Stealing the Bride

by Lee, Nadia

  My finger stops over Court. It’s ridiculous to call him now, after telling him no dating, blah blah blah. Dad thinks I should spend more time with him on top of that, so calling would be like doing what Dad wants.

  On the other hand, I wanted to see Court before the whole…fiasco blew up in my face with Dad. Not calling Court would be cutting off my nose to spite my face.

  I sit, staring out into the gray expanse of the parking structure. Right now, I want a friendly ear and shoulder, plus no judgment. And nobody fits that better than Court.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Court

  “Your mother… She’s here for chest pain,” the nurse says, her voice slightly hesitant over the phone. Maybe she’s wondering what the hell kind of sons Mom has that none of them are rushing over to see her.

  I stare at the high ceiling of the penthouse, prone on the couch and wishing I hadn’t called back. If this were a year ago, I’d be on my way to Tempérane. But now…

  I have zero desire to go. What does that say about me as a son and a human being?

  But I remember the first time she did this. And I went over there like a worried and dutiful son…

  When I check in with a nurse, she takes me to a room. The condition of it shows how Mom’s status has fallen. And it makes me more deflated than a punctured soufflé.

  Before, she’d have been in a huge private suite that fit a five-star hotel more than a hospital. Silken royal blue and ivory wallpaper. Her gown would be elegant white with an expensive, pearly sheen. There would be enough fresh flowers to overpower the antiseptic. Soft music of her choice.

  The room’s still private, but nothing special. White industrial paint on the walls. Her gown is a shade between blue and dirty laundry water with the hospital name and logo. No flowers, and the odor of antiseptic stings my nose.

  Seeing this hurts. It’s a reminder that not only have things been terribly wrong with my family for almost two decades, but that they’ve hit the point of no return.

  We’ll never be whole again, never be right.

  Mom’s in bed, her gaze focused on something beyond the wall in front of her. She’s a beautiful woman. The smooth porcelain skin, soft golden hair and the unusual green and blue eyes. Her mouth is soft and painted a light pink. She’s always been slim, but she’s lost more weight recently. The IV needle buried in her arm makes her appear even more vulnerable.

  Bitterness ripples over me. What a waste. She could’ve had everything. She did have everything. Until…

  “Harry, you’ve come,” she says, her voice soft. She extends her hand.

  “Court,” I correct her, even as I go over to wrap her hand in mine. I hate that name, hate how long I let people use it.

  Harry is the nickname she gave me when she decided I would replace my older brother in her affections. I let her, because I was ten back then, too young and stupid enough to believe I could help fix our broken family if I just went along.

  Going along was precisely the problem.

  “Harcourt,” she says. Typical. She has to be the one in charge. The air of frailty she wears is a weapon she wields like a knife.

  “The hospital staff who called said you were sick.” I squeeze her hand. It’s warm and soft, perfectly manicured. I’m close enough I can smell her classy, expensive perfume, and note the slightly rosy tint to her cheeks underneath her foundation.

  “I am.” She gives me a smile. “But I’m feeling better now that you’re here.”

  I realize what she’s up to, and I’m tired of the manipulation and annoyed with myself for not having seen sooner. “If you’re feeling better, I should get going. I have things to do.”

  “You’re going to start working for your father.” A satisfied glimmer lights her eyes.

  “No, I’m not.”

  She frowns, anger showing through the cracks in her composure. She’s probably upset I’m not just going to go along anymore. Then she catches herself and tempers the irritation with disappointment. She knows disappointment is a more versatile tool. “But you should, Harcourt. You must.”

  “Why do you care?” She never did. As a matter of fact, she’s the one who encouraged me get my master’s in gender studies, despite the palpable disapproval from Dad over the years.

  “If you please your father, he’ll listen to you. I know you can fix this mess.”

  Suddenly exhausted, I run a hand down my face and swallow a sigh. Mom’s refrain is always the same.

  Fix it, fix it, fix it.

  She cannot—will not—accept that her marriage is over. Dad’s not going to forgive her. Hell, I’m not sure if I can. “I don’t have that kind of influence over Dad.”

