by Adrian, Lara
Part of me knows I should. Without Nick’s wealth and status in the equation, Rodney’s threat to expose me carries no weight. I’m not afraid of facing the consequences for what I’ve done. In many ways, it would be a relief. What I cannot bear is the thought of Rodney using my sins against Nick and everything he’s built.
“Am I wrong about us, Avery?”
“No.” I slowly shake my head, unable to deny him or what he means to me. “You’re not wrong about us.”
“Then tell me what this is really about.”
I want to. God, how I want to blurt everything out to him and hope, pray, that he’ll understand. He’s forgiven me for lying to him when we first met, but how can I expect him to forgive the rest of the lies that still hang between us? Lies of omission and half-truths. Lies that have protected me for half my life.
He demanded trust and honesty from me—things I promised to give him freely.
Things I have never dared to give anyone before him.
“Tell me what’s really bothering you, Avery.” His voice is steady and calm, but firm with command. He walks around the bed, closing the distance between us. “You’re afraid of something. If it’s not me, then what is it?”
I feel the weight of my promise to him as I hold his penetrating gaze. I owe him my trust. He’s earned it, after all.
But the words stall in my throat.
“You just . . . You caught me off guard, that’s all.” I reach out to him and find his jaw like granite against my fingertips. “I’m sorry I overreacted.”
His eyes study me too closely. He is not a man who is fooled easily, and I’m not naive enough to assume he believes me now.
But he doesn’t push me to deepen my lie.
“I’ll tell Beck to hold off on those calls.” Reaching up for my hand, he draws it from his face. “I have meetings at the office all day. I need to clean up and get out of here.”
He steps away from me without another touch or another word.
I watch him go, feeling the coldness of his withdrawal like a chill that’s opened up in my chest. I want to follow after him, but my feet stay rooted to the floor. Guilt and regret sit like acid on my tongue, but they are nothing compared to the bitter taste of my cowardice.
As the sound of the running shower drifts out from the large master bathroom, my phone rings on the nightstand with an incoming call.
I reach for it, half expecting I’ll find Rodney waiting for me on the other end of the line. For one perversely self-destructive moment, I actually hope it’s him, at the same time imagining Nick coming back out of the bathroom to catch me talking with my stepbrother and leave me no choice but to confess everything I’m holding in.
But it’s not Rodney.
“Hi, Matt.”
“Hey.” Matt’s cheery voice jolts me back to the here and now. “So, we still on for Lita’s thing this afternoon?”
It takes my brain a second to catch up. “Um. That’s today?”
“At one o’clock in Greenpoint. Oh, shit. Please don’t tell me you’re going to cancel.”
The excuse that’s perched at the tip of my tongue dissolves when I hear the disappointment in his voice.
“No. No, it’s all good,” I assure him. “Of course, I’ll be there.”
He exhales dramatically. “Oh, thank God. Lita’s already called and texted me five times this morning about one neurotic thing or another. I swear there’s not enough cheap Chardonnay in all of Greenpoint to get me through an entire afternoon of her angsting.”
I laugh, even though I don’t really feel it. We make arrangements to meet up at the gallery, and although an exhibition forty-five minutes away in Brooklyn is the last thing I feel like doing today, I don’t want to let my new friends down. I also know I can’t cower in the penthouse any longer, wishing my problems would just go away.
Sooner than later, I need to figure out how I’m going to deal with Rodney.
And if I can’t deal with him, I need to figure out how I’m going to find the strength to walk away from Nick.
Chapter 15
I set out for Lita’s exhibition in Brooklyn a little past noon, using the long subway ride and the crush of people all around me to drown out the noise in my head. It’s not so easy to drown my remorse. My guilt for how I left things with Nick this morning clings to me as I get off at the station in Greenpoint.
It’s been months since I’ve been back to my old neighborhood, but today it feels like years. Some of the shops on Nassau Avenue have changed or closed down. Others are sporting new paint jobs and rehabbed interiors. Even my old apartment building—the mid-century brick eyesore where I rented a tiny one-bedroom unit—is undergoing a dramatic renovation.
