by L. Steele
"What is it?"
I walk over to her, hand her the phone.
She glances at me, then back at the screen. I play the message for her. She pales, replays the message once again, then hands the phone back to me.
"You believe her?"
She nods. "No reason for Nina to lie."
"Yet, you kept the truth from me. Why didn't you tell me what the Mafia wanted from you?"
She pales.
"Why, Gigi?"
"Because…I had to protect you Saint. I couldn't...risk the Mafia finding out. What if they did something to you? I could have never lived with myself," she draws in a breath.
"You wanted to protect me?" I scowl.
"Why not?" She sets her jaw, "Is that so difficult to understand?"
"Yes," I growl, "because you don't get to put yourself in danger for me... You never get to endanger yourself for anyone else—especially not for me. I can take care of myself, you feel me, Gigi?"
"Oh, spare me the macho bullshit," she mutters.
The fuck is she talking about? Of course, I am macho. I was born this way... No excuses there. I can't stop myself from taking care of her, any more than I could stop myself from breathing. I glare at her; she glowers back. Stubborn woman.
Why can't she understand that if something were to happen to her I'd never survive it? Fuck. I rake my fingers through my hair. "You make me a little crazy, Gigi, you know that? You make me do things that I can’t explain. You fucking tie me up in knots, and that makes me desperate. It makes me miss things I didn’t know I wanted in the first place."
"Like?" She stares at me, "Like what?"
"Like, being married to you, for one. I had no idea that I needed you—your touch, a glance, the whisper of your voice to infiltrate the recesses of my mind."
"What else?" she whispers.
"I want you, isn’t that enough?"
"I want more." She swallows, "Can you give me that, I wonder?"
My heart begins to race. "What is it?" I ask. "What more do you want?" Do I want to hear it? Do I?
"Will you answer my riddle?" A small smile curves her lips.
"You know I only ask, but never answer," I scowl.
"Just this once, Saint." She squares her shoulders, tips up her chin and holds my gaze, "Please."
My pulse thunders at my temples; my palms grow cold. Shit, why am I nervous about agreeing to this? Don’t do it, don’t. I jerk my chin, "Fine then."
Her lips twist. "What’s easy to make, but impossible to keep forever?"
I peruse her features. What is it? What could it be? A glimmer of a thought brushes against the edges of my mind. Nah, it can’t be. Not that. I glance around the room, drag my fingers through my hair, "I…can’t guess what it is."
"I’ll give you a clue." Her chest rises and falls. "You'll see me soon but you can't see me yet."
I frown; my heart begins to race. What the hell is she hinting at? "I..." I swallow. "That sounds implausible."
Her lips curve in a small smile, "Here's another hint." She leans forward, "The more you give up, the more it gives back to you."
My pulse rate ratchets up. She isn't saying what I think she is, is she? Nah. Not possible... I widen my stance. "That defies the laws of physics," I say. "I don’t think I like the sound of it," I laugh, the sound nervous. Bloody hell! What’s wrong with me? My palms begin to sweat. The ring slips from between my fingers, clatters to the floor, rolls toward the bed. I swoop down and grab it.
Her gaze falls to my hand, "You can guess it."
"I can’t." I rise to my feet, clutching at the ring like it’s a bloody lifeline. "Besides, whatever it is," my voice cracks; I clear my throat, "I don’t think there’s space in my life for it."
I pivot, head for the door.
"So, this is it then?"
Her voice brings me up short.
I pause, slide the ring into my pocket.
"How can you say you love me, when you don’t want to fight for us?" she cries out.
"There is no us. Not anymore." I stalk forward. "You were right. There are too many secrets between us, Gigi. That’s no way to start a relationship."
I reach the exit.
"Saint?"
I don’t turn around. "Goodbye, Victoria."
45
What did the cat say to her Valentine?
Answer: You are purr-fect for me
* * *
Victoria
* * *
I tear open the envelope, pull out the papers. "No." They slide from my fingers, hit the floor in a cloud of white and black. Like my life. I thought it would get easier with time, but every passing minute of every hour of every day, the hollowness in my chest grows bigger, more turbulent, louder, pressing outward, making my heart race, filling me with panic, telling me I was wrong. I should have given him a chance. A choice. Another opportunity to rip me apart, tear out my heart and trample it to pieces under his size 13, dusty cowboy boots.
Yeah, I know his shoe size.
No thanks to that weird-as-shit, eccentric taste in shoes he has. Who remembers the shoe size of a man who broke her heart? Correction: Okay, I left him, so technically I broke my own heart. I've been numb since I left the hotel, my life an endless cycle of days and nights.
The nights… They are the worst. The darkness taunts me. The cold sheets wind around my limbs, weighing me down, pulling me into a restless sleep filled with images of him, our time together, how he'd kissed me, how he'd wrenched orgasms from me. How he'd run his fingers over my skin, thrust them into my pussy, taken me, curled me into him, spooned me as we'd fallen asleep. Hell. The only way to escape is to wake up, make myself chamomile tea, and watch mindless television. Shit. I am turning into a hermit, never leaving the house, except for the checkup at the hospital, that had confirmed that my pregnancy is progressing well.