  “Yes, you do! All you have to do is convince him to give us another chance.”

  “Whatever mercy you showed Tony is what you’re getting from Dad.”

  She stares at me as though I’ve spat in her face. Then finally she says, her tone defiant and proud, “Lane’s love for me isn’t dead. Not over what happened to those two. I did nothing wrong. Nothing illegal.”

  It kills me to see her in denial over how she almost ruined the lives of Tony and Ivy. They lost nine years because of Mom.

  “What you did was morally wrong!” I say through a tangle of disgust, guilt and the need to get the hell away from her crazy obsession to regain her former glory as Mrs. Tulane Blackwood. It’s lodged so tightly in my chest that it’s hard to breathe.

  Just what the hell am I doing here, anyway? I’m indulging her, which encourages her. She only turns to me because I’m the one stupid enough to run to her, talk to her, text her back.

  “You will not talk to me that way, Harcourt Roderick Blackwood!”

  That would’ve cowed me when I was a child. But she lost her moral authority when all the petty and selfish evil she’s done came out. “I’m going back to L.A. Don’t expect me to fix it, and don’t think Dad’s going to forgive you just because you pulled this…this hospitalization stunt.”

  I turn and walk out.

  “Harry. Harcourt. Court!”

  The second I get out of the hospital, I gulp in the hot, thick Louisiana summer air. It’s infinitely more refreshing than the cool hospital air, the perfume on my mother.

  “It’ll be best if you can come. Soothe her, you know.” The nurse’s words pull me out of my bitter memory.

  “You think so?” I don’t mean to, but my voice is slightly mocking. Mom’s had an easy, comfortable life. Why the hell is she developing chest pain?

  My phone beeps, interrupting the call. I glance at the screen and see a text from Skittles. I put the phone back on my ear. “Look, I gotta go. I’ll ask my older brother Edgar to stop by.”

  “She specifically asked for you.”

  “He’s in Tempérane. I’m in Los Angeles.” I hang up and check the message from Skittles. What does she want? A date, maybe? The plan could be working already, I think with a self-satisfied smile.

  You there?

  Why yes, I type, wishing I could hear her voice, its bright cadence. Did you forget something? That sounds cool enough. Not “I want to see where what we have between us is going to lead” eager.

  Nothing for a while. I scowl at the phone. Did she get called into a meeting? If so, why did she ping me like she wanted to talk?

  Then she calls. Heh. Maybe she needed to find a private place for a chat. Cubicles are terrible for personal conversations.

  “Hey, Skittles,” I say, not bothering to hide the happiness swelling in my chest. I’m all ready to hear her cheery voice.

  “Court?”

  I sit up, suddenly on full alert. She sounds muffled, and unhappiness permeates the one word, like an oil spill on a pristine lake. “What’s wrong?”

  She sniffles.

  “Are you hurt?” I ask. Maybe that asshole Tom came back. If so, I’m going to throw him off a balcony.

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.”

  I jump to my feet and grab my keys. She’s too upset. I need to see
her in person and fix this. “Where are you?”

  “In the underground garage. At SFG.”

  So much misery is flowing out of her, like blood from a deep cut. “I’ll be there soon. I promise. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Actually, that’s terrible advice. “Just stay there!”

  I get in my car and rush into the L.A. traffic. Just hearing the sadness and hurt in her tone twists my insides. What the hell could’ve happened to upset her this bad? Her shithead ex didn’t come back, did he? Or did something terrible happen at work? Somebody lost a billion bucks on a bad trade and blamed it on her, maybe? I bet crap like that happens.

  When I reach the underground garage, I realize there’s no way I can locate her car. I don’t even know what color it is.

  God damn it. Frustration and worry tighten their fists around me. I call her. “I’m in the garage now,” I say. “Where are you? Honk so I can find you.”

  I hear a horn behind me, and the headlights come on and off on a silver Acura in the rearview mirror. I relax a little. That was easier than I thought. There’s an empty spot right next to it, so I slide right in.

  Time to calm down. I’m no good to Skittles otherwise.