I’m so close to the narrow side street off Nassau, I can’t resist detouring past it for a quick look on my way to the gallery. Construction scaffolding climbs the sides of the building and on the wire fencing surrounds the property, vinyl banners advertise the modern new condominiums that will be opening for occupation later in the year.
Once the renovations are complete, there will be little left of the old building. Would I even recognize it? In many ways, my life has been just as profoundly altered since I left this neighborhood a few months ago.
How different everything would be if I had never met Claire Prentice.
I had considered her housesitting offer a miracle at the time—a life line I desperately needed.
If not for that opportunity from Claire, serendipitous as it was, I would have never have met Nick. Without him, my stepbrother would have nothing to gain from me. I would still be working behind the bar at Vendange and Rodney might never have reentered my life.
But there’s no turning the clock back now, no more than I can turn it back and change what happened nine years ago.
Fate never forgives.
It never forgets.
I realize that now, even if I’ve been too foolish—too selfish—to truly understand that before.
As I head back up the main street to the gallery, I am relieved to find Matt waiting for me as soon as I enter the place.
“There you are!” He’s got a half-empty glass of wine in his hand as he hooks his arm through mine and leads me into the center of the gathering. He turns a serious look on me and lowers his voice. “We have a situation.”
I frown, confused. “You mean with Lita?”
“Our girl’s on the verge of a meltdown. She’s been hiding in the restroom for twenty minutes and won’t come out.”
“Seriously?” I hurry along with him to the back of the gallery, cutting through the throng as discreetly as possible. There is one small unisex bathroom, and we find the door locked. I rap quietly on the panel and call Lita’s name.
“Leave me alone.” Her reply is muted, miserable-sounding. “Just . . . go away, you guys. I can’t do this.”
Matt and I exchange a glance. “What do you mean, you can’t do this? Lita, open the door.”
All I get is silence. Followed by the sound of a toilet paper roll rattling and then Lita blowing her nose.
“Come on, honey. Talk to us. Open the door.” I slide my gaze to Matt and lower my voice to a whisper. “Is this normal for her?”
He shrugs. “I dunno. This is the first exhibition of hers I’ve been to. Like I told you on the phone this morning, she’s been neurotic about this showing all day.”
“I can totally hear you two.” Abruptly, the lock on the door clicks free and Lita opens the door. “If you’re going to talk about me, you might as well do it in here.”
I know I’m gaping, but I can’t help it.
Instead of her usual goth-meets-grunge style, Lita is wearing a 1940s vintage royal blue dress with a fitted bodice and a sweetheart neckline that work together to emphasize all of her killer curves. The A-line skirt falls from her cinched waist in long, loose pleats that end at her knees. Gone are Lita’s favored combat boots, and in their place is a pair of high-heeled black patent leather Mary Janes.
&
nbsp; With her multi-hued pixie haircut and extensive body art juxtaposed with her romantic outfit and flawless makeup, she looks edgy and feminine. More than that, she’s an absolute knockout.
“Lita,” I gasp, my eyes wide. “You look amazing!”
“I look fucking ridiculous. Who the hell am I trying to impress, right?” She frowns down at herself before looking back at Matt and me with terror in her eyes. “Did you see how many people are out there? Oh, God. I think I’m going to be sick.”
Clutching her stomach, she pivots back into the bathroom. Matt and I follow her inside, closing the door behind us.
“You’ve got to pull yourself together, girl.” Matt holds his wineglass out to her. “Here, drink some of this.”
She takes the glass from him, draining it. To my surprise—and relief—instead of worsening the situation, the wine seems to calm her. She leans against the tile wall and presses the cool glass to her forehead.
“Do either of you have any idea who’s out there in that room right now?” Before we can even attempt to guess, she answers her own question. “Forgetting the other artists in the exhibit—whose shit is, like, a hundred times better than mine—there are no less than three critics from the biggest art publications in the country and a couple of museum curators out there. Not to mention all of the private collectors milling around sipping martinis and champagne and shit.”
