Legally Mine (Spitfire Book 2)

by Nicole French

  I hated being this girl. I never wanted to be this girl. It was why I'd really only had one other relationship before Brandon, and why, when that crashed and burned, I avoided getting personal with anyone. And now that Brandon had broken down my walls and my heart in the process, here I was. Pathetic. Pining. Missing. Empty.

  "Fuck that," I said out loud, startling a middle-aged woman walking her dog.

  She walked faster. I stepped out to the curb and raised my hand for a cab home. It was time to pack up my stuff and get back to Boston. Distraction tactics weren't working this time, but that didn't mean they wouldn't the next. I just needed more extreme measures to get over Brandon Sterling.

  ~

  Chapter 4

  The apartment was ridiculously small––even smaller than the college-issued one I had shared with Jane through law school. The living room was basically a brick box, with two exposed-brick walls jumbled with windows that looked down onto Margaret Street and an adjacent alley, and two others, painted a deep red, that led into the two bedrooms. There was a kitchenette in one corner and a bathroom in the other. No table for eating, just a couch that faced away from the kitchenette toward a large screen that had been mounted on one of the brick walls.

  There was nothing about the place that felt like home. Fitting, I thought as I walked inside.

  Eric der Vries, my classmate from Harvard and now roommate, dropped my big duffel inside the front door and started to point around, giving the pretense of a tour.

  "Kitchen, closet, my room, bathroom, your room. That's about it." He turned to me and grinned. "It's a mousetrap, but we've got loans to pay off, am I right?"

  I gave a wry smile. "It's fine. I'm just glad to have a place to live."

  Finding an apartment in Boston was a nightmare at the best of times. The fact that a good friend just happened to have a reasonably priced room in a decent part of town the very weekend I needed a place to live was like capturing a unicorn. It didn't matter that the apartment was maybe six hundred square feet total. With the hours I'd soon be putting in, I'd hardly be there anyway.

  When I had told Jane where I'd be living for the foreseeable future, she had squawked so loudly into the phone that I thought she might have damaged my eardrum.

  "Eric?" she cried. "You can't! You'll fail the bar. He'll leave his shit everywhere! He will keep you up at all hours of the night with his humping!"

  Okay yes, Eric was a bit of a ladies' man. But our relationship had always been more sibling-like, as we were both from New York. So who said he couldn't clean the kitchen like anyone else? After I reminded her that I already knew what it was like to live with a sexually active roommate––her––Jane muttered a warning about catching hepatitis in the bathroom and hung up.

  As it happened, Eric was really good at cleaning everything. Much, much better than me.

  He turned back to face our small surroundings. "So, I've got two rules. Pick up your shit, and no fucking on the couch."

  We looked around the living room. It was immaculate. Eric's "shit" was absolutely nowhere to be seen, and the floors, kitchen, and windows all gleamed where the last rays of sunlight shone into the otherwise dark space.

  "Fine by me, but can you actually follow that last rule?" I asked with a raised eyebrow.

  Eric shrugged, the action stretching the cotton of his T-shirt over his lithe shoulders. "Sure. I don't usually like to bring them back here anyway. They get too attached, want to stay for breakfast." He smirked. "Too much for a piece of ass."

  I scowled at Eric's casual misogyny. Maybe Jane was right; living with him was going to be like living with a frat boy. A really clean frat boy who also had a fetish for gourmet coffee, but a frat boy nonetheless.

  "Also, rent includes the split cost of a cleaning lady," he added.

  Okay, so maybe not as clean as I thought.

  "Please tell me you didn't hire Ana," I joked.

  Ana was Brandon's housekeeper and Eric's sometime-booty call. She was the reason I had even met Brandon in the first place, when I had followed Eric back to her apartment during a blizzard. Her apartment, it turned out, was in the servant's quarters in Brandon's enormous house.

  Eric snorted. "Come on. Give me some credit. Plus, we wouldn't be able to afford her. With what Sterling pays her, I think you and I are in the wrong profession."

  He must have seen the sadness that swept over me at the mention of Brandon. It was impossible not to think of him now that I was back in Boston. Everything in this town reminded me of him, of us. My need for distraction had never been higher. Luckily, I'd come to the right place.

