The old Emily could easily overlook the lackluster sex. I mean, back in those days, I was only thinking about my wealthy, socialite future and Todd Fulgram was a great catch. But his abuse was something I would not tolerate. It started out as verbal but soon escalated. He never hit me but there was no doubt in my mind that real violence was just over the horizon. He mostly just grabbed me hard or shoved me, particularly when he was drinking. And he drank a lot.
One month before I left for college, we got into a major fight and he went ballistic. He shoved me up against the wall of my bedroom so hard my head bounced off it and it knocked a painting to the floor. I kneed him in the nuts and then ran out of my room. I love to reflect back on that moment as I consider that move to be my official breakup notice.
Since then, I have painstakingly tried to avoid Todd. After that incident, he turned to stalking me. Begging me to take him back, offering the sappiest and most insincere of apologies. And I’m not really sure why. In hindsight, he always seemed to be angry with me and didn’t really seem to legitimately care about me as a person. The old Emily was so wrapped up in her own sense of self-importance, that she never noticed her unimportance to Todd. On top of that, I couldn't tell my parents the real reason I broke up with him, so for the past two years my mother has been pressuring me to give him another chance.
The absolute worst thing of all though, is the fact that Todd goes to Columbia as well. When we were together, we both decided to go to the same university so we could be close to each other.
Unfortunately, Columbia is not a very large school so I tend to run into Todd more times than I would like. I merely walk the other way when I see him. He's tried to corner me a few times but luckily, there has always been someone around. The best is when I'm with Fil. She scares the crap out of Todd, I can tell. If he even starts approaching when she's around, she merely growls at him, "Walk the other way, Shithead, or I'll sneak into your dorm room at night and cut your balls off."
Oh, I love Fil!
Luckily, I haven't seen Todd all summer and he's been noticeably quiet. No creepy texts about how he misses me, or voice mails begging to see me. And now...my mother wants me to go on a date with him? This is just going to get him hopeful again and I can barely stomach the thought of being in the same room with him, much less on an actual date.
I try one more time to appease my mother. "I can't go out with Todd. Things were terrible between us. Frankly, he's a little scary. How about I find someone else instead?"
I know what Ryan means when he constantly complains that our mother never listens to us. She just scoffs and says, "Nonsense. He's a perfectly nice man. Don't disappoint me on this, Emily."
"I'm not going to do it, Mother," I say in a spurt of wild bravery.
Celia Burnham turns her icy blue eyes on me. She's silent for just a minute as she appraises me and a thin sheen of sweat breaks out on my forehead. Then she lowers the bomb. "You will do this, Emily, and you will do it with a smile on your face. If you do not show up Saturday with Todd Fulgram on your arm, the following Monday I will meet with our attorney and have your trust revoked."
I stare at her in stunned silence. I try hard not to be materialistic anymore. I mean, I can't help the tons of designer clothes and expensive jewelry I already have, but that trust fund is my means of independence from my family. I inherit control over it when I turn twenty-one, just a mere ten months away. Once I get my hands on that money, I can be free of my mother's rule and I can go to grad school for Journalism.
Ten more months.
I can do this.
Just one more week and one sickening date with Todd Fulgram, and then I'm out of here.
Nix
I dump the cardboard box out on the floor and start pushing the junk around, searching for my target. My index finger on my right hand is wrapped in a paper towel to staunch the flow of blood while I paw through the stuff looking for Band-Aids.
I know I don't have a chance of finding them. Hell, I can't find anything in my house. It's been a disaster for the past three months due to a major leak in my upstairs plumbing that essentially caved in most of the first floor ceiling.
Since then, I salvaged what I could, which basically meant throwing all of my shit that wasn't wet into cardboard boxes. I had packed up my clothes and moved into my little brother's condo until I could get the repairs done. He has a sweet place on the Hudson with amazing views of Manhattan. The only thing that sucks is Harley doesn't have room to run as he does here.
Right now, that lazy dog is snoozing underneath an oak tree in the backyard. I'm glad Linc loves dogs and doesn't mind Harley living in his condo. Otherwise, I'd be living in my soggy house, sleeping on the plywood floors I've just managed to install on the second floor.
It's no use. I'm never going to find a Band-Aid so what's a former Marine to do? I'm going to MacGyver the hell out of it, that's what.
I walk out of my house and go back to my workshop...back to the scene of my injury. I had been hammering a piece of sheet metal that I was forming into a gas tank for a custom motorcycle and carelessly sliced my finger along the edge. It was, oh, only about the millionth time that something like that has happened to me.
Grabbing some duct tape, I walk over to the sink. I throw the bloody paper towel in the garbage can, give a quick rinse of my finger under the tap, then wrap some more paper towels around the cut, pulling tight. I rip off a piece of duct tape off with my teeth and wrap it around my finger. I don't have to worry about a tetanus shot. In my line of work, I'm always up to date on that.
There. Good as new.
Turning back to the metal tank, I run my other hand through my hair in frustration. It immediately falls back into my face and I mentally make a note to myself to get a haircut. I had not cut my hair since I got out of the Marines two years ago, so it's probably time for a trim. I scrub my hand over my face and the soft beard reminds me I haven't shaved in about a week. That tends to happen when I work on a new piece. I get so involved that I lose track of time. This means that I don’t shave, I hardly sleep and I’m lucky if I remember to eat.
