman in love. My heart soared. She was so happy. Through everything, this was going to be her day. She deserved to soak in every second of this.

  I glanced over at Frank, and my heart rose to my throat. He wept in joy at the beauty of his bride. When my mother finally got to the altar to join us, she wiped his tears away on the sleeves of her tuxedo jacket.

  “Out of the two of us, I didn’t think it was going to be you who cried,” she said, kissing his cheeks.

  “I hope I’ll continue to be full of surprises for you,” Frank said.

  The officiant began the ceremony, the guests sitting down. I paid close attention to what was being said, if only to avoid looking at Peter, but the words were meaningless to me. I could focus on the ceremony, on the guests behind us, on the trees beyond us, but Peter robbed me of my complete attention. I watched him from the corners of my eyes during the entire ceremony. I couldn’t help but imagine what it might be like to trade places, to have Frank and my mother in our wedding parties and us holding hands, gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes.

  I would want to have it in the city, of course, but maybe not in a church. A park, perhaps, would be nice, if the weather held. Maybe one of the museums, surrounded by art. Or we could charter a boat and cruise around the harbor for the duration of the ceremony, then shift seamlessly into party mode. Knowing Peter, he’d want to blow everyone’s expectations out of the water. We’d probably leave our own reception in a helicopter, off to some other adventure, just to impress people. I wondered if I could just wear my same gown to our nuptials. It was really nice, and if he already liked the way I looked in it…

  Peter grinned at me, and I shook myself, realizing, with horror, that I’d been staring at him unabashedly over the course of that last daydream. I looked away just as the officiant told our parents to kiss, then looked back, my eyes dragged by some irresistible force. Peter looked softly at me. My heart swelled in my chest painfully. I wanted him, but I didn’t want him. I didn’t want to feel like this, in his thrall, unable to control my impulses. We had hurt each other purposefully. Surely love didn’t have a place for us anymore.

  It was the most difficult thing in the world to take his arm again and walk back through all those cheering people. The cheers were almost pushing us to get back together. I was having such a hard time resisting him.

  “Tell me what would be so bad about us being together,” he said in my ear, leaning down, his lips making contact.

  “Everything,” I said, refusing to make eye contact with him. “Everything would be bad.”

  “Be specific.”

  “You have too much control.”

  “What’s so bad about that? You never complained.”

  “Because I didn’t understand.”

  “What I understand now is that I want you,” he said. “You have to want me. I can feel it. The way you look at me. The way you try not to look at me. You bit your lip through the entire ceremony, did you realize that? You smiled. What were you thinking about?” My hand flew to my mouth, and I tried to distract myself by digging through my purse to find some lipstick to apply.

  “Gemma, answer me.”

  “All I want to do is get through this,” I said savagely. “Because after tonight, I never have to see you again. It will be like getting out of jail.”

  I shoved my way through the crowd, out the doors to the chapel. It was evening, now, all the lights in the buildings on, traffic moving down the streets, headlights illuminating the way before them. Everyone had somewhere to be except me. I was rudderless, floating, unsure of myself. Would I ever have direction? Could I ever learn to do things for myself? To do only the things I wanted to do?

  I couldn’t stand around and wait for everyone else, couldn’t stand the thought of riding in the same car as Peter — even if my mother and Frank were going to be in there — to the reception hall. I made a snap decision to walk. My shoes were comfortable. My dress wasn’t that fancy. And it wasn’t that far away. A lot of the guests would probably be walking, too, I knew. It would be fine. The fresh air would clear my head
.

  “Gemma, we’re not done talking.” Peter had found me through the crowd, but I ducked away. I didn’t care how childish it was to run away from him, so that’s what I was doing, dodging around, hoping that he’d be too concerned with his pride to chase me. I couldn’t face him right now. I didn’t want to. I just wanted to get to the reception, sit with some strangers, eat my dinner, and drink myself away.

  “Gemma!”