I tilt my head at her. “And that’s a problem, because . . . ?”
“Because I’m not ready for all of . . . this.”
“Yes, you are,” Matt says. “But you’re not going to know that unless you get out of this bathroom.”
She moans and hands the wineglass back to him. “I think I’m going to need more wine before I’m ready for that. God, I’m pretty sure I even saw the CEO of that hot new tech firm over in Brooklyn Heights out there—you know, the dude who used to be in that rock band a few years ago?”
Matt nods, but I don’t think he’s really listening. He holds the empty glass up. “I’m going to get you another one of these. Avery, will you make sure she doesn’t try to drown herself in the toilet bowl before I get back?”
I nod, holding back my grin as he leaves me alone with Lita. She eyes me sullenly, one perfectly defined brow arched. “Guess I’m not as tough as I look, huh?”
I shrug. “Most people aren’t.”
She snorts, pushing away from the wall and shuffling over to the toilet. She drops the lid, then plops down onto it. “Fuck. What am I doing here, Avery? Did you see the other art out there? The paintings, the photography, the pottery.” She shakes her head, huffing out a gust of air. “It’s all traditional, beautiful shit—even the other sculptures in this exhibit are refined. They’re fucking lovely. Mine’s not like any of that. It’s harsh. It’s jagged and disturbing. It’s—”
“Unique?” I suggest. “Lita, your art is special. It’s a reflection of you, and it is beautiful. It’s surprising and unusual and totally unforgettable. Just like the artist who created it.”
Her ruby-red lips twist in a skeptical line. “What if I get shredded by those critics out there? What if everyone laughs their asses off at my work?”
“What if they don’t?”
She looks at me as if she had never considered the alternative possibility. For a long moment, she simply stares at me in silence. Then she swallows. “This is a big deal. And I’m scared, Avery.”
“Of course you are. Three art critics, a couple of museum curators plus a former rockstar-turned-CEO? Anyone who’s not afraid of that crowd would have to be seriously fucked up.”
A laugh bubbles out of her, then she rolls her eyes. “You think I’m being an idiot.”
“No. I think you’re being human.”
Saying nothing, she stares at me, and I wonder not for the first time about the caution I see in her eyes. She is guarded, self-protective. She is wounded, and so vulnerable from the pain of what’s inside her it’s all I can do not to pull her into a hug and tell her that I understand those feelings too.
We hardly know each other, and despite her irascibility, I sense a kindred spirit in Lita Frasier. I sense the start of a friendship I didn’t expect with her.
“Incoming.” Matt’s voice carries through the door before he enters the bathroom with a bottle of water in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. “Pick your poison, sweetheart.”
“Water,” Lita murmurs. “I’ll save the wine for after this thing is over.”
Matt shoots me a look of surprise. “Wine for you?”
“Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.”
While I sip the wine, Lita chugs the bottle of water, then crushes the empty container and pitches it into the recycle bin across the room. “Thanks, you guys. For just . . . being here.”
I smile, glad to see her rebounded. “Anytime.”
“So, you’re good now?” Matt asks.
She nods. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“Then, what’re you waiting for?” He fists his hands on his hips, then jerks his head in the direction of the door. “Get out there and slay, girl!”
“Okay, yeah. Dammit, I’m going to.” She stands up, smoothing her blue dress. Then, with her spine straight and shoulders squared, she marches out ahead of us.
Thank you, Matt mouths silently to me. “Join me at the bar?”
I lift my glass in salute. “Lead the way.”
We wend through the clusters of people, and I notice Lita approaching her sculpture display, where a small throng is gathered to look at her art. There is little trace of the anxious woman I consoled in the bathroom. She looks poised and confident and uniquely captivating. I don’t miss the fact that one of the gallery patrons—a hot twenty-something guy wearing jeans and a black oxford with the sleeves rolled up over his tattooed, muscular arms—has taken notice of her too.
