Inseparable

by Siobhan Davis

  I wish I didn’t have to do this, but it’s the only way.

  I wait a half hour, to ensure he’s gone, and then I pull on my coat, take my bag, and hightail it across campus to the bus stop.

  I get off in the center of the city, in the heart of the prestigious banking district, and walk to an office building I swore I’d never enter.

  The name over the door sours my stomach as I walk underneath it, stepping foot onto the glossy porcelain floor of the lobby. The glamorous redhead at reception eyes me curiously as she calls upstairs, the surprise playing across her face as she’s told to let me up.

  My nerves are hanging by a thread as the elevator shoots to the top floor, bringing me to a man I never, ever intended to meet.

  But needs must.

  He doesn’t get up from behind the desk as I’m shown into his office, but he can’t disguise his shock. We have the same hair, and now I know where I got the dimple in my left cheek from. My eyes flit to the framed wedding photo on his desk. His pretty, young wife smiles up at him, little realizing she’s peering adoringly into the eyes of a monster.

  It’s hard to reconcile the good-looking, polished, professional businessman in the expensive suit, sitting across from me, with the image I’ve always had of him in my head. He may look calm and in control, but the catalog of physical abuse my mother suffered at her young husband’s hand tells a different story. And I don’t need to hear his version of events. There is no scenario he can paint that will ever excuse his behavior or cause me to doubt my mother. Mom has never lied to me, about anything, and especially not when I finally plucked up the courage to ask her why my father wasn’t in the picture.

  One part of me wants to lash out at him. To inflict pain. To make him feel even a sliver of what Mom felt living with an abusive spouse, but I’m not here for that. I have a purpose, and that purpose overrides everything else. So, as much as it frustrates me to push those sentiments aside, I do what I need to.

  I’m quietly confident as I tell him why I’m there. He’s reluctant to agree, until I threaten to go to the press. To divulge all the secrets he’s hiding. He doesn’t ask why I want to change the terms of my trust fund. Why I want access to all the cash that has been earmarked for college or why I need him to put me in touch with someone who can change my identity.

  He doesn’t question it; he just makes it happen, because I’m one of his dirty little secrets, and my father just wants to make me go away.

  A week later, I open the front door to my new life. I’m halfway across the country. I’ve cut and dyed my hair, and I’m traveling under a new name.

  Angelina Ward no longer exists. She died the same day Ayden Carter did.

  I enter the small one-bedroomed second-floor apartment I now call home, hoping that the rigidity in my chest will someday loosen. As I look out the large window onto the bustling street below, I promise myself that today is the last day I’ll think about them: Devin, Mom, and Mariah. My cell is chock-full of texts, missed calls, and messages. All heartfelt, teary pleas, no doubt—I can’t confirm it because I refuse to read or listen.

  Doing this was harder than I thought. On more than one occasion in the last week, I’ve almost turned around.

  But that’s only my selfishness talking.

  I was the very one who preached the message to Devin. “If you love me enough, you’ll leave me,” I’d told him.

  He wasn’t strong enough to do what needed to be done.

  But I am.

  Or at least I’m pretending I am.

  Dropping my cell on the floor, I smash it with the heel of my shoe until it’s crushed to pieces. Walking to the kitchen counter, I remove the bottle of vodka from my bag, unscrewing the cap as I flip off my shoes and collapse on the couch.

  I tilt my head back and take a long swig from the bottle, grimacing at the burning taste in my throat.

  I love them too much to drag them down with me.

  I swallow another glug, welcoming the sting.

  One day, they’ll thank me for doing the right thing.

  I guzzle from the bottle, relishing the acrid taste.

  Because if I stayed, I’d only have ruined them too.

  PART III

  (Almost) Five Years Later

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Devin

  “I’m not available,” I tell the good-looking woman sidling up alongside me at the bar. I’ve noticed her attentive gaze for the best part of the last hour, and I know from experience that it’s best to knock it on the head rather than let her waste any more of her time on me. Her mouth droops, and her eyes narrow with disappointment.