  I didn’t bother turning around, didn’t care to hear what Peter had to say. I was done with him, done with this. I had endured about all I could handle. He had pushed me the entire ceremony, and I was through. I wasn’t even sure I could last through the reception anymore. There wasn’t a single thing he or anyone else could say to make me feel differently. I wanted to go back to my hotel room and have maybe a cocktail or five and forget about this entire evening.

  “Gemma, stop, you bloody idiot!”

  Oh, and now he was resorting to name calling? That really wasn’t going to work for me. It was as if Peter had exhausted all of his attempts at trying to win me back and had settled on being vulgar and annoying. It was as if all this effort had boiled him down to his most essential self. I was glad I wasn’t with him anymore. He was just a spoiled little boy. It didn’t matter that he was older than me. The moment he discovered that he wasn’t going to get what he so badly wanted, he showed his true colors.

  “Gemma, look where you’re going!”

  I looked up suddenly at the honking of a taxi and felt a hard shove from behind. The pavement rose up to meet me, too fast, and then there was a flash of pain, and then, almost coming as a relief, there was nothing.

  Chapter 19

  It was a long dream that occasionally unwound into a nightmare — plaster and pulleys and pain, oh my — and doctors at the ready, at my elbow, shining lights into my eyes. The beep of monitors punctuated my breaths, and people came and went: my mother, still in her wedding dress; Frank, his bowtie hanging loose around his neck; nurses upon nurses, cooing things, changing bandages, trying to get me to eat pudding when all I wanted was pizza. Wasn’t I supposed to be eating pizza?

  Reality gradually reasserted itself, and I came to realize that I was in the hospital, my entire right leg encased in a cast, a bandage around my head. I looked to the side and saw my mother sitting in one of the chairs, leafing listlessly through a magazine. She was out of her wedding dress. That was good. But what was she doing here?

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in India by now?” I croaked.

  “Oh, Gemma!” She flung the magazine aside and flew at me, covering my cheeks with kisses, her hands grabbing at my arms. I had some abrasions on my hands, but besides that, everything else seemed to be in working order as long as it wasn’t wrapped in gauze or plaster. It registered that things should hurt, but they didn’t. I figured it had a lot to do with the fact that I felt I was wrapped up in a cloud. The pain medication was doing wonders.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “You charged into traffic like a lunatic and got hit by a taxi!” my mother exclaimed. “It’s a miracle you’re alive at all.”

  I frowned, wracking my brain. “I wasn’t hit. I was pushed.”

  “That was Peter,” she said impatiently. “He pushed you.”

  “He pushed me into the path of the taxi?” I was confused again. “Is he in jail?”

  “No, of course he isn’t, and he didn’t push you in to the path of the taxi,” my mother said, rolling her eyes. “That was the miracle. He saw you leaving, saw that you weren’t paying attention, and pushed you away just in time to make sure your injuries weren’t any worse than they are now. If he hadn’t acted as quickly as he did, the taxi would’ve hit you head on, and not the glancing blow. It was going so fast, Gemma. You didn’t wait for the light to change.”

  That was because I’d been trying to escape. I hadn’t wanted to be there anymore. I was at war with myself, fighting my own attraction to him, repulsion ruling as he leered at me all night, alcohol fueling his attempt at making a pass at me. It was his fault I’d fled, his fault I’d gotten hit by the damn taxi in the first place.

  “I was in a hurry,” I muttered.

  “Stubborn girl.” My mother had apparently gotten over her joy at seeing me sentient and was ready to start fussing at me. “I asked you if everything was all right between you and Peter, and you said yes.”

  “I told you we were adults,” I corrected her. “I was only half right.”

  She sighed. “Gemma, don’t you realize that he’s hopelessly in love with you? Devoted to you? Frank says he’s just been pining away. Broke his arm in that incident, too, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know.” My stomach twisted, inexplicably. “Is he all right?”

  “Better than you,” my mother said sharply. “Though I’m sure you’ll be out in a few days. You had a nasty concussion from hitting your head on the pavement.”

  “I’m ruining your honeymoon, aren’t I?” I asked suddenly. “You and Frank were supposed to be on a plane to India as soon as the wedding was over. You’ve missed it, haven’t you?”