  I get out of my car and approach hers. A box in the back seat catches my eye. It has the flowers I sent her, plus a few frames sticking out on top like jagged mountains.

  Oh, shit. I never held a job the way she did, but I know what it means. Fucking Steve. What kind of asshole dad fires his own kid?

  I rap my knuckles against the window gently. The door unlocks, and I climb in. Skittles looks exhausted. Her shoulders are rounded and slouched, and her entire body has the collapsed look of an old and tired balloon. Even in the crappy garage light, I can see how pale and wan she looks. And suddenly I feel like somebody’s robbed me of the sun in the sky.

  She sniffles.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” No response. “Look at me, Skittles.”

  “I shouldn’t have called you,” she says finally. “I’m not sure what I was thinking.”

  “What the hell, woman. I gave you my number so you could call me.” I’m pissed she thought to keep me in the dark or not lean on me when she needs someone. When I was in a shitty mood the night we first met, she was there to brighten me up. Whether that was intentional or not is irrelevant. “Look at me.”

  She sighs and slowly turns her head. The skin around her eyes is red, and unshed tears shimmer. They burn me like acid, maybe because Skittles is trying so hard to be strong. Or maybe it’s just because it’s her.

  “I have something in my eyes,” she says. “It’s been irritating them.”

  I nod, determined to spare her pride. “I can see that. Have any eye drops?”

  “No. It’s okay. They’ll get better soon.”

  “Okay.” I hold her hand. It’s cool and limp. I squeeze, trying to warm it.

  “I quit my job,” she says suddenly.

  I stare at her, holding my breath, while my brain works furiously to process what she just said. Is this the same woman who told me she couldn’t date because she needed to be promoted? It sounded like she was really close. If I didn’t know her twin was on her honeymoon, I might’ve thought I was talking with Curie, not Skittles.

  “I thought you enjoyed your job,” I say, choosing my words with care.

  “I do.” Pain twists her beautiful face as though somebody sliced her gut. “Well, did. But it’s different now.”

  Then, between sniffles, she tells me what her dad told her. I can’t believe Steve crushed her spirit and ambition with such cruelty. Not only that, he’s basically trying to put her on a path to end up like my mother. And I’ll be damned if Skittles ends up as brittle and selfish as Mom. She deserves to shine, bubbling with delight.

  “I know he’s your father, and don’t take this the wrong way, but he’s full of shit,” I say.

  “I feel stupid.” She sighs, deflating further. “Everything I did was for nothing. I was never going to advance—was never going to amount to anything.”

  If Steve were here, I’d punch him in the mouth. I thought he was better than this. Aren’t all parents—I mean, except mine—better than this? “Don’t say that. That’s just one man’s opinion. And he’s dead wrong.”

  She dabs at her eyes. “You were right. Somebody was sabotaging me. I just never thought it would be my dad.”

  Damn it. I wish I knew how to fix this for her. But I can’t even fix my own family; what do I know about other people’s? The only thing I can think of to make it better is… “Do you want to grab a drink?”

  She checks the time. “It’s barely three.”

  “So? You, uh, seem to have the rest of the day off.”

  She gives me a look and then snorts a small laugh. “Yeah. You could say that.”

  “I can be your designated driver. And it’ll be my treat.” A few drinks, maybe a cheesy movie and dinner should cheer her up. And chocolate. Can’t forget the chocolate. First rule of cheering—

  “It’s okay.” She looks at our linked hands. “I should probably go home.”

  She doesn’t move, though. Just looks infinitely sad and alone.

  “Want to come over to my place?” I say. “It’s close to here and has a few nice bottles of wine and whiskey.” The stuff Tony left behind…and I “forgot” to take over to his new place. His wine cellar looks full anyway. “And a pool and tons of movies we can stream. I think I might even have some ice cream.” Or at least I hope I do. I tend to go through it pretty quickly.

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Of course not.” It’ll be my pleasure to put cheeriness back into her.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Pascal

  I follow Court to his place, all the while wondering if I’m doing the right thing. But when he looked at me so earnestly, I couldn’t say no. It’s like he’s a wizard with this magical ability to coax me into doing things I might not do otherwise.