  She doesn’t realize I’ve just done her a favor.

  If she did, she’d be thanking me.

  Over the years, I’ve had no shortage of offers from hot chicks, but the one woman I crave is still elusive.

  Ange exists now only in my memory, but those memories are enough to keep me moving forward. To bolster my spirit, even on days where I lose it, when I think I can’t do this anymore.

  I nod at the bartender, and he slides another Coke and three beers my way. I toss two twenties on the counter, telling him to look after the lady and keep the change. I make my way back to our table in the corner of the crowded club, handing Danny, Trev, and Matt their beers while I sip my soda.

  “Ruined another woman’s night I see,” Danny teases, gesturing at the blonde I’ve just rejected.

  “Don’t start. This night is stretching my patience thin as it is.” I’m getting sick of this scene. A sure sign I’m getting old. If we weren’t away for the weekend on Rick’s bachelor party, I’d have bailed an hour ago. The persistent, loud, up-tempo beat of the music has already given me a headache.

  “Are you ever these days?” he asks with a knowing look.

  Danny and I met in college, and we both entered the police academy a little under three years ago after graduating UI early with honors degrees in criminology, law, and justice. After Ayden died and Ange left, I threw myself into my studies taking a full course load and additional classes at night and during the summer to graduate in half the usual time. At one time, I’d had notions of joining the Bureau, but I relinquished that ambition when I realized how much I loved my job as a cop and how much of a natural I was. I had the most arrests of any patrol officer in our unit, and I was pivotal in helping ATF capture a known arms trafficker. Thanks to that joint force operation, I was given an award and promoted six months ago, and now I’m assigned to the homicide division which is perfect because it gives me access to resources which enable me to continue my search.

  Considering I spent a large part of my teenage years in and out of trouble with the local cops, I think it’s fucking hilarious I’ve ended up one. Ange would get a massive kick out of that.

  Danny is looking at me pensively.

  “You know why. It’s getting close, and this year will be the hardest one yet,” I tell him.

  His look turns sympathetic. “I know, man. I’m sorry.”

  “Forget it.” I empty the soda into my mouth. “We’re here for Rick. I don’t want to think about that shit tonight.” God knows, it’s occupied enough of my headspace since it happened. It’s hard to believe the five-year anniversary of Ayden’s death is only a few short months from now—that it’s been almost five years since he last walked the planet; almost five years since I last set eyes on the love of my life.

  The usual ache punches a hole in my heart. How the fuck can one girl drop off the radar so completely? I still can’t fathom it. Outside of work, I spend hours trawling the net, scouring the streets, hitting my contacts up, and putting out feelers—using every means at my disposal to search for Ange—but she may as well have been abducted by aliens. I can’t find any trace of her. She’s vanished, and I’ve no clue where she is. Or if she’s even still alive. She was in a dark place when she fled, and I
haven’t stopped worrying about her since or chastising myself for not trusting my gut that last day. I knew something was up with her, but I allowed her to play me perfectly. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late.

  She was already gone.

  I need to find out what happened to her. I’ll find no peace until I do.

  Danny’s smile is sad as he sits twiddling the wedding band on his finger. All the guys are starting to settle down, and this is the third bachelor party I’ve attended, so far, this year, while I’m still searching for the girl who ran away with my heart.

  “I know you don’t want to hear it, but maybe it’s time you moved on, man. She’s gone, and you can’t put your life on hold anymore.”

  I sigh. This shit is starting to sound real old. “I’ll never give up on her. You know that, so stop wasting your breath.”

  He gestures toward the blonde, still staring in my direction with a wistful look on her face. “What harm would it do to try with another woman? You haven’t had a relationship since the Dark Ages.”

  It’s so damned ironic that the only relationship I’ve ever had was with Becky Carmichael. If you could call that epic fuck-up a relationship. “I just can’t go there.”

  “You barely even hook up any more.”

