Get a Life, Chloe Brown

by Talia Hibbert

  “Chloe, love. Please don’t say you’ll finish me off. I’m trying really hard not to fuck you in a back alley, here.”

  She bit her lip and let him take her hand, leading her toward the nearest taxi rank. The mist in the air cooled her fevered cheeks and spotted the lenses of her glasses. His strides were long, and she was starting to get exhausted, but she didn’t say anything because she was too busy overthinking. Remembering. Feeling a pulse of pleasure inside her, like an echo. Worrying, as always, because she felt so achingly close to him, but she didn’t think he felt the same. He was the one who’d said, after all, that he wouldn’t make things complicated.

  When he’d whispered those words, she’d honestly thought she was okay with it. But that, obviously, had been the horny demon inside her telling lies to get what it wanted. Because now she’d come, and suddenly she was complicated again—complicated and getting dangerously attached.

  Tut, tut, horny demon. Unfair.

  They were almost there when Red realized she was lagging behind. Instantly, he stopped, squeezing her hand. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Are you tired? I can—”

  “I’m fine,” she snapped. She was not fine, but it had nothing to do with his walking too fast.

  He shot her a suspicious look. He was beautiful. She wanted to kiss him. They hadn’t actually done that, and she knew why she’d avoided it: because she was afraid he might taste her feelings on her tongue. Because she was tumbling headfirst into a connection that probably wasn’t as deep on his end.

  She wondered why he hadn’t kissed her.

  He stepped closer, cradled her jaw in his hands. “Hey, Button,” he said softly. “What’s wrong?”

  Her breath hitched like she might cry, which she absolutely would not do. Instead she would take a deep breath and tell him calmly that they should forget about tonight because it was already messing with her head. That he should stop holding her like something precious. That he was absolutely wonderful, honestly, he was, and that was exactly why he must never touch her again, or call her Button, or even smile at her. His smile was very handsome, handsome enough to trick her into ill-advised feelings that could not end well; better safe than sorry.

  Always, she was better safe than sorry. And better left alone than left behind.

  But, before she could say any of that, everything went to hell in a handbasket.

  “Is that my Chloe?” The question rang through the air, slightly slurred and more than a little incredulous.

  She froze. Oh, for heaven’s sake, no.

  “Chloe!” the voice repeated, unmistakable now.

  Disaster had struck. The end days were nigh. She already wanted to sink into the floor. She jerked back from Red until his hands fell from her cheeks, but that did absolutely nothing to help the situation. The man who seemed to be attempting a no-strings-attached affair with her was about to be subjected to one of her bonkers family members. Because men loved to meet the relatives of the women they got off on public monuments. They loved that. It was well-known.

  “Darling! It’s me!”

  Chloe turned. “Yes, Aunt Mary. I know.”

  “Don’t be so dour!” Aunt Mary beamed. “I’m thrilled to see you out and about, my darling, I’m absolutely thrilled.”

  If it weren’t for the purple lipstick, the spiky heels, and the, er, volume, Chloe might think she was standing face-to-face with her mother. Mary was Joy Matalon-Brown’s twin, and also, possibly, the reason Chloe had been born. Chloe held a private theory that her parents had bonded over the surreal experience of growing up with a mother like Gigi and a sister like Mary. Her poor, ordinary dad and sensible, highly strung mum had been thrown together by a shared experience in stress and long-suffering sighs.

  “I’m pleased to see you, too, Aunt Mary.” It wasn’t exactly a lie: Chloe loved to spend time with her aunt. In a controlled environment. Under very particular circumstances. “You look nice.”

  Aunt Mary lifted one fuchsia-booted foot. “Imitation croc skin, darling. Aren’t they absolutely hideous?” She was beautiful, intelligent, a successful partner in the Matalon family law firm, and therefore took great pleasure in dressing however she wished.

  “Very striking,” Chloe nodded.

  “You’re a doll. Now, who is this, darling? He’s very quiet. I so adore quiet men.”

