Damaged Page 4
As the girls laugh and the door opens, I take my phone out of my pocket, peeking up to make sure none of the girls have theirs out.
No pictures.
That’s my second concern. The first is getting Kane and getting out of here. He’s had a good time; he’ll remember enough of it at least. I’m not interested in being here any longer than I have to be.
I’m distracted for only a moment. Half a second, but the moment I stop watching these girls, one of them breaks rule number one.
The second the blonde on the right pulls out her iPhone, turning and posing with her friend and Kane in the background, I snatch it from her. She gasps and tries to grab it back like this is a game and I’m making a move on her. Her smile widens and she lets out a small laugh, again trying to snatch it from me.
It takes her a minute to realize no matter how much she pulls on my arm and makes that girlish cry, I have no intention of giving it back.
“No pictures,” I tell her simply, my voice low and admonishing and my expression hard. I don’t have time for this shit or her antics. She knows what she’s doing and it’s not cute or funny.
I force myself to stare into her drunken hazel gaze until she looks down and then holds out her hand for it. The flirtation completely gone. “I get it,” she snaps.
I place the phone in her palm after I shut it off, and she huffs like I’m an asshole. I can see her biting her tongue wanting to tell me off and I can’t really blame her. She wouldn’t be the first. I’ve been slapped more times than I know. Mostly by women. Years of doing this have led to plenty of fights and unfortunate events.
I’ve beaten the shit out of assholes.
Called doctors and paid with cash for them to come to hotel rooms.
I’ve paid off cops, bouncers, bookies. Shit, I’ve seen it all, done it all. And I’m tired of this shit.
The bright green of the absinthe catches my eye as the blonde I just pissed off brings it to the coffee table. I watch as she sets it in the center and lines up three shot glasses before going back to the small kitchen only ten feet away to grab more out of a drawer.
Kane’s in the middle of the sofa, draping both arms across the back of it as Christi and the brunette cuddle up next to him. The sounds of them laughing and Kane saying something low as they huddle closer to him are barely on my mind as I turn my focus back to my phone.
I text the driver and let him know I’m going to need the car in about thirty minutes and send him the address.
It takes fifteen minutes for the alcohol to hit their systems. Heavy pours and three shots each will have them all out on their asses. Normally I’d feel bad cutting their party short, but I don’t give a shit. All I can think about is Kat.
I need to get back to her.
I plaster a smile on my face and roll up my sleeves. “Let me get it, doll,” I say as I make my way to the kitchen. “You sit back and relax,” I tell the blonde and take the bottle from her hands. I’ll be pouring the second round while they’re throwing back the first. She gives me a flirtatious smirk. “I knew you weren’t all asshole,” she says and then sits on her knees next to the coffee table. Too close, too presumptuous.
“You had it right the first time,” I tell her as I fill all six glasses and pass them out. “Let’s do a couple rounds and get this party started.”
Chapter 7
Kat
* * *
I’m stronger than this. I deserve so much more.
They’re the words I breathe, then collapse on the floor.
My eyes close tight, the tears trapped, my lungs still.
I can’t speak the truth; I can’t fight the chill.
I’m stronger than this, I’ll tell myself till I rot.
But I know I’m a liar, and I know that I’m not.
Evan never texts me when he’s working, but he did tonight and I can’t take my eyes away from my phone because of it. My body’s still and my focus is nonexistent when it comes to work. He messaged me. He reached out to me. I can’t explain why it makes my cracked heart splinter even deeper. Maybe I wish he’d just be cruel and not try or not care. It hurts so much more to think that he’s trying.
I’ve learned over the years not to expect him to message me or call, not to worry. To trust him and to look for a message in the morning. He always messaged in the morning. I’ve always thought it was cute how he’d text me to tell me good morning, even if he was only just then getting into bed.
But it’s 2 a.m. in London, and my phone’s lit on the desk with a message from him.
I was finally getting some work done. Focusing and managing to write up some feedback and create a marketing tactic for a client. Half of me doesn’t want to answer him. I don’t want to look and go back into the black hole of self-pity. But I can’t resist.
My hands inch toward it, the need to see what he has to say overriding the anger and the sadness. The need to be wanted by him and to feel loved winning out over my dignity.
I hate it when you’re mad at me.
I stare at his message, feeling my heart squeeze tight. My fingers hesitate over the keys as I read it again and again. Before I can respond, another message comes through.
Forgive me.
And that’s the crux of the situation.
Forgive you for what exactly? I message him back without even thinking. Whatever he’s hiding is bad, I know it is. I can feel it deep down in my core. Whatever he’s done is enough to ruin us.
But we were already ruined. In my gut, I can feel it. We’ve grown apart. We’re different people now. We don’t belong together. We never did really.
I have to get up and move. Even if it’s just to walk through the house. I’m only in a baggy shirt and a pair of socks. I wore the shirt to sleep last night and I should really shower and get dressed. It’s a rule I’ve had since I started working from home.
I dress as if I’m going into the office. Well, I used to. Right now I just don’t have the energy.
Evan sends two texts, one right after the other as I walk to the kitchen.