  Fact. Because the pain of waking up beside another woman, knowing it isn’t Ange, isn’t something I can handle anymore. Sex is a necessary release, and I only indulge when I’m primed to explode. It’s either that or turn to booze, and that’s not so easy to recover from, whereas sex with a random stranger is forgotten the instant I come.

  “It’s not easy for me.”

  “Sure it is.” He smirks, grabbing his crotch. “You just take that nice broad back to your hotel room, strip the clothes off her smoking hot body, and jam your rod into her pussy. Then it’s rock and roll, dude.” He rolls his hips forward, drilling his point home.

  I poke him in the ribs. “Cut that shit out, you’re making me ill. How you ever managed to convince Juanita to marry you is a fucking miracle. Does she know her husband still uses words like rod? Rod? Seriously, dude?”

  A loud roar erupts from our table, and a chorus of wolf whistles rings out, drawing the attention of the nearby crowd. Danny looks over my shoulder, rubbing his hands in glee. “Showtime, baby.”

  The bartender appears with a chair and a smug smile, setting it down in the center of the floor. Matt shoves Rick into it, not that he needs much persuasion. The music changes, and a sexy, sultry beat reverberates off the walls. The stripper enters the far side of the room, and the crowd hollers their approval. I squint in the dim lights, focusing on her rocking body as she struts confidently toward the groom to be. She’s dressed in a hot pink open-necked shirt, displaying a magnificent cleavage and the edge of a lacy black bra. Long, slender legs poke out from under an ass-skimming black mini skirt. Sheathed in fishnet stockings, her legs are the stuff of dreams. Dainty feet are encased in killer sky-high heels as she struts toward Rick. Wavy red hair tumbles out the back of her cap, reaching beyond her shoulder blades, and she’s twirling a baton, so I guess she got the memo we’re cops. She’s, arguably, the hottest, sexiest, classiest stripper I’ve ever seen.

  “Hot damn,” Danny shouts in my ear. “Why the hell didn’t you hire her for my bachelor party?”

  I turn to him, struggling to contain my laughter. “Your bachelor party was fourteen hundred miles away, and I doubt she’d have traveled that far.” I can’t fight my smile any longer. “Besides, you loved the fat stripper. Especially the part where she buried your head in her tits.” I bark out a laugh as a familiar look of horror washes over his face.

  Catcalls ring out around us, and we return our attention to the action on the floor. The stripper has her back to us as she leans over Rick, showcasing a peach of an ass, barely covered in a lacy black thong. She flicks her palm back and forth across his crotch, and Rick spreads his legs, locking his hands behind his head, grinning as he eye-fucks the girl without shame.

  “Oh, fuck,” Danny exclaims, articulating what I’m thinking. Rick’s inability to keep his dick in his pants has already led to two failed attempts up the aisle. I have a feeling we could be looking at number three in the works. Thing is, Rick’s a stand-up guy—when he’s not drinking. He’s one of the few guys I know I can always rely on to have my back. But put a beer or ten in his path, and he turns into the biggest dick of all time.

  The girl whips off her shirt to the delight of the mostly male crowd. The muscles in her slim back move as she straddles Rick, grinding against him in tune to the music. She thrusts her chest in his face, in and out, in a teasing fashion, never quite letting him make contact. Rick is practically foaming at the mouth.

  He grabs her ass, and she playfully swats his chest, removing his hands and putting them back on the arms of the chair. She leans in, whispering something in his ear. He smirks, and she tosses her hair with a flick of her wrist.

  “Holy shit. I’m as a hard as rock just watching,” Danny announces. I don’t confirm I’m the same, because my vocal cords have stopped working. Along with my heart. The lighting is shit in here, so I can’t see the exact pattern of the ink on her wrist, but even the thought of it is enough to send me into coronary-inducing territory.

  Get a grip, I caution myself. Plenty of girls have tattoos on their wrists.

  She writhes on top of him, simulating sex, and my buddies all groan. Usually, this kind of thing is seedy, cheesy, and the last thing to get me hard, but this girl is different. Although I haven’t seen her face, I can tell by her body and the way she carries herself that she’s confident in her looks. And she knows how to move in a sexy non-cringing way. Rick looks in pain when she wraps her legs around the back of the chair, bringing her body tantalizingly close to his. I chuckle at the expression on his face. The man is panting like a dog in heat.