  Eric clapped an arm awkwardly around my shoulder. "Don't worry, Cros," he said with a friendly squeeze. "We'll make you forget him. I'm the expert in that department."

  He hefted my bag over his shoulder again and walked me toward the door on the left, right next to the bathroom.

  "Don't worry. Most of the time I'm not even here to use it," Eric said as he caught my disgusted look at sleeping right next to where I'd have to hear him pee.

  "Gross," I said, although I wasn't referring to the bathroom.

  Eric tossed my things into a small bedroom that was empty except for an old futon mattress on the floor and a desk lamp beside it. I softened. All of my things had fit in the back of my rental car, and I was going to have to find some time to purchase actual furniture. But Eric had taken the time to find me something to sleep on and given me a lamp to read by. It looked like the bedroom of a Soviet-era spy, but I felt warm. A little bit cared for.

  "Thanks, bro," I said, nudging my shoulder into his.

  Eric just slung an arm back around my neck and squeezed briefly before letting go. "Yeah, well, you needed somewhere to sleep, didn't you? I'm not so much of an asshole that I would make you sleep on the wood floor. Or my couch, come to think of it."

  He stepped away to let me adjust to the new space alone. Eric wasn't going to be the kind of roommate who got into my business, and I was just fine with that. I turned to look at the dispiritingly white walls, the sad mattress on the floor. I was glad for the space, but as I stood there alone, the room felt less like a refuge and more like a trap.

  Nope. Wasn't going to do it. I grabbed my purse and headed out, desperate for another change of pace.

  ~

  "Don't worry. You're still my number one, Janey," I said on the phone while I absently walked through a consignment furniture shop in Allston. I had decided that the best remedy for my melancholia was to make my room into a place I actually liked.

  Jane huffed. She had opted to spend the summer renting a room in her cousin's apartment in Chicago, much to her parents' chagrin. She wouldn't be able to afford her own place on an ASA salary anytime soon, but she'd also insisted there was no way she was going to live with her parents while she saved her money. Her cousin's place in ritzy Lincoln Park was the next best thing.

  "This is bullshit," she griped. "I should fuck it and move back there. Chi-town is driving me bonkers. It is already so damn hot here, Sky, and my mom has been to the apartment four times in the last week. How is a girl supposed to leave for no-strings sex with her mom bringing over Ziploc bags of bulgogi at all hours of the night? And now I've been replaced with Eric the whoremaster? Ugh."

  "You love your mom, Janey. Are you really complaining that she's bringing you homemade food?"

  I checked out a mid-century bureau. It was nice, but not big enough for most of my clothes.

  "No, I'm complaining about the fact that you are living with a human petri dish."

  "I love how, when you're making these claims, you conveniently forget that month during first year where you and Eric never left your bedroom," I said, going to check out another dresser.

  "Oh, I'd never forget that, babe. That's how I know just how gross that boy is."

  Jane had never divulged completely what had gone down between her and Eric (although in fairness, I had only known her for about two months at that point). All I knew was what I'd seen: t
hat he'd stumbled in with her after a party during first semester, and for the next few weeks they basically forced me to spend fourteen hours a day at the library if I didn't want to listen to their animal habits.

  Then I'd arrived one night to find Jane curled up on the couch with a bottle of wine. It had become our first drinking/bitch-about-men session. I had been seeing my boyfriend Patrick at the time, a Wall Street asshole and all around terrible human being. We had commiserated, and a bond was forged over cheap wine and bitterness. But from then on, she'd also never had anything else pleasant to say about Eric, who mysteriously seemed to treat her only with distant kindness.

  Come to think of it, that in and of itself was a bit odd, considering how easy it was for Eric to forget the women he slept with, or at least treat them like they didn't exist.

  "You'll probably need to Scotchgard your sheets," Jane was saying. "Speaking of, do you have a bed yet?"

  I grinned into a gaudy, gold-framed mirror on the wall. "Yes! I found a great deal on this gorgeous teak frame, and I ordered a mattress too. I'm kind of excited about it. Every other bed I've owned has either been university-issued or balanced on rolling wheels."