With his rugged good looks, shaggy mane of silky dark hair, and bad boy swagger, he’s got former rockstar written all over him. The numerous awestruck side glances and whispers he leaves in his wake as he approaches my friend leave no doubt. To Lita’s credit, the smile she turns on him as he holds out his hand to her in greeting is cool and unaffected.
I shoot her a wink when she briefly looks my way.
Yeah, she’s going to be just fine.
The exhibit has brought an impressive variety of artists and patrons together, and the energy in the room is invigorating. As we head to the bar, Matt and I duck around a little throng of attendees listening indulgently to a young photographer waxing poetic about his love of painted doors as subject matter. Nearby, I hear a textile artist explaining how her sabbatical to Africa inspired the intricate beadwork and woven threads she has incorporated into her work. In another area of the gallery, painters chat up spectators, several of whom I see tapping on tablets and speaking quietly into handheld recorders.
The buzz of conversation and intermittent laughter fills the air—so much so, I hardly register the familiarity of the female voice ordering a very dry martini at the bar as Matt and I break through the crowd.
But Kathryn Tremont’s slender, willowy figure is unmistakable.
I freeze, but it’s too late to avoid her notice.
She turns her head toward me, and her brows lift in surprise over her dark eyes. “Oh. Hello . . . Avery, right?”
“Hi, Kathryn.”
I feel Matt pause beside me in question, but he must sense my unease. Instead of waiting for an introduction, he discreetly moves off to order a drink.
Kathryn’s gaze flicks past me for a second, almost undetectably. “Are you here with Dominic?”
“No. I’m here with friends.”
Am I imagining the subtle shift in her expression when she learns he’s not with me? I know Nick makes her uncomfortable. I saw that the day she bumped into us at lunch. As much as I’m certain he’ll be displeased to know I’m talking to her now, I can’t deny my curiosity about this woman from his past.
The bartender hands Kathryn the martini she ordered,
and she leaves a twenty on the bar before turning to give me her full attention. “Quite an interesting exhibition. I wasn’t expecting much when I came here today, but I have to say, I’m intrigued.”
The way she scrutinizes me as she says it makes me wonder if she’s only talking about art. “One of my friends is a mixed media sculptor. Lita Frasier,” I add, gesturing toward the healthy crowd of people assembled near her art. “I came out to support her.”
Kathryn nods, then takes a sip of her cocktail. “Have you got some of your work on exhibit today too?”
The question takes me aback. “No. How do you know I—”
“Jared,” she explains breezily. “He mentioned you a few months ago, after meeting you at Dominic’s gallery.”
She tosses out Jared Rush’s name casually, as if she assumes I’m aware that she and the much younger, successful artist are intimates. I am aware that Kathryn and he share some kind of connection, but the fact that Jared has spoken to her about me is more than a little surprising.
“I understand you paint.”
“A little,” I admit. “I’m still getting started, really.”
“Hm.” She studies me over the rim of her glass. “I’d be interested to see your work.”
“Why?”
Her chin lifts. “Because I enjoy art, of course.”
I take a drink of my wine, searching for courage. I know I have no right to pry, but of all the questions I have about Nick, this woman is the mystery that troubles me the most.
“What happened between you and him?”
“He hasn’t told you?” She doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. Her shrewd eyes bore into me, searching for truth the same way I am. She tilts her head. “No. He hasn’t told you anything, has he?”
I’m not expecting those words. I’m not prepared for the chill they send through me. Or the questions—the uncertainty—that suddenly begins to flood my heart.
What does she mean?
Aside from Kathryn, how much more don’t I know? Is she only trying to shake me up, knock me off balance? If so, it’s working.
“You betrayed him.” I blurt the accusation. It’s a hollow one, since Nick hasn’t elaborated beyond the basics of his falling out with Kathryn. But I see how it hits her. She flinches as if I’ve struck her. “He trusted you, Kathryn. Now he hates you because you betrayed him.”