  Oh, God. The twinkle in Aunt Mary’s hazel eyes did not bode well. Surely the last thing Red wanted was to face the full, inquisitive force of that twinkle and all that it threatened. What could she say to avoid it? He’s my friend? That sounded like a euphemism. He’s a man I love spending time with and also want to lick, and I’d like to care for him, but I don’t really dare? That sounded like an inappropriate and inconvenient truth.

  “He’s no one,” Chloe said quickly.

  Aunt Mary cocked one perfectly threaded eyebrow. “What an interesting name.”

  This situation, Chloe realized with a spike of panic, was rapidly getting out of control.

  She could feel Red beside her, slightly behind her, and usually that might be reassuring. But after what they’d done tonight, and how uncertain it made her feel, and how awkward this was—well, his presence didn’t seem quite as soothing as usual. She couldn’t even bear to look at him. Her frantic gaze wandered over Mary’s shoulder, where she spotted a gaggle of exuberant fifty-somethings teetering about in high heels. “Don’t let me hold you up, Aunty. Your friends are waiting.”

  Mary rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. They’re so drunk, time has become an alien concept.” She raised her voice from foghorn to rushing train. “I’m talking about you, Sheila! You gin fiend!”

  “Aunt Mary—”

  “Sorry darling, sorry, back to your friend. Do introduce us.”

  “He’s the superintendent of my building.” Chloe was running out of options. Hopefully the mention of her living arrangements would prove a solid distraction.

  “Oh,” Aunt Mary said, wrinkling her nose. “Your little . . . look, darling, I completely understand wanting to leave the family home. I told your mother many a time that they were suffocating you. But really, this communal situation—”

  “It’s a life experience,” Chloe interjected. “Anyway, so sorry, but we’re late for a building-type meeting, so we must dash.”

  Aunt Mary looked suspicious. “A building-type . . . ?”

  “It’s something you do,” Chloe said wisely, “when you live in flats.” Aunt Mary had lived in mini mansions her entire life, both in England and as an infant in Jamaica. Hopefully, she’d have not a clue what people did when they lived in flats.

  “How awful,” she said faintly. “I’ll let you get on, my darling.” She leaned in to kiss Chloe’s cheek and whispered, “I do hope you’ve asked your new friend for test results. Your immune system is very weak, and accidents do happen no matter the precautions—”

  “Aunt Mary!” Chloe snapped. “Go away!”

  “I’m off! I’m going!”

  As her aunt hurried back to her friends, Chloe eased out a sigh of relief. “Well. That was relatively painless.” She turned, finally, to Red.

  His hands were in his pockets, his eyes fixed somewhere over her head. He nodded slowly.

  She swallowed. “Sorry. Aunt Mary can be overwhelming.”

  “That what that was?” he asked mildly. “You being overwhelmed?”

  Chloe twisted her fingers in the material of his jacket, zipped up over her dress. She had this awful, doomed feeling in her stomach. This disturbing certainty that he was upset. But she’d done the right thing, keeping him at arm’s length there, protecting him from misunderstandings that would only embarrass them both. Hadn’t she? “Mary, she just, she gets overexcited about things, and I didn’t want to give her the wrong idea. She’s my mother’s twin. They tell each other . . . things.”

  He turned, started walking again. His pace was easy to keep up with this time, but he didn’t take her hand. “Right. And what woul
d the wrong idea be? That we even know each other?”

  He was upset. He’d misunderstood her reasons. The impulse to apologize tugged at her gut, so strong it felt like the urge to vomit. She swallowed acid and knew, all of a sudden, that she should’ve introduced him politely and dealt with wrong assumptions later. But she’d panicked. How long had it been since she’d let herself care about someone new, even the tiniest bit? She had no idea how to handle things like this, no idea what the parameters were—she barely even understood what uncomplicated meant when it came to two people touching each other.

  She had to fix this, without slipping up and saying too much, revealing too much. Her mind raced. Her throat tightened.

  In silence, they reached the line of taxis, waiting under harsh streetlights that ruthlessly illuminated his brilliance, her mistakes, and probably every pore in her T-zone. Before he could grab a car, she blurted out, “What should I have said?” She tried to make her voice light, teasing. “That you’re helping me get a life in return for a website?”

  He softened slightly, laughed gently. “No. No, I guess you couldn’t tell her that.”

