Hell Without You

by Ranae Rose

  Instead, she was motionless against the mattress, thinking about the taste of his mouth, the pressure of his body against hers. Yeah, she knew exactly what it was like to want someone for so long, to make stupid decisions because she couldn’t resist, even though she knew it wasn’t right. Lying there awake, she felt like what Donovan had called her – cold.

  * * * * *

  There was no breaking glass, no crashing noise that jarred her awake – only a subtle creaking of floorboards that pulled her out of a sleep so fragile it was hardly worth being called that.

  Her heart beat a little faster as her eyes flew open. She’d locked up, so it had to be Donovan – she would’ve heard if anyone had broken in.

  Still, knowing it was him didn’t slow her speeding pulse.

  Should she go to him? Pretend to make sure he was all right, knowing he wasn’t? Ask him where he’d been?

  Her heart thumped against her ribs – yes, yes, yes, go now. But common sense told her no. She needed to stop bothering him, needed to stop making him think that more was going on between them than really was.

  So she stayed.

  And he came to her.

  “You’re still here.” He stumbled through the door, into the bedroom.

  A fresh wave of exasperation washed over her. “Did you expect me to be gone?”

  Her eyes had adjusted to the dark well enough that she could see his broad shoulders rise and fall as he approached the bed. “You walked through a flood on foot. Figured nothing would stop you if you really wanted to get away.”

  So this was how it was. If she stayed, she was leading him on. How convenient, considering the fact that he’d stranded her there. “I’m calling your bluff. You wouldn’t have left if you’d really thought I’d take off on foot.”

  He sank down onto the side of the bed, pulling his shirt over his head.

  “Are you going to fill me in on what’s going on?” She sat cross-legged below her pillows, eyes drawn to the broad, bare span of his shoulders.

  “The pants can stay, or the shirt can stay – your choice. I’m not sleeping in all this.” He waved a hand toward his clothing.

  “Pants,” she said, eyeing the shirt that lay crumpled on the carpet. “Keep the pants. You’re really planning to sleep in here again?”

  God, he was hot and cold. A few hours ago, he’d been so upset with her that he’d left. Now he was bedding down beside her, stretching his long body over the blankets.

  “It was your idea,” he reminded her. “But I’ll go if you want me to.”

  “And sleep by the door?”

  He rolled over suddenly, propping himself on an elbow, eyes locking with hers. “You don’t want me sleepwalking tonight. Trust me.”

  Her nose wrinkled of its own accord as something acrid singed her nostrils. “You’ve been drinking.” Maybe he’d gone to Tucker’s, the town’s one and only sports bar.

  He didn’t deny it – not that it would’ve done any good, as strongly as he reeked. She wasn’t much of a drinker, but she recognized the scent of whiskey. “Like I said.” He sank back down, head against the pillow, as if that was the end of it.

  “Did you drive drunk?”

  “Mike gave me a ride home. He’s picking me up in the morning, too.”

  She leaned back against the headboard with a sigh, a pillow supporting the small of her back. After their argument earlier, sleeping with him again – sleeping with him while he was drunk – seemed like a supremely stupid idea. Even if sleeping was all that happened.

  At the same time, she didn’t want him to sleepwalk that night. While using the internet connection at his garage, she’d spent a little time researching sleepwalking in war veterans, remembering how he’d asked for his rifle, how he’d thought she was someone else. Hollins.

  The articles she’d read had supported what he’d said about the importance of relaxation and rituals to calm the mind before sleep. They’d also specifically said that alcohol could trigger the sleepwalking.

  Donovan had her hands tied, and he knew it.

  “I’ll be leaving tomorrow as soon as the new tires are on my car. I’m going to spend an extra night at my friend’s place in DC.”

  “But you’re staying tonight.” He took the news a lot better than she’d expected. Maybe he really did want her out of his house.

  “Yeah, I’m staying. For tonight.”

  She knew the moment he fell asleep. His breathing changed, and his muscles relaxed. She watched him rest and listened to him breathe until her eyelids were too heavy to stay open. Then, abandoning her guard, she curled on the mattress beside him.

  CHAPTER 7

  Donovan had handled her departure well. Suspiciously well. He’d put the new tires on her car as soon as they’d arrived, and had bid her goodbye before she’d driven away. He hadn’t snarled, hadn’t protested, hadn’t declared his undying desire for her or his unsatisfied rage.

  So why didn’t her heart feel light as she drove down Interstate 83, on her way to see Jackie for the first time since she’d been a bridesmaid in her wedding? This would be the first time she’d seen the baby, ever. It should be a happy occasion.

  Turning on the radio, she attempted to clear thoughts of Donovan from her mind.

  It was easier said than done, and the rock station she’d settled on didn’t help. All the songs had dark undertones and similar themes – anger, betrayal and unrequited passion, unappreciated love. They deepened her uneasy mood, reminding her of Donovan. As far as he was concerned, she was like one of the women the bands were singing about – a betrayer. Cold.

  When she’d had all she could take, she flipped through the stations, stopping when she found something classical.