I massage my stomach—my child... Saint's child. Had I subconsciously planned this all along?
Is that why I'd asked for contraceptive pills instead of the injection?
Had I hoped that I would fall pregnant?
Had I wanted it all along?
I had been on a mission for the Mafia, for hell's sake. And my subconscious thought was that this was the time to bring a child into the world? How irresponsible could I be? Am I such a dreamer that I'd hoped, somehow, everything would work out? That I'd get together with him and we'd live happily ever after? The band around my chest tightens. I'd been incredibly stupid... And lucky that, somehow, I'd managed to avoid being hurt so far. If you don’t count the emotional hurt, of course.
I stare at the fallen sheafs of papers. Lucky, huh? I burst into tears. Damn hormones. And damn Saint, for allowing me to fool myself into hoping for a more permanent relationship.
I stumble over to the settee in the tiny living room and bury my face in my hands. I had spoilt my life…and his or hers—this little one who will never know a father. The bloody asinine man has haunted my every waking thought, has crawled into my dreams, has me second-guessing myself every time I am at the supermarket, sure that I’ll see him in the next aisle. As if he would be shopping in the supermarket. Shit. I am losing it, I am.
The sound of a light knock at the door has me wiping my tears. By the time I open it, I’ve composed myself.
"Victoria?" Amelie frowns, "Have you been crying again?"
"Moi?" I press a hand to my chest. "Why would I?"
"Don’t lie." She steps forward and her foot brushes the papers on the floor. "What’s this?" She bends to pick them up.
The pressure builds behind my eyes. I will not cry, will not.
"Divorce papers?" She glances up at me.
"Read it." I bite on my lower lip, "The asshole is making sure I have nothing to do with him."
"That’s what you said you want, right?" She walks across to the coffee table and places the papers there. Then straightens, "It is, isn’t it?"
"Yeah." I bring up my legs, to sit cross-legged on the sofa. Somehow this is the o
nly position that feels comfortable nowadays. Don’t ask.
"You don’t sound convinced."
"What do you want me to say?" I shove a cushion behind me.
"That you want him to come after you, discover that you are pregnant, and then fall to his knees and apologize for being a bloody idiot."
"Right," I laugh. "You obviously don’t know Saint."
"Not as well as you." She glances pointedly at my belly, "What are you going to do about it?"
I swallow, then place my palms over my belly. "I want this child. It’s just, I’d thought, I’d hoped…" My face crumples. "It’s hard, Amelie. I knew it wasn't going to be easy to do this on my own...but I hadn't realized how daunting it would be."
"Oh, V." She rounds the table, sinks down next to me and pulls me close. I bury my face in her shoulder and allow the tears to come.
She pats my head, holds me close, "Let it out, V. You’ve been through so bloody much. I don’t know of anyone who could have come out of it still standing."
"And pregnant," I mutter through my tears. "Not that I’m complaining. I mean, it’s the one good thing to have come from all this mess." I wipe my tears, and sit back, "Do I look terrible?"
She looks me up and down, "Yes."
I chuckle, "Gee, thanks. I can always count on you sugar-coating reality, huh?"
"That’s my specialty. Comes with being an expert pastry chef."
I snicker, "That’s a terrible joke."
"You smiled, didn’t you?" She leans across, and snatches up the tissue box. "What are you wearing anyway?"
I pull out a few of the tissues, blow my nose. "An old shirt I’d forgotten I own." It’s one of Saint’s. I packed it by mistake. Okay, so it wasn’t a mistake. I wad the tissues in my hand and hunch my shoulders. "What the hell am I going to do, Amelie?"
I stare at the advertisement on the television screen, showing a family sitting down to Christmas dinner.
"If there’s anyone who can cope with this, it’s you." She rubs circles on my back.
I snort, "I’m not feeling capable of much at the moment, I can tell you that."
Another image flashes on screen, this time showing the opening credits of "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas."
"Bloody depressing." She picks up the remote control and switches off the TV.
I chuckle, "I thought you like Christmas."
"I do." She links her fingers together, "But I’ve been overworked filling up orders for Christmas parties since—" she reddens. "Sorry didn’t mean to bring up the... Uh! ...wedding party."
"It’s fine." I pick up a cushion and hug it, "I ‘m glad at least you and Isla benefitted from all that publicity.”
"More like notoriety," she snorts. "But really, it seems whoever said that all PR is good PR, has it right. Isla's booked up into late next year and I have more orders than I can fulfill for the foreseeable feature. "
The paparazzi had blown up the internet with accounts of how a mystery man had held the wedding celebration hostage, then escaped without taking anything. People had taken to calling it a prank pulled by one of the Seven.
Saint had encouraged it by releasing a short statement to the media clarifying that no one had been hurt by the escapade. He hadn’t answered any further questions from the media—who had speculated for days, before one journalist had concluded that it had been a giant waste of time—except for the desserts served at the party, which had been incredible. One thing had led to another, and the internet had blown up with people wanting to find out who had planned the wedding and what the guests had been enjoying; so Isla's wedding planning venture and Amelie’s catering business had boomed in its wake.