  She laughed, too, or tried to, but it sounded off. Her breaths were strange, sucking in air when her lungs already felt full, exhaling harder than was comfortable. “You’re my . . . my bad-boy tutor,” she quipped. Ridiculous. She was being ridiculous. He would hate that.

  His smile tightened. “I wouldn’t say I’m—”

  “Services including but not limited to illicit orgasms.” Services? Why did she say that? Why, why, why did she say that?

  He looked like she’d just punched him in the stomach. But only for a second. His mouth was a thin, flat line when he turned away from her. “Right. Yeah.”

  It was guilt that burned away her panic. She felt as if she’d been body snatched for the last ten minutes. She blinked hard and smoothed her hands uselessly over her hair. “Oh, Red, I didn’t mean—”

  “No, don’t take it back now,” he said calmly. “You’re already confusing the fuck out of me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And I’m pissed. Good talk.” He strode away from her toward a taxi, bending to talk with the driver, his voice low and tight. His anger seemed to surround him like jagged spikes. Or like knives she’d shoved into his back. She was a sad little mess and an absolute traitor. He would never stand beside her and call her no one, no matter how awkward the situation was. Self-imposed isolation had eroded many of her social skills, but for heaven’s sake, could she be any more of a . . . a twat?

  Apparently, she could. Because she knew she needed to say something, anything, that would fix the mess she’d made and erase the new, stiff way he held himself. But all through the drive home, she remained painfully silent.

  And then they were back, and he walked her to her door, and she gave him his jacket. He nodded, he left.

  And she hadn’t said a word.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Red sat on the floor of his studio, the afternoon sunlight glinting off the silver buttons of his overalls. It was Monday and he was on duty, but he hadn’t been able to focus since yesterday morning—when he’d woken up to an apology text from Chloe that he didn’t know how to answer. Ever since, two very different cards had been burning a hole in his wallet.

  Julian’s, of course. And Dr. Maddox’s.

  The one in his hand right now, crisp and white and heavy as a brick, was the doctor’s.

  His mother had given him this card six months ago and asked him to get therapy. He’d promised he would, but he hadn’t said when, and Maddox’s details had peeked out from behind his library card ever since, whispering that Red was a coward and a big baby and for God’s sake he needed to talk to someone. But he’d been coping fine without. Painting was his therapy and it always had been.

  He looked to his right and his gaze fell on the canvas he’d essentially destroyed last night, vicious yellow-green worked into its surface so hard that it had ripped.

  Maybe painting wasn’t doing the job anymore.

  He raked his hands through his hair and laughed bitterly. All this, days of confusion and angry acrylic shades, because he couldn’t decide what to do about Chloe fucking Brown. He was supposed to see her this week, to check the progress on his website. They’d arranged the meeting last week, before everything had gone to shit. But then . . . well, everything had gone to shit. And now he was trapped in a familiar whirlpool of past and present, one he was starting to get really fucking bored with.

  It went like this: first, he’d remember what Chloe had done. How she’d treated him like a dirty secret, like a giver of illicit orgasms—might as well borrow her words, since she’d put it so perfectly. And he’d feel sick.

  But then he’d remember that she hadn’t looked pleased with her own knifelike phrase. She’d looked guilty. She’d looked miserable. She’d said instantly, unreservedly, I’m sorry, and when he thought about that, he was filled with the urge to give her a chance to explain.

  Until Pippa forced her way into his head, with her tears and her clever words and her own gasping, weepy I’m sorrys, the ones that somehow turned him into the brute who’d started it all. The ones that always made him apologize for everything she’d done. His rational mind would say, It’s not the same. They’re not the same. That’s not even close to what Chloe was doing. But his chest would still feel tight and his hands would freeze when he tried to pick up the phone and call her.

  All of which suggested it was time to pick up the phone and call Dr. Maddox instead.

  He eyed the card suspiciously. Dr. Maddox’s first name was Lucinda. He used to live on the same street as a lady with a one-eyed mongrel called Lucinda. He’d really liked that dog. Maybe that was what people called a sign, or maybe he was being a twat.