We can work through this.
I love you.
I only glance at them before putting the phone down on the counter and heading straight to the fridge for the wine.
There’s only half a glass left in the dark red bottle, but it’ll have to do.
I glance at the clock as I sip it. It’s after 9 p.m. I’ve barely slept, barely worked and I’m still in my pajamas from last night. But at least I’m drinking from a clean glass.
It only takes one sip before I just ask him what’s on my mind.
I just don’t understand why you won’t tell me what you did.
Won’t tell you what? he texts back and it pisses me off.
“Does he think I’m stupid?” I mutter beneath my breath as my blood boils. The anger is only an ounce stronger than the pain.
Don’t treat me like this. I text him back, feeling weak. I’m practically begging him. I deserve better.
I down the wine after sending the last line. I don’t know exactly what it is I deserve. Him telling me the truth. Him confiding in me. Or a better husband altogether.
As I grip the neck of the last bottle of red wine on the rack and bring it back to the kitchen, I realize this is how women feel when they stay in these marriages.
They’d rather be told a sweet little lie and believe it, than face the truth.
Right now, it’s exactly what I want. Just lie to me. Tell me there’s nothing that happened. That it’s blown out of proportion. That it was just a kiss. Yes, that one. That last one. I could forgive it, but better yet, I could believe it.
The barstool legs scratch on the floor as I scoot it under my butt and sit down to uncork the new bottle.
I just want him to come home. Tell me everything is fine and make up something that’s easy to forgive.
A bottle of wine and a refilled glass in front of me, I go back to the beginning. Back to when I was stronger and I actually had self-respect.
The memory and the wine are the only things I have to keep myself company for the rest of the night, because Evan doesn’t text me back.
* * *
Six years ago
* * *
The wind blows in my face, mixed with the stale summer heat as I pull into the corner store parking lot in Brooklyn. It’s late and the hustle and bustle of New York has waned, but the nightlife on this side of the city is only getting started.
Some would say it’s the bad part of town, but others say it’s the fun part. I guess it depends on what circles you run in. I’m new to New York and struggling to find where I belong. The lights and sophistication are what I came here for, but making it here isn’t so easily achieved.
I’m slow to step on the brakes and pull into the last spot on the far right against the curb that lines the sidewalk to the small store. I’ve only been here a few times, either needing to stop for gas or a quick bite to eat on my way to or from work on the west side of the city.
Several cars line the front of the store and a few men head inside as I pull up. They vary from obviously expensive to looking like they’re falling apart. The vehicles, that is.
I notice the men, and they notice me. Averting their gaze, I turn down my radio and put my car in park.
I mind my business and everyone around me seems to do the same. In the city that never sleeps, there’s always something happening. And I’m not interested in a lot of those somethings.
I grab my purse and keys in the same hand and open the car door to step out with no time to waste, but my eyes glance back to the cars and straight into a man’s gaze.
Not just any man, a man exuding power and confidence, along with defiance. Although he’s wearing a simple shirt and faded dark jeans, the way he wears them makes me think they were made to be fitted to his muscular body. He’s hot as hell, and given the way he looks at me, he could be a temptation the devil made just for me.
My driver’s side door shuts with a loud bang as I stand there caught in the heat in his eyes. He’s leaning against the hood of a car, I would guess it’s his, a shiny black Mercedes that illuminates the light from the store in its slick reflection. The windows are rolled up and tinted so dark it’s hard to see the interior. As my eyes move back to the man, my movements are slowed and I grip my keys tighter.
He doesn’t stop looking, taking me in and letting his eyes follow along my body. He obviously wants me to know that he’s watching me.
My breathing picks up and I subconsciously pull my dress down just slightly, smoothing out the cherry red pleats and wishing I hadn’t been wearing it all day. I take one step and the click of my heels keeps time as I walk forward, knowing I have to pass him on my way in.
I can’t help that my eyes flicker over to his as I grip my purse strap and settle it in place. His tanned skin is pulled taut and smooth over his muscular frame and decorated with ink. Tattoos travel from his collarbone down, peeking out from the crisp white cotton shirt and leaving a trail of intricate designs all the way down to his wrists. I’m too far away to see what they say or what they are. I know if he were in a suit, the tattoos would be hidden, but something tells me he’s proud to have them on full display.
“What are you up to?” he asks me and catches me off guard.
“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” I tell him easily, although I don’t know how, swaying a little from side to side in a flirtatious way I didn’t intend. My body can’t help but be attracted to him. To want to know how his tattooed skin feels against my fingertips.
There’s a scar over his left eyebrow and it’s subtle, but even from this distance I notice it. As his deep, rough chuckle fills the night air and drowns out the other sounds of the city, I find myself wondering how he got it.
“A man can wonder though,” he says, making a hot blush creep slowly into my cheeks. I bite down on my lower lip, but that doesn’t stop the shy smile from showing. I have to stop and give him the attention he’s looking for as he leans forward, holding me captive to whatever’s on his mind.
“You’re pretty, you know that?” he asks me and I roll my eyes. He makes me feel things I haven’t before. Even if I know this flirtation isn’t just for me, that he’s simply playing with me, I still enjoy it. I crave it even.
