As I make a beeline to the booth in the corner, I whip out my pen and pad. Without glancing at the customer, I tuck a strand behind my ear and say, “Welcome to Gentlemen’s, what can I get you?”
“Hey, sweet pea.”
I recognize that husky voice and my heart beats fast and hard.
Adrenaline spikes my blood until I feel like I’ve been drinking five Red Bulls. My eyes connect with his hazel eyes, and my hands are clammy and start to shake. I never want to see his face again after the way he treated me. Swallowing hard, I study Charles’ features. He lost a lot of weight. His used-to-be-tan skin is now pale and the dark circles under his eyes don’t go unmissed. Black hair is cut low to his scalp. Even his beautiful plump lips are dry and cracked. My God, what the hell happened to Charles? I ignore him and say, “What would you like to drink, sir?”
“Alana?” Charles pleads. He doesn’t deserve my time or to be in my presence. Don’t know why he has the balls to show up, and I don’t care to find out.
“We got a special today. If you order the bacon mac ’n’ cheese, you get a side of a strawberry sundae for free.”
“Alana, please. Talk to me.”
I storm off to the bathroom as I hide in the stall. What the hell is he doing here? He better not be here with Rebecca because I’ll slap her. And I won’t apologize for it.
Tears threaten my eyes. I’m trying to forget Charles and move on with my life, but he is like a ghost that keeps haunting me. I go to the sink, splash water in my face and tear a paper towel from the holder, wipe my face. I walk out to the crowded people, go back to his table. His elbows are propped on the table as he plays with his phone. I clear my throat for him to look at me.
“Sweet pea.” He says the nickname he gave me when we were together. He has no right to call me that. I am not his anymore.
“What do you want, Charles? Did Rebecca send you here because I slapped her?”
He chuckles, and I fold my arms across my chest.
“You’re still feisty.”
“What do you want?” I grit out.
“We need to talk.”
I snort a humorless laugh. Like I will give him a chance to talk. “Not a chance. If you are not going to order, please leave.” I whip out my pad and pen for the second time.
“I’d like Parmesan chicken with a side of baked potato with no green onion, because—”
“You’re allergic. Got it.”
I walk to the kitchen and drop off the order. I rush to the back, grab a box of lemons from the storage room and help Jerome with stocking the bar. Man, we are shorthanded tonight. My nerves are shot today. The cook calls out Charles’ order, and I place it on the tray and set the food in front of him. He hands me a card with his phone number and email—Charles owns a marketing firm.
“Please, call me. It’s important.” He dumps a crisp fifty-dollar bill on the high table and he gets up and leaves, not touching his food. I crumple up the card and toss it in the nearest trash can. Whatever Charles has to say to me, I don’t want to hear it.
After my shift, I go straight to Darien’s condo. I still smell like alcohol, cheap food, and sweat. I take the key from my purse and unlock Darien’s apartment and push the door open.
Darien is happy that it is my last week at the strip joint. I bought myself a black Range Rover because I didn’t like that Tristan was driving me around. Darien wasn’t too happy about it, but he will get over it. I told him from the start that I don’t like depending on people, but my overbearing boyfriend doesn’t want to hear it.
As I tiptoe to the bedroom, all the lights are off and the moonlight spills from the large window. I push the door open and Darien is lying in bed with a pair of boxers hugging his hips. He scratches his peach-fuzz jaw that he hasn’t shaved in a few days. I remove my clothes and toss them toward the hamper. Instead, they land next to it, making a thud sound on the floor. Don’t bother to pick them up. I crawl into bed in nothing but a pair of cotton boy shorts. Darien wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me between his legs. His erection presses against my butt and I lay my head below his dreamcatcher tattoo.
“How was work?” I feel the vibration from his chest as he talks.
“Eventful,” I say, not about to tell him that Charles came to see me. Besides, that will be the last time I see him ever again.
Darien gives me the update on the new bank that he and Gunner bought and how they have to change a few policies because they have a high turnover rate. Don’t know what that means, but okay. He is going to merge it with D&D.