  He heaved out a sigh and put down the card, reaching for the canvas he’d ruined, running his fingers over the tear. He was overthinking again, and pissing himself off. Time to change tack. He had another problem to agonize over, one he hadn’t let himself acknowledge yet: Vik might let Red have dinner with old ladies, but he would not approve of Red fingering a tenant in the street. Or anywhere, really. A bed wouldn’t have made it more professional. He should be at Vik’s right now, confessing all and tendering his resignation.

  For some reason, the thought didn’t disturb him as much as it should.

  Red paused for a moment, staring blankly at the canvas in his hand. He thought again, deliberately, about quitting. About leaving the safe little hiding place Vik had given him. No clanging, panicked alarm sounded in his head.

  All right. That was interesting. That was good. He worked at the discovery like a loose tooth.

  This job was supposed to be temporary, but the two-year mark crept closer, and he knew Vik was worried. So was Mum. Maybe when that milestone finally hit, instead of feeling guilty and pressured and trapped by his own insecurities, Red could be leaving. Suddenly, it didn’t feel impossible. He was more confident now, ready to display his work, and he’d been researching sales tactics, marketing, and whatever. He should try. He’d get a part-time job, too, if he couldn’t make enough money. Whatever it took, he’d claw his way back to his dreams. The only question was whether his new stuff was good enough to sell—but he’d find out soon enough, when Chloe finished his website.

  And here he was, back at Chloe again—thinking, without a moment’s hesitation, that she’d hold up her end of the deal. He sat with that for a second. It wasn’t the kind of assumption he’d have made about Pippa; no, if this were Pippa, she’d take away what he wanted most, to punish him for being angry, or to manipulate him into forgiving her. But Chloe wasn’t going to do that. Of course she wasn’t. She never would.

  He put down the canvas and picked up the card. Took out his phone. Dialed the number. After three long rings and three thousand rapid heartbeats, a cool voice said in his ear, “Dr. Maddox’s office, this is Jonathon speaking. Can I help?”

  “Yeah,” Red said, then clear
ed his rough throat awkwardly. “Hi. Uh . . . I think I’d like to make an appointment?”

  * * *

  For her own peace of mind, Chloe had decided to stop thinking about Redford Morgan. Which was, admittedly, difficult, since her sisters were devoting their every waking moment to bothering her about Redford Morgan.

  He was definitely avoiding her. She’d never gone more than a day without glimpsing him around the courtyard or the corridors before, and their email thread was conspicuously silent. He’d answered her apology text two days ago, but only to say, It’s fine. It clearly wasn’t fine. She didn’t know how to reply. He knew that she was sorry, so she should give him space, as much as he needed, even if what he needed was space that lasted forever. Even if the thought made her stomach twist.

  She was a mess, and her family’s meddling wasn’t helping the situation.

  True to form, Aunt Mary had informed her twin that Chloe had been seen with a man. Mum had, of course, told Dad, and Dad had grumbled at Gigi, who had promptly called to recommend La Perla lingerie because “I know you like to budget, darling.” She’d also passed on the gossip to Dani and Eve, both of whom had proceeded to blow up the sisterly group chat with encouraging, if inappropriate, GIFs and profoundly annoying questions. It hadn’t taken them long to realize that Chloe’s “mysterious gentleman, rather large, gorgeous hair” was Red.

  Chloe had muted her chat app after two days of nonsense. Her sisters had begun sending emails. She didn’t open them, of course, but the subject lines were depressing enough. Dani’s latest had been entitled LOVE POTION RECIPE: REQUIRES ONE (1) LOCK OF GINGER HAIR.

  But, today, annoying sisters were the least of Chloe’s worries. Because today was the day she was to give Smudge back.

  She stood in front of the apartment building, pet carrier in hand, knowing Red would be here for moral support if she hadn’t horribly insulted him. Not that she was self-flagellating. She’d received communication from the footloose, fancy-free, and clearly irresponsible Annie yesterday, and now the woman wanted “her” cat back. Hah. Hers indeed. Just because she’d purchased him, raised him, and fed him for quite some time, didn’t necessarily make Smudge Annie’s. Chloe had snuggled with him for many hours and also rescued him from a tree. Hers was definitely the greater claim.