“Sure, and you’re not too bad looking either.” I enjoy the flirting, the attention. At least coming from him.
He splays a hand over his heart and cocks his head as he says, “Well thank you, beautiful, I aim for not bad.” This time I’m the one laughing, a short, soft laugh as I kick the bottom of my heels against the ground and stare at them for a moment, readying myself to say goodbye and end his bout of teasing. I don’t trust myself not to say anything and instead I just wave and carry on, expecting him to do the same.
“You didn’t answer me,” he calls out after I take a few steps. “What are you doing out here so late?” he asks. It’s forward of him and I usually despise that, but instead I savor the challenge in his voice. Something about it tells me he thinks I’m already his. And that ownership makes my blood that much hotter.
I know I shouldn’t give him any information at all, but I find myself telling him the truth before I can stop myself. “I’m hungry and overworked. So I stopped to grab a bite to eat.”
“You’re getting your dinner from here?” he asks, gesturing to the store and I nod. “A woman like you should be taken out, not eating dinner from the gas station.”
A woman like you, plays over and over in my head. He doesn’t know what type of woman I am. “You don’t even know my name,” I tell him, the half smile and challenge firm on my expression.
He nods and grins, flashing me a cocky, asymmetrical smile as he replies, “Don’t make me guess.”
I chew on my lip for a moment, rocking from side to side. He’s bad news and I’m flirting with fire … but I love the thrill. I can’t deny it. “It’s Kat,” I tell him and a smile is slow to form on his face. One of complete satisfaction, as if hearing my name is the best thing that’s happened to him all night.
“I’m Evan,” he says and I taste his name on the tip of my tongue, nearly whispering it. “Let me take you to dinner, Kat,” he suggests with an easiness I don’t like. I wonder how many times that’s worked for him before.
“I’m not your type,” I tell him, intentionally looking past him at the bars that wrap around the glass door to the convenience store. I just need a late night snack to hold me over till morning. That’s all this little errand was supposed to turn into.
“I don’t think you should tell me what is and isn’t my type,” he tells me although it comes out playful. “You might be surprised,” he adds.
I clear my throat and try to breathe evenly, wanting this flirting session to end so I can get back to work. I have to admit the attention is very much needed though. And the desire in his eyes looks genuine.
“Sorry, Charlie, didn’t mean to upset you,” I tell him with a playful pout as I walk past him.
“It’s Evan,” he repeats his name and that makes a wicked grin play at my lips, “and you’re wrong,” he tells me with a seriousness I wasn’t expecting. His tone is hard and when I turn around to face him fully, finally taking a step onto the curb, he’s no longer sitting on the hood of the Mercedes. He takes a few strides across the asphalt parking lot and stops in front of me as I ask, “Wrong about what?”
He’s taller standing up, more intimidating too and his shoulders seem broader, stronger. Even his subtle moves, as he brushes his jaw with his rough fingers and licks his lower lip again, are dominating. He glances to the left and right before opening his mouth again and letting that deep, rough voice practically whisper between us.
“You’re wrong that you aren’t my type and that I’m not your type.”
My body sways on its own, the compliment making my body feel hotter than it already is in the hot summer night. Someone behind me exits the store, the telltale
jingle of the bells and the whoosh of air-conditioning reminding me that I’m supposed to be in and out of this store. Reminding me that Evan isn’t a part of my to-do list tonight.
“I never said you weren’t my type,” I say and my voice comes out sultry, laced with the desire I feel coursing in my blood. I try to hold his gaze, but the fire and intensity swirling in his dark eyes makes me back down.
I can try to be tough all I want, but he’s a bad boy through and through and I should know better.
“Good to know,” he says with a cocky undertone that makes my eyes whip up to his. I half expect him to blow me off now that his ego’s been fed. But he licks his lower lip and my eyes are drawn to the motion, imagining how it’d feel to have his lips on every inch of my skin. “Come out with me tonight,” he tells me. As if I don’t have anything better to do. As if he can just command me to do what he wants.
“Sorry … Evan. I can’t tonight,” I tell him and turn back around, shifting my purse on my shoulder and ready to go about my business.
“Tomorrow night then,” he raises his voice so I can hear him as I wrap my hand around the handle and pull the door open. Again the chill of the store greets me, but this time it’s unwanted.
I’m very aware of what this man could do to me. He’s the type to pin you down as he takes you how he wants you and doesn’t stop until you’re screaming. And I can’t lie, just that thought alone makes me desperate to say yes.
He takes another step closer as I stand with the door wide open and hesitate to answer. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he manages a shrug as if it’s a casual question.
“Just one date,” he adds as he looks at me with a raised brow and his version of puppy dog eyes. It’s enough to force a smile on my face.
“And what am I supposed to do? Meet you here at ten?” I ask him.
“How about at Jean-Georges in Central Park?” he asks and I’m taken aback. It’s an expensive place and my eyes glance back to his car, to his ripped body and tattooed skin. There’s something about the air that follows him that screams he’s no good. The danger in the way he looks at me is so tempting though.