“Who will fill in your spot at D&D?” I ask as he massages my shoulders.
“I hired Brady, some rich dude.” For a few moments he is quiet, and he cups my cheeks, looking into my eyes. His stormy gray eyes gleam, and he utters those words that make my heart skip a beat. “I love you.” His voice is warm. My body tenses as butterflies flood my stomach.
“Say that again,” I whisper.
“You want me to say it again?”
I shrug my shoulders and say, “I don’t think I heard you clearly.”
“I love you, Red.” He takes a strand and tucks it behind my ear. He rains kisses on my forehead and says, “You don’t have to say anything. Just want you to know how I feel.”
I’ve been ducking and dodging Charles for a week now. He showed up to my day job, and Gunner threatened to put stitches in his head again if he doesn’t leave me alone. His grandmother, Annie, sent me a message on Facebook, begging me to hear him out. The only reason why I decided to meet with Charles is because of his sweet grandma. I love her like my own.
I meet Charles at Starbucks on Broad Street. The small café is busy with different people, and I maneuver through the sea of bodies as I approach the high table. He stands up, pulls out a chair, and I take my seat, removing my pink floral scarf and draping it over my Gucci purse Darien bought me last week. Charles slides a red cup to me and says, “Your favorite, pumpkin spice.” He sips on his beverage.
Today, I wear a silk wine-colored blouse with a gray pencil skirt and knee-high boots. My red hair spills over my shoulders, protecting me from the harsh cold weather.
“You look radiant, sweet pea,” he says. I wish he would stop calling me that.
“Alana, just call me Alana.” I take slow sips from the cup and the beverage warms my body. I let out a slight moan, and Charles stares at me with a look that I am too familiar with—the look that says he wants to fuck me. I straighten my spine.
“So, how you been?” He places his arms on the edge of the table, watching me slowly.
“Cut the shit, Charles. What do you want?” I ask, tapping my foot.
“I need a favor.”
I force out a laugh and roll my eyes. It will have to be a cold day in hell before I help him.
“You remember when my grandpa had brain cancer?”
“How could I forget?” I whisper.
His grandpa died a year before I had Cole. He had a very rare brain cancer and that year was very rough for Charles because he was close to his grandpa. Charles’ parents had died in a terrible car accident when he was a couple of days old, so his grandparents raised him. His grandpa was his father figure and hero.
“I think I might have a brain tumor,” he pauses for a few seconds, clearing his throat,-“I had an MRI done, and I want you to be with me when my doctor gives me my result.” His hands are shaking like leaves. “My doctor’s appointment is tomorrow morning at nine. Please be there for me.” He rests his hands on mine.
I move my hand quickly and say, “What about Rebecca?”
He leans back in his plastic chair. “We’re not together anymore.”
Jingle Bell Rock plays in the background, and the store associate shouts out orders. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mixed with cinnamon lingers through the air.
“What?” I say, holding the rim of the black lid against my lips. The steam warms my face.
“She lied to me. She was never pregnant. She said that to
me so I would leave you.” He runs his hand through his hair, avoiding eye contact with me. “When I told her that I wasn’t going to leave you for her, she pulled the pregnancy card. She knew that I felt angry towards you about Cole’s death and she took advantage of it.” He smiles, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. We haven’t spoken about Cole’s death in a long time, and the mention of the situation makes me want to escape from him and the pain.
I grab my scarf and wrap it around my neck. “I have to go, Charles.”
“Are you gonna go with me?”
I really don’t want to, but a part of me wants to, even though he did me wrong. I appreciate him explaining what happened between him and Rebecca, but it still hurts that he broke up our marriage. I was depressed about Cole, and when I needed him the most, he wasn’t there.
“I don’t know. Have to tell my boyfriend and see what he says.” I smile.
“Boyfriend?” He rubs his chin.
I nod my head, standing, sliding the strap of my purse over my shoulder. “You didn’t think I was capable of moving on, did you?”
