Love, Chloe (24 page)

The next morning I called him.

“Hey babe.” Vic sounded ridiculously cheerful. Carefree. He was probably back on a beach, drink in hand, his yacht floating nearby. I stood on a dismal New York street, rain tapping against the top of my umbrella, a hangover blazing, and stared at
my
his car. There was a parking ticket, stuck on its windshield, soaked by the rain.

“You can’t do things like this.”

“Of course I can.” The confidence stretched through every syllable and why wouldn’t it? He was right. He could do anything he wanted. In Vic’s world there were no worries, no consequences, no ramifications.

“No, you can’t. I don’t
want
this car. Send one of your people to come pick it up.” His people used to be my people. His employees had picked up my dry cleaning, grabbed my groceries, driven my drunk self home. It had been the opening act to the rest of my life, a life that never happened. A life that was shattered that one, terrible afternoon.

“The car is in your name, Chloe.” His voice grew harder, more stubborn, the authoritativeness having the wrong effect on me.

“Put your hands on the wall.”

I didn’t question it, had put my hands on the gold-foil wall, my taupe nails digging into the surface when he ran his hands down my back, over the strings of my bathing suit and down to my ass, his fingers pulling my bathing suit to the side. We were in the Hamptons, at his family’s estate, the din of a hundred friends floating up the staircase from downstairs. “Vic,” I said softly, the word becoming a moan as his fingers pressed in between my legs.

“Shut up and face the wall. I can’t see your body another second without having it.”

“Someone will come upstairs,” I protested.

“Then they will see me fucking my girl, won’t they?” The words were as hard as his cock, the push of him taking my breath, my nails sliding down the wall, my fingers gripping the chair rail as he held my hips and eased himself out, then thrust back in.

“Say my name, Chloe. Tell me how much you love it.”

“I love it,” I gasped, my cries rising in volume as he let loose on me.

And I had loved it. I had loved when he’d ordered me around. Had loved it when he took control of my life and made it so easy for me. Had loved everything up until the moment I realized what it cost.

I swallowed hard and tried to concentrate. The car. That was what this was about. “I didn’t put the car in my name, you did. Without asking me. So fix it.”

“The only thing I’m fixing is us.”

I closed my eyes. “You can’t fix us, Vic. We’re broken beyond that.”

“I can fix anything.”

“No Vic, you can’t. You can’t buy trust. You can’t buy back what you did.”

“I made a mistake.
One
mistake. I’ll never do it again, Chloe.
Never
.” His voice broke on the last word, and I heard the sincerity in it. How easy it would be to forgive him
.
To walk away from this tiny apartment and my shitty job as Nicole’s assistant and back into a life of luxury on Vic’s arm.

Everything would be easy, and every day I’d wonder.

If he was really going where he said he was going.

If he really needed to have two cell phones.

If he could be trusted.

It hadn’t been
one
mistake. I knew that in some place, deep in my soul.

“The car already has a parking ticket on it. I can’t afford parking tickets, I can’t afford insurance, I can’t afford
anything
extra. Dammit, Vic, send one of your people to pick it up!” My voice was shrill, the words panicked and angry.

“Chloe, love, I’ll buy a spot for you, I’ll cover the expenses. I already spoke to Joey; he’s going to get you a salary for your work on
Boston Love Letters
, that will help with—”

“Oh my God—STOP!” I screamed into the phone, my voice reaching a pitch it hadn’t reached since I was a child. “STOP SCREWING WITH MY LIFE! I DON’T NEED YOU ANYMORE!” I gasped, gripping a nearby post for support and wanted to hang up, didn’t want to hear his response, didn’t want to hear anything but a dial tone.

There was only silence on the other end. I wet my lips and assumed a calmer tone. “Vic, please listen to me for once. I don’t want any money from you; I don’t want any gifts from you. I am asking you to
please
stay away from me. If you love me, if you’ve
ever
loved me, please respect the fact that I am not strong enough to always do what I should do. I shouldn’t have hooked up with you in the trailer—God, I hate that I did. I shouldn’t answer your calls; I shouldn’t have even read your card. And I
definitely
shouldn’t accept this car. Please stay away from me. Please do not call me.
Please
.” The last word was a final beg in a conversation that already had me on my knees.

When he finally spoke, it was a Vic I’d never heard before. One broken and quiet. “I can’t stay away from you, Chloe. I’ve tried.”

“Try harder.” I sank against the nearest wall. “Please.”

I needed him to stay away because I couldn’t.

Carter was sitting on the front steps of our apartment building when I walked up. His shirt was off, the muscles in his back stretching as he tilted back a cold blue Gatorade. He saw me and finished the sip, standing up as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his abs tightening with the motion, and my eyes dropped down on their own before lifting back to his eyes. He grinned. “Hey, big city. Surprised to see you during the day.”

I shrugged, shifting my purse strap on my shoulder. “Got the afternoon off.” A rare gift from Nicole, one that—I was pretty sure—was motivated by her desire for alone time with Paulo. Behind me, taunting me, the Maserati sat, now behind a gate, in a parking spot that Vic had, in some way, handled.

I smiled, and his mouth tugged up at the corners. I tried to keep my eyes on that smile, to avoid gaping at his shoulders, his sweaty chest, the tone and muscles of his arms as he rested his hands loosely on his hips. I could think of a thousand ways to waste the afternoon with him.