  “That plane departed three days ago,” she said gently. “I wasn’t about to get on it with my daughter in such a state, and even if I’d wanted to, Frank wouldn’t have let me. We need to stay here until the two of you are sorted out.”

  “Aren’t you tired of me messing everything up?” I demanded. “You were about to start traveling the world, and now you’re stuck in a hospital. You were happily planning your wedding, and then it was called off. You took years of physical abuse in an attempt to fool me into thinking my life was normal. Aren’t you tired of it? Aren’t you tired of me?”

  My voice had risen during my entire diatribe, tears glittering in my eyes and obscuring my vision, but when my mother answered me, her voice was mild, resigned.

  “I told you once, and I’ll tell you again. It’s a thing you can’t possibly understand until you have children of your own. You’ll do crazy things for your children. Things you didn’t realize you were capable of. But in the end, it’s all worth it. You are a piece of me, Gemma. You are a physical part of me that I grew inside of my own body. I would never just leave you in a hospital. I don’t care where that plane was going. Frank and I will have our honeymoon. We have the rest of our lives. But right now, you need me, and that’s the most important thing.”

  I was crying by then, my mother’s arms wrapped around me, crying for my pain, crying for her suffering, crying that I could seem to get over Peter, and nor was I sure I wanted to. What was I supposed to do when everything was upside down?

  My mother was right. I was released from the hospital just a couple of days later. Frank insisted — and wouldn’t take no for an answer — that I make myself comfortable in the penthouse he stayed in. Its views of the surrounding city reminded me of the one I used to live in, made me homesick for it, but it was something of a relief to be somewhere different. I was hobbled by crutches — the doctor tried to get me to accept the services of a wheelchair, but I refused. At least the place was comfortable, full of soft chairs I could sit on and ottomans I could prop my leg up on. They’d taken the bandages from my head, and the stitches on the back of it would dissolve by themselves. All I had to do was lie low and wait for my leg to heal. Two whole months in a cast. That eliminated any chances of me pounding the pavement and looking for a job.

  “Don’t worry about a job right now, Gemma,” my mother urged as she and Frank followed a porter who was pushing a rolling cart with all of their various luggage out of the room. My mother had been adamant about the fact that they were coming back to New York City after their stint in India to check up on me, but I had a pretty good feeling that Frank would be able to persuade her to continue their travels.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I told her, waving my hand. “I have everything I need right here. I’ll search for openings on the computer. You focus on having a good time. See the world.”

  “We’ll be back in a
month,” my mother said firmly, but Frank shook his head and winked at me.

  “Hold the fort down, Gem,” he said, giving me a brief and brilliant grin that reminded me all too well of his son, and they left.

  At first, it was good to be alone. My mother had been hovering around me ever since I’d gotten out of the hospital, waiting on me hand and foot. I needed to learn how to maneuver with the crutches, and I needed to be able to take care of myself.

  That was the biggest thing I needed to relearn. How to do things on my own.

  Even if it wasn’t the best time — I had a broken leg, after all, and I was staying in a penthouse again — I had to try and embrace independence. Do things for myself. Rely on my own skills to move forward. I was in danger, I recognized, of slipping backward. I could stay in this penthouse indefinitely. Frank had set up a food service to deliver meals to me so I didn’t have to worry about shopping or cooking, and he’d already floated the idea that I would man the penthouse while he was away from it. As easy as it might be to simply accept that as my life, I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want it. I wanted something I could be proud of. I wanted to achieve something instead of just accepting it from someone.

  I was attempting to settle into my routine — bathing myself while avoiding getting the cast wet, eating my meals, doing the exercises my doctor had told me to try, using my crutches, applying to jobs online — when one day, the door rattled open. It was Peter, fumbling with a key card, cursing up a blue streak. His right hand was in a cast, the one he was used to using, and his left hand was apparently not cutting it for him.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, suspicious even though it was the first time I’d seen him since the wedding.

  “Your mother asked me to check up on you,” he said. “So that’s what I’m doing. Checking. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “And a phone call or text message would’ve sufficed.”

  “I tried that,” he said, shutting the door behind him. “Seems you have my number blocked.”