  She’d always been fascinated by classical music, especially by its combination of evocativeness and timelessness, the way it captured emotions that spanned the centuries, clearly delineating feelings without words or images. Unfortunately, the song radiating from her speakers was – according to the DJ – Prelude Op. 28 No. 15, also known as “Raindrop”.

  It was slow and sad, not dramatic enough to sweep her away, but pervading enough to creep into her bones and enhance the melancholy feeling that was multiplying in her marrow. Besides the music itself, the word “raindrop” conjured images of the flood, of Donovan coming for her in the deluge, standing tall and strong with his shirt clinging to a body that was hot enough to dispel the chill of pouring rain.

  She cut the piece short, flipping through channels again. When she settled on mindless dance music, she breathed a sigh that was half-relieved and half-resigned. The music meant nothing, made her feel nothing – and that was the point.

  When the station succumbed to static as she crossed the Pennsylvania / Maryland border, she found another just like it and listened all the way to the capital.

  * * * * *

  Polished and professional – that was what Clementine was going for. The night before, Jackie had generously devoted half an hour to helping her choose what was hopefully the right outfit and hair style for her interview. Jackie had hair styling abilities that put Clementine’s to shame, so she’d helped that morning, twisting her hair into an elegant chignon that made Clementine’s usual efforts look like child’s play.

  High – but not too high – heels clicking against the sidewalk, Clementine approached the building the company’s HR rep had directed her to. Once inside, she headed directly for an elevator and the fourth floor.

  People surged around her, all in suits, and she could practically smell the well-maintained leather of dozens of briefcases. The scent reminded her of her time in Manhattan and buoyed her confidence. She could handle this interview – she was no stranger to the business world. She wanted this. She needed this. It would be equivalent to a miracle if the interview went well and they offered her the job, but still – she was hopeful.

  Maybe she wouldn’t even have to return to Willow Heights – maybe she could start apartment hunting in the city. The thought made he
r ache, with desire, with regret. “See you Saturday,” Donovan had said when she’d left.

  “See you,” she’d replied, and driven away.

  She wanted to see him again. But she didn’t want to hurt him, didn’t want to dwell in the hot and cold world where the past tangled with the present and nothing made sense.

  “Good morning,” she said to the receptionist, refusing to let her inner turmoil bubble to the surface and be reflected in her voice. “I’m here for an interview with Mr. Mahony at nine-thirty.”

  “Are you Clementine Lettvin?”

  “Yes.” The part of her that desperately wanted the job perked up a little – the receptionist had been expecting her.

  There was no real reason why that should’ve thrilled her, but it did, making the possibility the interview represented seem more real, somehow.

  “Have a seat, please.” The receptionist picked up her phone. “I’ll let Mr. Mahony know you’re here.”

  “Thank you.”

  She didn’t have to wait long. Within ten minutes, she was shaking hands with a middle-aged man and settling into the chair across from his desk.

  “So you’re a Columbia graduate,” Mr. Mahony said, glancing down at a couple of printed pages that were presumably her résumé.

  “Yes.” Despite her damp palms, her confidence crept a little higher at the mention of her alma mater.

  An Ivy League education was the one thing she’d accepted from her mother and step-father after she’d left Willow Heights. She’d let them shoulder the tuition and had made it a personal point to get everything she could out of the experience, to use what she’d had little choice but to accept. Since saying no had hardly been an option, she’d embraced her education with vehemence, determined to let it change her for the better, to prepare her for a life of self-sufficiency, one where she’d never have to rely on anyone else ever again.

  “And you graduated with honors.”

  She flashed a modest smile. “I did.”

  “Impressive.” Mr. Mahony donned a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “I wish I could say that all the applicants for this position could say the same.”

  His smile faded before she could reply.

  “But what I’m really interested in,” he said, motioning with the papers, “is your experience at Gregory & Carter. I see that you spent four months at their corporate headquarters.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So this is correct—your period of employment there was only four months long?”

  “Yes,” she said as a sense of wariness crept up on her. “I was there for four months, but I wasn’t really an employee. Like my résumé says, I was there on an internship.”

  A deep furrow appeared between her interviewer’s eyes, instantly aging him ten years. “Intern?” He dropped his gaze to his papers, flipped through them and studied each sheet for several agonizing minutes. “I see. Yes, it’s here, but I didn’t realize—”

  Clementine clasped her own hands, letting them rest in the lap of her charcoal grey pencil skirt.

  “I was under the impression that you’d been employed by Gregory & Carter. A mistake made by my own intern, I’m afraid.”

  “I see.” Her heart plummeted. Great. Her application had been skimmed by some intern who’d half-assed their job and passed along incorrect information to the hiring manager.

  “I was led to believe that you supervised a regional set of Gregory & Carter branches – a large territory spread throughout the Northeast.”

  “I think I may have been confused with one of the managers I worked with during my time at the company.”

  Mr. Mahony nodded. “I can see now that you were clear about that. This wasn’t your mistake, but I’m afraid we’re looking for someone with more experience. The position we asked you here to interview for involves a lot of responsibility. It’s just not for someone without prior experience – I’m sorry.”

  “I studied hard at Columbia,” she said, all but feeling the straws she clutched at slip through her clasped hands. “And I worked hard during my internship, too. I’m a fast learner… I hope you’ll take that into consideration.”