  Then, slowly, ever so slowly, she starts leaning back, using her legs to anchor her to the chair and arching her body in a way that thrusts her tits up. Every man in the room has his gaze locked on her sexy body, myself included. Her tits are almost falling out of the black lacy bra, but my eyes are fixated on the expanse of smooth, creamy skin on display. A small, silver locket rests in the dip of her collarbone as she tilts her head back farther. Her hair fans out around her on the floor, and her features are lit up under the glare of the overhead spotlight, offering a perfect view of her stunning face.

  I sway on my feet, almost losing my balance. Gripping the edge of the table to steady myself, I can scarcely breathe. My heart is beating ferociously in my chest. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Danny looking at me funny, but I ignore him. I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s oblivious, continuing to put on the show of all shows for my buddies. I skim slowly over her features, needing to be one hundred percent sure before I make a move. I immediately locate the dimple in her left cheek and the tiny scar over her right eyebrow. The one she got the day she was racing me and Ayden to our treehouse hideout in the woods and she tripped over a log, splitting her head open on the jagged corner. Natalie had applied paper stitches the minute we brought her home, but it still left a faint scar. Only noticeable if you were looking for it.

  The table rattles as my legs almost go out from under me. “What the hell?” Danny arches a brow. “Shit, man, are you okay? You’re not looking so hot.”

  Sweat beads on my brow, and I’m having trouble breathing. I can’t even summon any embarrassment when my tear ducts start working overtime. “Dev?”

  He stands in front of me, and I shove him aside, terrified if I take my eyes off her for even a second she’ll disappear. He opens his mouth to protest, but I grip his arm. “Ange,” I croak.

  “What?”

  Grabbing his shoulders, I twist him back around and point at the stripper. “It’s Ange, Danny. She’s Ange. I’ve finally found her.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

&nb
sp; Angelina

  I ease myself up off the floor, my abs contracting with the movement. Situating myself back in the client’s lap, I do my best to ignore the hard length prodding my ass. This guy is, maybe, three or four years older than me, and pretty hot, but he’s got a bad dose of grabby-hands and grabby-ass disease. Still, I can’t complain. The guy I performed for last night was well over fifty with a beer gut spilling over the band of his pants and a bad combover. He almost shot his load the instant I straddled him. Ugh. I shiver at the memory. When the set was finished, he propositioned me, and when I politely declined, he withdrew his sizeable tip.

  Asshole.

  At least Diana pays well, and she runs a professional company. Strictly stripping, no extras, and that suits me fine. I’m many things, but I’m not into offering sex for money.

  I give it away for free enough of the time.

  Most times, I end up fucking some dude from the bachelor party by the end of the night. Not the groom—I still have some standards, and I have enough reasons to hate myself as it is. Not that it deters most of them from trying. It sickens me, and I pity the poor girls they’re marrying, but still I can’t turn the work down. If it wasn’t for these couple of gigs every week, I’d never be able to survive on my miserable waitressing income. I still mentally kick myself in the ass every time I think of how quickly I blew through my sizeable trust fund.

  I shriek as the client nips at my bra with his teeth, attempting to pull it off. Before I can slap the douche and crawl out of his lap, I’m lifted and hauled against a warm, hard chest. “Quit that fucking shit, Rick,” a deep voice from my past says, sending shivers ricocheting all over me. Tears immediately prick my eyes, and I’m suddenly transported back in time. My knees buckle, and a mewl escapes my mouth. I’d know his husky voice anywhere. And there isn’t any part of my body that doesn’t want to respond to him right now. I’m struggling to fight the almost overpowering need to turn around and fling myself into his arms. Dev has always had that effect on me. Alarm bells are wailing in my ears, and I can’t concentrate over the rush of blood to my head. My legs turn to Jell-O, and I’d fall if he wasn’t holding me up.