  Or maybe it’s because I know that his desire to help is sincere. He isn’t doing this hoping that I’ll help him get a job with my dad or that I’ll sleep with him out of gratitude or anything like that. If he just wanted sex, there are hundreds of uncomplicated, non-sniffling women out there whose makeup isn’t ruined. So how can I not accept what he’s offering in the same spirit it’s being offered?

  As promised, his penthouse isn’t too far from SFG. The place is huge, with an open floor plan that makes it feel bigger than an opera house. The deck has a pool, and when I look at the spectacular view of the city from here, I swear I can breathe easier.

  “Wow. This place is amazing.”

  I look up at the ceiling, where fans spin slowly. The floor is shiny marble, with a few rugs thrown around for comfort. The kitchen has all the appliances you can hope for, although from the looks of it, either Court has a dedicated housekeeper or he doesn’t cook much.

  “How long you’ve had this?” I ask, curious since I swear I read he didn’t take full control of his money until very recently.

  “Not that long. It was actually my brother’s.” Court goes to the kitchen and looks through the stuff in the wine cooler. “When he moved, he gave it to me because I didn’t want to live too close to the campus anymore.”

  Wow. I know there are families that give each other houses, but it’s surreal for me to actually know one in real life. “Is he the one who owns the club?” I ask, remembering how he got Curie’s name.

  “Yeah. He’s married and wanted more of a family home, if you can call his mansion that.”

  I run my hand over a white baby grand. “This is a beautiful piano. Do you play?”

  “When people overstay their welcome.”

  I look at him. He looks utterly serious. A small laugh bubbles, then bursts out. The heaviness in my heart seems to vanish, and I sigh, feeling like I could float.

  “I’m just babysitting this thing because my sister-in-law got a new one.”

  Ah. I rifle through what I remember from the Go
ogle search, and recall that his older brother married a concert pianist. A prodigy, which gives this piano some added significance. I’ve never touched anything used by a prodigy before. Unlike Curie, I can’t play at all, even though Dad did his best to get me to learn a few pieces. I wonder if he did that to have me impress some guy, then shake my head. I don’t want to think about that right now.

  Court brings a couple of glasses of white wine. “Here.”

  “Thanks.” I take one, grateful for the distraction.

  “One day to be angry.”

  “Agreed. One day. Then I gotta shake it off,” I say, even though I’m not sure if I can limit myself to one day. But I need to try. I can’t afford to waste my life and energy on this…injustice.

  I clink my glass against his and take a leisurely sip. This is an excellent wine—not overly dry, but not sweet either. Just the right balance of acidity and a lovely hazelnut finish.

  I sit down on a couch, and he sits next to me. We don’t say anything...just enjoy each other’s company. Our thighs brush, and attraction sizzles at the touch. I savor it, loving the way my blood courses through my body, heavy with hormones. Court smells amazing. Curie once told me that pheromones were real, and I said she had to be mistaken—they’re stuff people make up to explain the stupid things they do in the throes of lust.

  But now I understand what she meant. My body’s completely attuned to his nearness, his heat, his scent. Still, I don’t know if it’s all just chemicals. I don’t feel stupid with lust. Instead, it feels like comfort and connection. The kind that says this is a safe man—someone I can trust with more than just my body.

  It all seems too fast and too sudden. How can I know Court so well? But my heart asks if there’s some set time I need to spend with him before I can be sure. Two months? Three?

  We had sex within hours of meeting. And we shared two meals together. He came for me when I wanted him to—despite the fact that he could probably hear tears in my voice—and really…how much more do I need?

  I finish the wine and place the glass on the low table in front of me. I don’t think I’ve ever been with a guy who I could share a comfortable silence with—being happy just by being close to him. And the way Court rushed to the garage when I called… The way he looked—concerned and anxious. All for me. We haven’t known each other a long time, but he’s done something each time we’ve seen each other to make me feel special and lovely. Is that why it feels like I’ve known him longer than a few weeks?