“No, but I was hoping you were single,” he murmurs.
“Charles, if I weren’t with someone, you still wouldn’t have a chance in hell.” I wink at him before leaving the café.
I return to the office on time and my day goes on as a blur. My mind is filled with possibilities of Charles having cancer, and I hate to admit it, I am concerned about him—which I shouldn’t be, by the way. I schedule a few meetings for Gunner, clean out his e-mail, send out copies of the new policies to the employees. Around five o’clock I am beat. I go to Darien’s apartment, order cheap Chinesefood. After I finish eating, I start on my English homework that is due at midnight. I decided to take four classes online so I don’t have to commute to New York City. I’d rather tuition eats up my money than to waste it on gas. Gas is expensive for a Range Rover—don’t know why I didn’t buy a cheaper car.
I go to the living room and hit the middle button on the controller. The blue light glows on the PlayStation, and I tap the start.
Darien swings the front door open and places his phone and keys on the breakfast nook. He sits next to me with a big smile on his face.
“We are going to London next week. Have to go for a business meeting,” he says, propping his expensive black loafers onto the coffee table.
I stare at the screen as the character bounces back and forth. I don’t respond.
What if Charles really is sick? He doesn’t have a family to take care of him. His grandma is old and barely can take care of herself. And why should I care about him anyway? He wasn’t so worried about poor little old me when he dumped me for Rebecca.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Darien asks, planting a kiss on my forehead. I peer at him, and I don’t know how to begin explaining to him what is going on.
“I met with Charles today.” I exhale. He gets up from the couch, putting some distance between us.
“What?” He frowns.
“He came by my job a week earlier, and I told him to leave me alone, and then his grandmother messaged me through Facebook, said that it was urgent. I met with him, and he thinks he has cancer and he wants me to go to his appointment,” I ramble.
A vein pops on the side of Darien’s neck. “What did you tell him?” He rubs his stubbled chin.
Tapping my feet, I say, “I told him I will speak to you first.”
“What do you want to do?” His tone is monotone.
“I want to make you happy.”
“That’s not what the fuck I asked you. I asked you what do you want?”
“I-I don’t know, Darien. I don’t want to go, but I do.” I play with the end of my hair. “I’m confused.”
He exhales, stomps to the bedroom, and the door slams. I don’t follow him. Instead, I walk to my apartment and lie on the couch. Crystal moved out, so the apartment is as empty as I feel. Darien is pissed at me, and I can’t blame him. I would be pissed too if it was the other way around.
I was with Charles for seven years and had a family. Darien and I have been dating for three months—three incredible months—and with him, my heart skips a beat and my soul is alive. I care for Charles, but my heart doesn’t want him. My heart wants Darien. It needs him like a woodpecker needs to peck. Probably not the best analogy, but that is the only one I can come up with. You can be with someone for years and still feel empty, and that’s what I felt when I was with Charles, and I don’t want to go back to that.
Alana
I LEAN MY head on the white wall of Dr. Jackson’s office. Charles paces the pale-blue tiles as we wait until the doctor calls his name. Charles is making me nervous, and I want him to tell him to sit the hell down before I lose my mind.
Haven’t spoken to Darien since last night. Figured I’d give him some space to let off steam. I still care about Charles, otherwise I wouldn’t be here, but I don’t love him in the way that I love Darien.
A nurse with red scrubs ushers us to the small office and tells us that Dr. Jackson will be with us shortly. I lace my fingers together to keep from shaking and focus on a multicolor picture of a brain. The caption says, “Wherever the brain thinks, the man follows.” I close my eyes and listen to our labored breaths and the air conditioner pumping out warm air.
My eyes flutter open when I feel a warm hand over mine. I want to pull away, but I don’t. I figure Charles is touching me to seek comfort.
Ten minutes later, a tall, dark-skinned man walks in. He appears to be in his late thirties or early forties, and he has brown eyes and hair cut low to his scalp. He has a lean build. A white medical jacket covers his crisp baby-blue shirt and dark gray slacks.