“Well then … given your free schedule, why don’t I take you to lunch?”

Lunch. It’d be our first real date, one proposed entirely by him.

“I’d love that.” I smiled, and he stood up, tossing the Gatorade bottle into the trash.

We made an interesting pair in the sandwich place two blocks over. He’d put on a shirt, the material damp and worn, clinging to his torso—the ensemble perfect for Hot Construction Worker porn. I stood close to him and looked at the menu, discreetly sniffing the air around him. He smelled amazing; masculinity rolled in grass and topped with sex. He had washed his hands when we arrived, the faint scent of lemon now chiming in on the delicious combination. Next to him, I wore skinny white cropped jeans with my Estella wedges and a silk navy top, diamond studs sparkling from my ears, my hair twisted back into a loose and messy knot. The cashier gave me a competitive once over before perking up and zeroing in on Carter.

“Hey Carter.” She flashed a smile that would make a dentist swoon. I stared at her brilliant white teeth and swallowed the urge to ask her secret.

“Hey Monica. How’s it going?”

“Great. You getting the usual?” Her teeth were almost freakish in their perfection. Absolutely straight. I would have suspected veneers if she hadn’t been wearing camouflaged Crocs.

“You know it.” He tossed an arm around my shoulder, and I was able to inhale his smell deeply without looking like a freak. God, forget the sandwiches. I wanted to go back to his place, right then, and work up some sweat of my own. It suddenly occurred to me that I’d never dated a manly man before. I’d always dated Clarke and Vic types—ones that wore suits and valeted their cars and grew muscles in the gym but couldn’t actually swing a hammer. This type of man was an entirely different type of sexy, one that could build me a house, a fire, could protect me in a storm or on the street. “What are you getting, Chloe?”

I ordered a Cuban sandwich and lemonade, and followed Carter to a table. “So,” he started, leaning forward, his eyes on mine. “What’s up with the car?”

I shrugged. “My ex likes to woo. It didn’t work. I’m trying to give it back.” A year of turmoil, summed up in three sentences.

Carter nodded and picked up his meatball sandwich. I picked up my lemonade and took a big sip.

Good talk.

“So … you work as an assistant?”

I nodded, with a wince. “Yes. For Nicole Brantley.” His face was blank, the man not up to date on socialites, and I hurried to explain. “She’s an actress. And her family owns a prophylactic company.”

The corner of his mouth twitched up, into a smile. “Prophylactic? Is that how she refers to it?”

My grin widened. “I honestly don’t know if I’ve ever heard her say anything about it, but her mouth isn’t above the word
condom
.” That was the damn truth. The woman couldn’t complete a sentence without a curse word being present—at least, not in her own home. Out in public, she hid her fangs well.

“Do you see yourself working for her for long?”

I huffed out a laugh. “God, I hope not.” I told him about my tuition bill, leaving out the details that led to my financial troubles, and noticed his eyes, they stayed on me whenever I spoke—almost intimidating in their focus. He was actually listening to me, not just waiting for a chance to speak, his focus one hundred percent on me. It felt odd, a man paying such rapt attention to me, and I tried to remember the last time I had such complete attention, without eyes darting to a phone, or a sentence interrupted, details lost.

“So, once you pay your tuition, then what?”

I took a bite from my sandwich and chewed, thinking about the question. It was sad that I didn’t know the answer. Ever since my eviction, all of my focus had been on surviving. Well … there’d been a pitiful couple of weeks when classes were wrapping up and during finals, where I mostly moped around—feeling sorry for myself. But once that had passed, I’d been so busy, so desperate, that I hadn’t exactly thought through the next step. Would there be a next step? Would I ever save enough to pay off that bill? Or was I stuck, being Nicole’s errand girl, for the rest of my life? I literally shuddered at the thought.

“You cold?” He glanced up at the fan, and I waved him off. Vic would have never noticed. And if he had, he’d have leaned forward and checked out the possibility of headlights in my shirt.

“I’m fine.” I took a sip of my lemonade and noticed him still listening, waiting for my response. “I don’t know what I’ll do after I get my degree. I’ll probably try to find a job in real estate. Something with a salary, maybe in development.”

“You like the construction end of it?”

I let out a strangled laugh that sounded a little like a cry. “Honestly, I have no idea. I chose real estate as a major because my parents pushed me there.” And that was the truth. Something I hadn’t even confessed to myself. Something that—right there in that cheap deli—was terrifying. I was working my ass off to get proof of a degree in a field I didn’t even really
like
. Or
know
if I liked. What if I hated it? What if I was terrible at it? I felt panic growing, my hands trembling a little in their reach of the sandwich.

“Chloe.” His voice was strong and steady and I lifted my eyes to meet his. “It’s okay if you don’t know. That’s what this time in your life is for—to figure it out.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Figuring it out?” Maybe he was actually an attorney, one on construction sabbatical, working on his hammering technique while his fat bank account accumulated interest.

His eyes crinkled a little at the edges, as if he could hear my pathetic inner monologue and found it humorous. “Not exactly. This is as figured out as it gets for me, right now.”

My fantasies stopped their party and slunk back to the dormant recesses of my mind. “You like being a super?” The question came out poorly—like I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to do
that
for a living. I winced at the sound of it and hoped he wasn’t offended.

He laughed. “I do. Plus, it has the occasional perks.”

“Like?” A big bonus at the end of the year? Ten percent ownership of the building?