Black Roses (A Mitchell Sisters Novel)
Page 14
“Donovan is last month’s news. You didn’t really think it would last, did you? You of all people know better than that. He was good for a few weeks of food and shelter. It’s all good.”
It’s not good. It’s never good when she says that. I know her better than the birthmark on my left thigh. “What happened?”
“Nothing really. Pretty much the usual.”
She doesn’t have to elaborate. The usual means he slept with someone else. Sometimes the usual means coming home to find our shit packed and left on the doorstep. But it always means they’ve had their fill of her. I’ll never understand why. Charlie is beautiful and sexy and, based on the stories I’ve heard, a goddess in bed. I’ll never fully understand why men go through her like a dirty dishrag. She’s bitter, yes. But who wouldn’t be, having been through what she’s endured. Maybe it’s me. When guys find out I’m not good for a threesome, they don’t usually want a third wheel hanging around and sleeping on the couch.
“Men suck,” I say. Then I try once more. “Why don’t I meet you in Sydney? It’d be fun. We can do a walkabout again.”
“I said Donovan was history. I didn’t say I was going alone.” I can almost hear the smirk through the phone. “How else do you think I could afford the ticket? They are like two thousand apiece. We’re running out of money, Pipes, in case you haven’t noticed. I mean, your parents have been great. Real life savers. But at some point, we are going to have to talk about—”
“Not now. We don’t have to talk about this now. Can I please just get through this wedding?”
I hear her heavy sigh. “Sure, Piper.”
“How long will you be down under?”
“I’ll be back by July. Then who knows? I’ll just have to see which way the wind blows.” She laughs. “Or who I can blow to set us up for a few more months.”
I laugh with her, but it’s not genuine. I hate the fact she sleeps with men to put a roof over our heads. She claims she enjoys it. I don’t buy it. It’s going to break her more than she’s already been broken. Of course, that’s why we’re perfect for each other.
“Promise me something, Pipes.”
“Anything.” I’d do anything for her.
“Promise me you won’t close yourself off while you are there. You have this incredible opportunity to get to know your family again. This one chance to maybe have something you never thought possible. Promise me you won’t close the doors that may be opening to you.”
“What did Skylar tell you?” I snap, my eyes burning through the floor to where I know my sister is eating breakfast.
“Nothing much. But from what she did say, I can tell that being back there is good for you. Maybe you can finally heal. Maybe you can slay those demons once and for all.”
“She obviously talks too much. Being back here is not good for me. It brought back the nightmares, Charlie. I belong with you. Cradle to grave—it’s what we’ve always said.”
“I know. If that’s how it turns out, I’m all good. Just promise me you won’t give up something special simply because you feel you owe it to me. You owe me nothing. And no matter what, we will be best friends forever. Never doubt that.”
She doesn’t sound like herself. It makes me wonder if this new guy has her thinking about something more permanent. I don’t push though. I never push. Just as she never pushes me. Nudge maybe, never push.
“Fine,” I promise. “But just make sure I know where you are, because on July 8th, I will hunt you down.”
“Sure thing, sister,” she says, before moving on to describe her new man and their sex life in nauseating detail.
chapter sixteen
mason
Her inky black tips whip around in the breeze, lashing across my face when I come up behind her. I put my arms on either side of her, caging her in as she looks out upon the city.
A swift updraft catches her hair and I get a glimpse of her tattoo. My eyes quickly trace the delicate shape of the lone rose, and I long to touch it with my fingers as I did the night of the marathon. There is a story behind every tattoo, any tattoo worth having anyway, and I’d bet my right arm that Piper’s story is a game changer.
My arms tighten around her and I lightly press my front to her back. “You have absolutely no idea how much I want to kiss you right now.”
Her body tenses. I rest my chin on the top of her head and close my eyes, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her hair.
“But I’m not going to,” I say. “Not today.”
I feel her relax under me, taking in ragged air as if it’s the first breath she’s had all day.
I brush her hair aside and move my mouth behind her ear, right above her tattoo. “I know it may be expected, being our second date and all. And we are in arguably a very romantic place.” I look around the observation deck, recalling a movie I once saw. “In fact, isn’t this the same spot where Warren Beatty met Meg Ryan on New Year’s Eve?”
She shakes her head. “You’re confusing movies. It was Warren Beatty and Annette Benning. But they never met here. She didn’t show.”
“That’s awful,” I say. “And not romantic at all.”
“Actually, it is. He tracked her down months later and found out the reason she never showed up was that she was hit by a car and paralyzed—on her way to meet him that day. She never wanted him to know what happened to her.”
I’m not even sure she’s aware of how she’s leaning into me as she explains. I play along. I know the movie, of course. But what surprises me is that she does. I wasn’t sure Piper Mitchell had a romantic bone in her body. But it’s there. With my fingers on her wrist, I can feel the racing of her pulse as she describes the way they got together. I can hear the longing in her voice. She may put up the façade of not needing a man, not wanting that one great love, but I can see through the bullshit she lays out for the rest of the world.
“So he accepted her, flaws and all?” I ask. “Even though she thought she was damaged goods?”