  "Good for you, Sky. You deserve a fresh start. And a hot man to help you christen the thing. Speaking of which, any other hallucinogenic episodes?"

  I huffed. Jane had been asking me about the encounter at the Met every day since it had happened.

  "I think it's time for a fresh start," was all I said.

  "Amen to that, sister," Jane replied. "So, what's on the agenda this weekend? Please tell me you're not just going to hole up with your books. No one normal has even started studying for the bar yet, and you need to get out, friend. Before the grind begins."

  I sat down on an orange plaid couch that was probably designed sometime around 1975. "Eric did suggest that we go to this club tonight."

  "Eric did? I see, you're going to a herpes den. Wear a dental dam, my love."

  "Jane, give it a rest, will you?" I was not looking forward to hearing STD jokes for the entire time I lived with Eric. "He's my roommate, and he is my friend too."

  "Sorry," Jane mumbled. " I guess that settles it, then. I'm just going to have to fly out the next chance I get. Because there's no way I'm letting that walking dildo be the only person who ever gets to take you out."

  "Yeah, but you will have to study by then," I pointed out, even though I was secretly thrilled with the idea. Even though it had been less than two weeks since Jane and I last seen each other, that was a very long time after living together for three years.

  "I can study in Boston too," Jane insisted. "Probably better than here. No Umma busting in with food every ten seconds."

  "Won't that be expensive?"

  "Frequent flyer miles, baby. Credit cards can accomplish amazing things."

  ~

  I returned to the apartment feeling like a pirate with a major score of booty. I was loaded with several bags full of throw pillows, a bedding set, and equipment to paint my room a deep cerulean blue. I had ended up choosing a desk and a nightstand that would go well with the dark-wood aesthetic of my bedframe, and all of the large furniture would be arriving the next day.

  I set the bags on the floor of my room and surveyed the space. They said blue was a calming color, right? At least, the sales associate at Home Depot did. I wasn't too sure.

  Even so, I spent the rest of the afternoon painting. By the time I was finished, the combination of white trim and the deep blue color made me feel as if I were in the middle of a dream. I smiled. This wouldn't be a terrible place to spend the next several months at all.

  "Wow," said Eric when he arrived back from the gym and popped in to take a look at my progress. "Looking good in here."

  "Thanks," I replied with a smile as I started cleaning up the rollers. "It's going to come together, I think."

  Despite the fumes and the aches in my arms from holding the rollers and brushes for so long, it felt really good to accomplish something. Actually, I hadn't felt this good in weeks.

  We were interrupted by a knock at the door and a loud thump. Eric answered, and a few seconds later, he called for me.

  "What is it?" I asked as I popped my head out of my bedroom, but no reply was necessary.

  "Jeez, Crosby," Eric said bemusedly. "You really did go shopping today. But don't you need a bed more than this?"

  He nodded his head at the two block-shaped delivery men who bookended a small upright piano.

  I stared at it. "I didn't order this."

  The courier in front pulled out a clipboard. "You Skylar Ellen Crosby?"

  I crossed my arms. "Yes."

  "Then this is for you. Sign here. Where do you want it?"

  I accepted the clipboard and scanned the paper, looking for some sign of who had sent the elaborate present. There was no name on the paper, but I had a sinking feeling I knew. I hadn't heard from Brandon in several weeks. No flowers, no letters, all attempts to get me back had stopped. And now...a piano? How did he even know where I lived?

  The delivery guy coughed, covering his mouth with a meaty hand. "So, where do you want it?"

  I glanced at Eric, who was looking at the piano with a skeptical expression. "We, um...Crosby, it's kind of a small apartment, you know?"

  The piano was small too, an Essex upright that would, no doubt, sound like a dream. I sighed. There really was no room for it in our tiny living room. And yet...I didn't quite have the heart to send it away.

  "You can put it in my room," I said, gesturing behind me. "Far wall. Next to the closet."

  With a grunt, the deliverymen rolled the piano into my room while I signed the sheet. Eric leaned against the wall, watching curiously.