  “I have no doubt that you’re a fast learner, but there’s no room for training with this position. We need a professional who can step in and take charge right away. It’s not first job material – not for anyone. Necessity dictates that I move on to considering other candidates.”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to say what was appropriate – whatever that was. A part of her wanted to suggest that he review the résumés he received himself instead of delegating the task to someone who obviously wasn’t fit for it. She’d come all the way from Pennsylvania, after all.

  “Have a pleasant day, Ms. Lettvin. And good luck with your job search.”

  Taking her cue, she stood. “Thank you.”

  He extended a hand, and she shook it before heading for the door, suddenly eager to get out of the building, to clear the smell of freshly-pressed suits and polished leather from her lungs.

  Outside, she hurried to her car. Jackie had stopped working during a difficult pregnancy with Isabel and hadn’t returned to the corporate world yet, so she’d probably be home. Hopefully, anyway. Clementine wasn’t in the mood to be alone with her thoughts. It would be better if she could be around her friend and help take care of the baby. Considering the mess she’d made of her own life lately, it would be nice to submerse herself in someone else’s, to catch up with a friend from a non-traumatic part of her past.

  Marriage, babies and domestic bliss were so far removed from her own circumstances that they were bound to help her forget about the day’s disappointments.

  * * * * *

  “I’m sorry about the interview,” Jackie said, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear with one hand as she folded a freshly-washed crib sheet with the other, “but at least it gave us an excuse to get together. You get to spend two days helping me fold laundry and getting drooled on – what more could you ask for?”

  Clementine smiled as baby Isabel – who’d inherited her mother’s beautiful, fiery hair color – attempted to wiggle out of her lap. “I don’t mind the drool – I don’t get to spend much time around babies. It’s fun.”

  “I only hope you’ll still think that if Isabel throws up on you. She’s been on a roll lately – Steve had to change his clothes twice yesterday after she got him.” Jackie grinned.

  “She’s so adorable though,” Clementine said, peering down at the chubby-cheeked baby wrestling with a set of plastic keys. “I couldn’t be upset, even if she did.”

  “She is cute,” Jackie agreed, pairing baby socks and piling them in the laundry basket, “but I’ve been cooped up in here for the past two months and could use some time with a friend. How about we go out tonight – sushi, maybe a cocktail or two? Steve will be home around six, then we can head out for a while. It’ll be our first girls’ night on the town in – God, since my bachelorette party.”

  “Sounds great. Here, let me help – I can fold with Isabel in my lap.”

  Jackie handed over a bundle of miniature towels printed with cutesy deigns. “It’s a plan, then. And a definite yes on the cocktails – you need cheering up.”

  Clementine forced a smile, grateful for her friend’s concern, even if it didn’t show on the outside.

  “It’s just one interview,” Jackie added. “Your first one. I know the mix-up sucked, but everyone goes through rejection on a job hunt. You’ll find a position – a better one than the one you interviewed for today.”

  “Thanks, but I doubt that. I really am too inexperienced for the position – I was surprised when they contacted me for an interview, to be honest. I should’ve known I wouldn’t get the job. I’ll just have to keep looking for something I’m actually qualified for.”

  “Then why are you so upset that you didn’t get the job?”

  Clementine swallowed a small knot before it could form fully in her throat. “Because this means
I have to go back to Willow Heights.”

  “Your original hometown, right? Do you really hate it there that much?”

  “Yes.” She’d meant to sound emphatic, but her reply came out weak.

  “At least it’s only temporary – just until you find a job, right? Then you’ll be living here in the city.” She flashed a broad grin. “And you’ll have an awesome friend to keep you company.”

  “That’s true. I can’t wait.”

  For a few moments, they folded laundry in silence that was occasionally interrupted by Isabel’s coos.

  “So what’s so terrible about Willow Heights, anyway?”

  Clementine looked up, dropping the towel she’d just folded into the basket. “There was a flash flood on Monday – the day I arrived. It damaged the townhouse I’m supposed to be living in, so I’ve been staying in my grandmother’s old house, which is now owned by my old boyfriend.” It sounded even weirder when she said it out loud, and the explanation she’d given was only the tip of the iceberg.

  “Wow.” Jackie’s eyes widened. “Okay, that’s weird. I gather things are tense?”

  “To put it mildly. Donovan is … intense.”

  A glimmer of curiosity passed through Jackie’s eyes, but when Clementine didn’t elaborate, she didn’t press.

  Repressing a sigh of relief, Clementine folded a stack of baby shirts, taking extra care to arrange the tiny sleeves just so. For a few fleeting seconds, she considered explaining her situation with Donovan to Jackie, maybe asking for advice.

  No sooner had the idea crossed her mind than she decided against it. It wasn’t really something that could be explained, wasn’t something that could be put into perspective with a pat answer or a well-meant suggestion. The only point in telling Jackie about her troubles with Donovan would be to get things off her chest, and she didn’t want to do that. Deep down, she wanted to hold the matter – problems and all – close, to keep it all to herself instead of exposing it to the scrutiny of another, even a friend.