My question drives a thick layer of silence between us. I’ve made her think. That’s good. Because I know with one-hundred-percent certainty that whatever happened to her doesn’t matter to me. Not in the least.
She strains her neck, peeking back at me before looking at the ground and shaking her head. “Why are you going through so much trouble, Mason? You know I leave in a few months. If you’re ready to date again, there are so many other girls. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I had a great time tonight, and I really appreciate your efforts, but what do you expect to get out of all this?”
“What do I expect?” I try to reign in my anger, wondering what another man must have expected from her to cause her to become so bitter. “I don’t expect anything, Piper. I like being around you. This feeling I get when you’re near me—I like it. I want it for as long as I can get it. No strings. No expectations.”
“But why here?” she asks. “Why did you bring me to the top of the Empire State Building?”
“I wanted you to see something.” I turn her body and tilt her chin up towards the horizon. “I know you grew up not far from here, and I’m sure you’ve been up here before. But my bet is you’ve never taken the time to see this.”
Silence drapes us once again as we watch the sun while it sets, turning the sky from blue to purple to orange, with streaks of light dancing through the clouds, making their silver linings glow. We quietly observe the yellow ball being swallowed up by the building to the west.
At some point, however, I stopped watching the sky and started watching her. Shivers visibly move down her body when she becomes aware of my stare.
I slowly turn her around to face me and I rub my hands up and down her arms, feeling every hair stand on end at the pass of my fingertips. “Every day is a new beginning, Piper. When the sun sets, it takes all the bad shit with it, wiping the slate clean. It took me a long time to learn that.” I put my wrist in front of her, revealing the scar that spans across it—a reminder of what I’ve lost—a reminder of wha
t I didn’t.
She traces the raised bump with a finger, sending shivers down my spine. I lift my other hand and finger the bracelet on her wrist, wondering if it represents her loss. And for the first time, she doesn’t pull it away.
When I look down into her eyes, she’s looking at my lips. She’s thinking about me kissing her. My pants tighten as I imagine tasting her pink pouty mouth and devouring her sweet scent as our tongues mingle.
Her gaze shifts to someone walking up behind me. I’m almost relieved her eyes went astray, because with the way she was just looking at me, I’m not sure I could have stopped myself from crashing my lips onto hers. But she’s still fragile. She’s not ready. Hell, maybe she’ll always be fragile, but she’s learned to relax around me. Her anxiety, however, is lurking just under the surface, and I fear if I do anything to rush things, I’ll lose her.
“A rose for pretty lady?” I hear in a heavy Eastern European accent. I turn to see a stout man carrying a basket full of roses of various colors.
“Do you happen to have a black one?” I ask, pulling my wallet from my pocket.
The man’s eyes widen with his audible gasp. “Black? No no. You no want black.” He shakes his head. “Black mean death. Black mean no love.” He looks back and forth between us. “You no love her?”
In my periphery, I see Piper shifting uncomfortably from one foot to another. How does one answer that question on a second date? No matter what I say, I’m screwed. I’m not stupid. I keep my mouth shut.
The small man shakes a finger at me. “I see you. From across the way, I watch you. You no need black rose, you need maybe pink. Red even, no?”
I eye all the different colors in his basket. “Okay Mr.—”
“Trudowski”
“Okay, Mr. T, Tell me about the meaning of these roses.”
His eyes light up as if I’d asked him to talk about his grandchildren. “Roses have many meaning. I tell you what mean to me.” He pulls a white rose from the bunch. “White represent purity, innocence, young love. But also loyalty. It say ‘I’m worthy of you’.” He places it back in the basket and retrieves another one. “Yellow rose mean friendship, caring, affection.” He exchanges yellow for orange. “Ahhh, this one good for young lovers. It meaning desire and attraction. Passion.” His eyes bounce between Piper and me as he explains.
Picking up a pink one, he says, “Pink have many meaning. Elegance, grace, happiness even.” He puts it down to find the final color among the bunch. “Red rose need no explain. Everyone know red. Now you decide. I have customer over there.” He points to a young couple kissing and showing a little more PDA than would be deemed socially appropriate. “They red no doubt. Yes, red and orange.”
I pluck four flowers from the bunch. Every color but red. Then I hand over a rather large tip as he thanks me profusely.
“Red,” he says, before walking away. “Next time we meet, you choose red. You see. Trudowski know things.”
We watch the man walk away, meandering over to his next potential sale.
Our eyes then meet over the top of the roses I’m holding. I hand them to her one at a time.
I give her the white one first. “You are worthy of this rose. You are worthy of everything and anything this life has to offer. I give this to you because I will be here for you, whether it be seven weeks or seven years. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
She takes the rose and her eyes flutter closed as she inhales its scent. “But—”
“I’m not done,” I interrupt. “I have three more to go.” I hold out the yellow one. “For our friendship. You push me to be a better friend, a better person, a better man. And I’ll value that long after the petals fall from this flower.”
She takes it, opening her mouth again to say something. I raise my finger to her lips. “Can you keep those pouty lips quiet for two minutes and let me finish?”