All’s well that ends well… Everyone got what they wanted, including Antonio. A shiver runs down my spine. He seems to be sticking to his promise of leaving me alone…so far. If he’d wanted to kill me, he could have when he’d shot at me. He seemed to have purposely missed at that close range. Well, I guess that means he is letting me get on with my life... Such as it is.
"What are you going to do for Christmas?" Amelie asks.
"I haven’t given it much thought." I glance around the flat. "Maybe I’ll stay in here, get some rest," I say.
"You mean stay in and get depressed?"
"I won’t." I hunch my shoulders, negating my own claim, "I’m trying, Amelie." I stare at the blank television screen.
"Why don’t you come up to the cabin with me?"
"Cabin?" I frown.
"The one that Saint said I could borrow for the holidays?" She flushes, "Shit, I can’t say anything without putting my foot in my mouth."
"It’s okay." I force out a laugh, "It’s not like I can go through life being upset every time his name is mentioned."
"I… I won’t go, if that helps. I can stay here and keep you company?"
"Nonsense." I frown, "You deserve this time to rest and rejuvenate."
She turns to me, "I don’t want you to be on your own."
"I’ve survived the last few weeks, haven’t I?"
"Have you?" She looks me up and down.
I flush, "Do I look that bad?"
"Worse."
I yank my hair back from my face, "I…haven’t felt motivated."
"It’s understandable. It’s why I’d rather you not stay on your own through the holiday season."
"And I’m not coming with you, to the cabin."
"Why don’t you stay with Summer and Sinclair—?" she asks.
"And risk running into him?" I straighten my shoulders, "Okay, I know that’s being a coward, but right now, I’d rather stay as far away from him as possible.’
"You mean cooped up inside here, drowning in your own thoughts?"
"What would you have me do?"
"Let me help you," she glares at me.
"You have." I sag against the sofa, "You know, I couldn’t have come this far without you. It’s thanks to you that I found this apartment to house-sit for the next year… and within walking distance of the hospital too.
She shuffles her feet, "Seriously, it’s not a big deal." She waves a hand in the air, "I wish you could tell Saint about the child."
"You haven’t heard him speak about how much he hates kids."
"That’s only until he realizes you are about to have his." She plonks her palms on her hips. "A man like him will do anything to protect his own flesh and blood."
"He sure did a slap-up job of taking care of me."
"Only because you hid things from him."
"What about the secrets he held back from me?"
"Did you ask him about it?"
"I did," I swallow. "He didn’t want to reveal them to me. We have no common meeting ground."
"Except one," she, once more, looks down at my belly.
I redden, "Seriously?"
"Marriages have been built on less, and the sexual chemistry between the two of you is clearly off the charts. I mean, you’re pregnant with his child."
"No kidding."
"So, you’re going to give up on the two of you?"
"He’s the one who gave up on me."
"Give him one last chance?"
"No."
She throws her hands up in the air, "You’re so stubborn."
"Guess that’s how I’ve gotten through the shit life has thrown at me, huh?"
"You sure you won’t let me come to the hospital with you?"
I shake my head. "It’s a routine check-up, I’ll be fine."
46
Saint
* * *
"You’re a dickhead."
Weston’s voice comes through loud and clear over the phone.
"Why you had to break up with her and then send her divorce papers, without trying to at least make up with her one last time..."
"Look who’s giving me relationship advice," I snicker. "The man who can’t hold down a single woman for more than week."
"Out of choice, bitch. The more the merrier, as they say," Weston retorts. "More than what I can
say for you. Did you manage to, at least, get to the office today?"
I take a sip of the whiskey, then wince at the taste. Shit, not even good old Macallan fine malt seems the same. Face it, nothing compares to the taste of her cunt, her mouth, her lips… Fuck, fucking fuck?
"You okay, ol' chap?"
"Why the fuck are you calling me anyway?"
"Why do you think?"
"I think I am going to hang up, dickwad—"
"Hold on, I’m getting another call."
"Don’t you fucking put me on hold, Weston—"
The call goes silent. Then classical music drifts over the line. "The fuck?" He has Mozart playing while he puts me on hold? I hang up, then begin to pace. Is he right, should I have tried harder? But this is what she wants, right? A clean break. Neither of us needs to look back. I had made sure she came out of the entire incident with her identity concealed. It had cost me thousands to track down every single paparazzi in that room, and pay them off enough that they would leave out all mention of her. I may have had to lean on one or two of the errant ones to ensure they destroyed all evidence of that day. But it had been worth it. The event had faded away from public memory. The next scandal had surfaced and we were yesterdays’ news.
Like me and her—
Fuck. I rub the ache in my chest. —Except for the emptiness that crawls in my guts and the thoughts that crowd my mind. Not to mention the nightmares that seem to be never too far away when I sleep—the voice asking me questions, demanding that I answer them. Fuck. I rub at my temples. This is insane.
I had let her get under my skin... That’s the only reason I am beginning to unravel this way.
Once she signs the divorce papers, I can walk away, and have nothing more to do with her.