  "Another mea culpa?" he asked.

  I hadn't told him much about what had happened with Sterling, but he obviously knew it had not ended well. Likely, I guessed, via Jane.

  I shrugged. "Might be. I don't know why, though."

  I would be lying if I said a part of me wasn't a little flattered. Happy to know Brandon was thinking about me, even if I told him not to.

  "Ma'am?"

  I turned around to where the deliverymen exited my bedroom. One of them held out another envelope.

  "We were told to deliver that as well," he said.

  I murmured my thanks and gave them each a twenty, wondering what the letter held. Brandon's letters always had a way of undoing me. It was scary, actually, how much I wanted it to be just one more beg for mercy, ending, as they all had: "Do you love me yet, Red? I love you always. Brandon."

  I sat down on the couch while Eric loitered awkwardly, finally deciding to make some coffee. Taking care of women clearly wasn't Eric's forte, but it was nice of him to hang around. I pulled my knees up on the couch and opened the letter.

  It was the last thing I expected.

  Skylar,

  Happy graduation, darling. I couldn't be prouder. A little something to remind you to have fun every now and then once you're off to the real world. Everyone needs to be an artist sometimes.

  Bisoux,

  Janette

  Well, that explained how he knew the address: he didn't. Janette Jadot née Chambers––otherwise known as my mostly absent mother––was one of the few people who received address updates from me each time I moved.

  It didn't escape me that she called her own daughter "darling" and named herself Janette in the same letter. Nor did the reference to being an artist completely evade the irony of the fact that she left me and my father to do just that. Several times. I could never quite figure out if my mother was masterfully Machiavellian or just tone-deaf.

  I shoved the note into my jeans pocket and walked back into my bedroom. The addition of the piano in the corner completed the weird, non-sequitur look with the futon mattress, the desk lamp, my suitcases, and the bright blue walls that suddenly looked like Brandon's exact eye color.

  The piano was truly lovely––shining mahogany that would no doubt have fantastic s
ound. It was an incredibly generous gift, but in no way made up for the fact that my mother had largely been absent from my life since I was twelve. I hadn't actually heard from her specifically in over three years. This was more than just a gift. It was a ten-thousand-dollar announcement. But for what?

  "So it's from him?" Eric wandered into my room, coffee cup in hand.

  I shook my head and rubbed the sides of my arms as if I were cold. "No, my mother. I really don't know why."

  Eric watched me carefully, eyebrows raised as he took a long drink. He was a good-looking guy––I could see how his combination of sardonic charm and slight indifference made certain women come at his beck and call. Fortunately, it did nothing for me, or that sinking feeling of regret. For the fifteenth day in a row, I hadn't heard anything from the tall blond man I actually did have feelings for. And that, of course, was all my fault.

  Instinctually, my hand crunched the note in my hand. I held it up, and only then noticed that Janette had scribbled an addendum on the back of the letter.

  P.S. All of us will be in Boston next month. We'd love to see you, and I want desperately for you to meet your brother and sister.

  See you in a few weeks.

  xJ

  "Right, then," I said abruptly, and strode out to throw the crumpled paper into the kitchen garbage bin. "I'm going to change, and then I want to go get really good and drunk."

  Eric, still standing in my doorway, smiled slyly and gave me a mock salute with his mug. "Your wish is my command."

  ~

  "Nope."

  Eric sat on the couch, flipping through channels on the TV that took up most of the space on the brick wall. He wasn't even looking at me when I walked out of the bathroom, still putting on a pair of silver hoop earrings, but his resounding "Nope" could be heard across the room. Probably through the entire building.

  I looked down at my outfit. This was the third one that had been vetoed. The first, a knee-length gray dress, had been deemed "Amish", and the second, a pair of loose, stone-washed jeans and a gray flannel shirt, was nixed as "farmer clothes." Now I was wearing a pair of tight black jeans, a fitted black sweater, and my favorite black ankle boots that Jane called my "shit-kickers." I had tied my hair back to let my earrings dangle freely. It wasn't the most revealing thing I owned, but I thought I looked good and a little bit edgy. It fit my shitty mood.