Her mouth closes, sealing it shut before she bites the edge of her bottom lip. The small movement causes me to have to rotate my hips and situate myself so she can’t see what her mindless gesture is doing to me.
I hand her the pink rose. “Mr. T says this one represents elegance and grace—both of which you possess. But I believe it also has other meanings. Promise. Possibility. Admiration. Gratitude. You give my life promise, Piper. For years, I’ve lived for one person and only one person, my daughter. Being with you, I’ll be damned if I’m not seeing the possibility of another future and for that I’m grateful.” I shrug my shoulders. “Well, that and I remember in junior high on Valentine’s Day, people would give pink roses to those they secretly admired. I’ve never done it until now.”
She sighs. I can’t tell if it’s a happy one or a sad one. I’m praying for the former. “Mason—”
“Ah ah ah.” I hold up my hand. “I have one more.”
I hold out the orange rose. “Passion,” I say, punctuating the word with prolonged silence. I point my finger between us. “You can’t deny it exists here. And I’m pretty sure you can’t even deny feeling it all the way back in the airport the first day we met. Am I wrong?”
She raises a brow at me. “Oh, am I allowed to talk now?”
Her sassy, sarcastic voice sends tingles through me. I laugh. “Please.”
“Thank you for the flowers.” She bundles them together and takes the time to appreciate each individual scent.
“I’m sorry he didn’t have black. I know it’s your favorite.”
Her hand absentmindedly comes up to finger the tattoo behind her ear. “Why would you think that?” A crevice forms between her eyes as she questions me.
“It’s kind of written all over you.” I nod to her neck and then I pick up her wrist and fondle the bracelet as she watches.
After a moment, she pulls away. “No, they aren’t my favorite.”
“Then why have them all over your body?”
I know I’m pushing her for information. Information she may not be ready to give yet—or ever, for that matter.
“As a reminder I guess.” She twists the rose charm around the leather straps of her bracelet.
“A reminder of what?” I ask.
She’s standing right in front of me, but her eyes are about as distant as I’ve ever seen them. She looks pained. When she answers me, her voice is brusque, alerting me I may have crossed a line. “As a reminder that I don’t like them—what is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”
I laugh to try and lighten the mood. “You are a complicated woman, Ms. Mitchell. You know that, right?”
She shrugs and turns around to view the night sky along with the twinkling lights illuminating the neighboring buildings.
I cage her in my arms again. “You know, Mr. T seems to be an expert on roses. He said that all roses have many meanings. Maybe you just need to find another meaning for yours.”
I brush her hair aside and gently rub my thumb across her tattoo. “Maybe one day you’ll feel comfortable enough to tell me about it.”
“There is no one day, Mason. I’m only here for two more months.”
“I’d better work quickly then,” I say.
She cranes her head around, revealing the question in her eyes.
“If I only have two months to convince you to move back here, I’d better work quickly.”
Her eyes fill with several emotions all at once. Hesitation. Sadness . . . Regret? “I won’t be staying in New York.”
“What if you fall in love with me, will you move to New York then?”
She shakes her head. “No way would that happen.”
“Why not? Do you not like the way I look? You think I’m hideous, admit it,” I joke.
Small bursts of air leave her nose, cueing me in on her lifting mood.
I raise an arm and smell my pit. “Do I smell bad?”
She snickers quietly. “Only at the gym.”
“I know it’s not my kissing,” I say. “I realize you haven’t experienced one of my kisses yet, but I’m one hell of a kisser.”
I turn her around to face me again and her eyes seem to mimic my own, not being able to decide if I want to gaze deeply into hers or stare at her inviting lips. My mind is at war, knowing this may be the perfect moment for a kiss, but at the same time, fearing it may drive her away.
After only a moment, her mood becomes somber. “I don’t fall in love, Mason.”
“Do you really believe you can control that, Piper? Falling in love or who you fall in love with?”
“Love is a farce,” she says, looking down at the roses. “People make money off it.” She holds her hand up, putting the flowers between us. “Case in point. Florists, greeting-card companies, chocolate vendors, jewelers—they all bank on the concept that there is actually some all-encompassing emotion that will conquer everything. It’s crap. It’s a business. And if you buy into it, you’re full of shit, too, Mason.”
I want to argue with her, tell her billions of people aren’t all under some kind of spell cast upon us by commercialism. But I don’t. Whatever happened to her broke her so completely that I’m not sure she can ever be put back together. Especially not in two short months. You can’t tell someone like Piper about love, you can only show them. I’m just terrified I don’t have the time.
“Okay then, I’ll happily concede and agree I’m full of shit.” I take her hand that’s free of the roses. “So, Piper Mitchell, will you hang out and not fall in love with me until you have to leave in July?”
She stares at our joined hands. I wonder if the same energetic heat is flowing out of them across her body, just like the crescendo of waves are cresting across mine.
She smiles, looking slightly relieved. “Yes, Mason. I’d be happy to hang out and not fall in love with you.”
“Care to make a little wager on that?”
Her eyes widen. “A wager? On if I’ll fall in love with you or not?”