We shake hands and introduce ourselves to each other.
“Sorry I’m late.” He turns the Mac computer screen towards us, pulls up Charles’ MRI and he takes his mouse and circles a big black hole on the grayscale picture. “You see this?” Jackson says, casting his brown eyes to Charles. “You have stage four glioblastoma. It’s a tumor that affects the brain and spine, and it’s growing at a rapid speed. You have a seventeen percent chance of surviving the next three months.”
Squeezing Charles’ shaking hands, I ask, “What does that mean?”
“It means I’m fucking dying, that’s what that means, doesn’t it, Doc?” Charles blurts out.
“I’m so sorry,” Dr. Jackson says.
“What are our options?” I pipe in.
“Medication for pain, and we have a new experimental medication where it can shrink the tumor, but it can grow back. It can extend his life—it depends on how Charles responds to it.”
“What about chemo?”
Shaking his head, Dr. Jackson says, “The tumor is too aggressive and it won’t work for him.”
I bite my lips as tears burn in the back of my eye sockets. Charles slams his fist on the desk, making me jump out of my skin.
“When can we start the treatment?” I whisper.
“No, Alana. I don’t want any treatment,” Charles says.
I whip my head so fast that my ponytail slaps me in the face. “What?” He can’t be serious.
“What’s the point? I’m going to die anyway,” he says, running his fingers through his hair.
“I’ll let you and your wife discuss this in private,” Dr. Jackson says.
“No.” Charles speaks up. “We’re not married, so the decision is not up to her.”
Well, his words sting like a bee. I don’t want to hear anymore, so I storm out of the office and wait for Charles.
Several minutes later, Charles hops in the car, and I hit the start button and drive off onto the icy asphalt.
Pissed off, I don’t utter a word. I grip the steering wheel tight until my palms hurt.
“So, you and Darien?” Charles asks.
“How do you know his name?” I ask. Looking in the rearview mirror, I hit the blinker and switch into the right lane, cutting in front of a taxi.
“Facebook. Your page is priv
ate, but it showed your relationship status, so I clicked on his page.”
“You’re stalking me?” I glance at him sideways.
“Just want to know who replaced me.” He exhales.
“Are you happy for me?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
“No, not really.”
“You should be. At least he didn’t leave me for a dumb bimbo,” I snap.
Ouch. I feel bad for yelling at him, but I couldn’t keep it in. Have so much pent-up anger towards him. He made me feel so low about myself when he dumped me for Rebecca.
“I deserve that, Alana, and you didn’t deserve what I did to you.” His words are genuine, but it doesn’t take the pain away.
I pull up to our old home. Memories flood my mind as I stare at the white two-story Georgia-style home. A brown porch is wrapped around the house, and there is a two-car garage. At least he kept up the place while I was gone.
The minute I step out of the car, my nostrils are smacked with the smell of fresh-cut grass and dry chilly air. Inside, everything looks the same, but it feels different. There is no longer the smell of Febreze and citrus, replaced with musk and stale chips. Beer bottles and Coke cans litter the black square table. Empty boxes of pizza spatter the gray tiles.
“What happened here?”
“Have been too tired to clean,” he says, making his way to the open kitchen. Stainless steel fridge, black granite countertops, and black cabinets. When Cole was three years old, we’d just bought this house and he picked out the color to paint the cabinets. I grab the white trash bag from under the counter and throw the bottles and pizza boxes in the bag and take it to the curb of the street.
When I walk back inside, Charles leans against the kitchen island, sipping a glass of orange juice.
“Thank you, Alana. I know it was hard for you to be there for me,” he says, setting the glass back on the counter.
I swing my keychain around my fingers and ask, “You need anything else?”
“No.”
I wrap my arms around his shoulders, and he squeezes my waist tight. His chest vibrates as he cries.
Chasing Darien (Chasing Series Book 1) Page 15