The tank is giving me nothing but fits today and the cut to my finger means I need to take a break. I should probably grab some lunch but I'm too lazy to walk the fifty feet to my house. My kitchen is about the only room that doesn't have any water damage, so I can at least eat while I'm here at my shop working.
Foregoing a trip back to the house for food, I open the small refrigerator I have in my workshop and pull out a Budweiser. It's the King of Beers after all. Popping the top, I take a healthy swallow.
Yup. Way better than a sandwich.
Walking over to my old, tattered recliner, I throw my body in it and stare at the gas tank. This is normally a project I could do with my eyes closed, yet I seem to be fumbling. I take another sip of beer and glance around my work area. This is my haven. It's the place I can come to be alone with my thoughts and where I can work my sheets of metal, forging and hammering them into art.
I bought this property when I left the Marine Corps at the young in body, old in heart age of twenty-four. I had saved up a hell of a lot of money during my two tours in Afghanistan, particularly because of the extra hazard duty pay I was receiving. I was able to get the property dirt-cheap. The house needed a lot of work but I bought it because of the large garage and workshop in the backyard. It was the perfect place for me to set up my custom metal smith business.
When people see what I do for a living, and then they hear I was in the Marine Corps, they automatically assume I must have been a welder during my time in service. They couldn't be farther from the truth but I don't disabuse them of the notion. That would require further conversation about my time with the Corps and that is not something I like to do.
No, when I got out of the Marine Corps, my skills were not transferable. There wasn't much call for someone that could shoot a target from a thousand yards away or make a HALO jump from a plane at thirty thousand feet. My ability to evade capture and withstand torture wouldn’t work in the real world. Well, except maybe on Wall Street, but I’m not cut out to wear a suit every day of my life.
Thus, I did the only other thing I knew...metalwork. You see, my old man had been a welder all of his life, so I thought, what the hell. If it was good enough for Pop, it was good enough for me.
Except, I didn't actually follow in his footsteps. My dad still toils after nearly thirty years in a shipyard, welding the hulls of barges and other water vessels. It's backbreaking and brutal work. It's also boring with no outlet for expression, so it's something I have no intention of ever doing.
Nope. I decided to use my welding certificate to make custom pieces of art from metal. That includes anything from custom-built motorcycles to outdoor water fountains to massive pieces of wall art. I had enough money saved up from my time in the Corps that I could afford to take the time to build up this niche business, and I was doing quite well for someone with nothing more than a high school education and years of war under my belt. My bikes sell on the cheap side for $25,000 and go on up from there.
I really am leading a dream life. I'm doing work that I love, making great money, and I answer to no one. What could make my world any more perfect?
I glance over at my desk in the corner of the shop. There is pile of paperwork at least a foot tall that I need to do. I hate fucking paperwork. Despise it even.
Luckily, all of my bills are on auto draft so all I have to worry about is depositing my earnings into the bank. But I tend to ignore the little things like balancing my bank accounts, filing sales tax forms, and making the necessary supply orders. I suppose I could do that now since I wouldn't get any more work done on the gas tank today.
That thought lasts only two seconds and then I dismiss it. I'd rather just sit here and stare at the unfinished tank and drink my beer.
Just as I'm finishing the last of my Bud, I hear someone knocking on the back door to my house. I stand up and peek out my shop window.
Oh, shit.
I sit back down and hope like hell she doesn't come out here to where I am now hiding.
A few seconds pass by and then I hear, "Nix...are you back here?"
Shit, shit. No such luck.
I reluctantly stand up and open the shop door.
"What do you need, Lyla?" I say, with as much politeness as is humanly possible for Nix Caldwell to give.
"Is that any way to greet me, sugar?" She runs a fingertip down the middle of my chest and it's not exactly unpleasant but it doesn't have the punch it used to. Lyla is a beautiful girl, with long blond hair and a slammin' body. She and I went to high school together, and we fooled around a lot back then. Just like many of my classmates, she stuck around Hoboken after graduation. I think she cuts hair in a local beauty salon or something. We've hooked up a few times since I've been back, but I've been very clear that it's nothing but sex. No-strings attached. Each time she says that's all she wants too, but then she keeps coming around wanting to do things together. I expect that is why she is here now and it's baffling to me. Lyla has a few other guys on the side that she has no-strings sex with, too. So why doesn't she go bother one of them?
I'm sure they are a lot nicer than I am.
"I'm working right now," I explain to her.
"Oh, don't be such a drag, Nix. Let's go to the movies and then out for some beers."
"Sorry, Lyla. I've just got too much to do."
She steps in a little closer to me and I can smell her perfume. It's overpowering and burns the inside of my nose. She stands on her tiptoes in an effort to get her lips up near my ear. At six-foot-five, I could bend over and help her out but I don't. She gets close enough though and whispers suggestively, "We could bypass the movies and do something else instead."
There was a time when just those words would have caused my dick to stand at attention and I would have taken her up against the wall but clearly my time with Lyla is about to come to a screeching halt. I didn't have a shred of interest and she's clearly wanting more than no-strings sex.
I step back from her and let her down as gently as Nix Caldwell possibly can.
Which is not very gentle at all.
"Look, Lyla...I'm sorry. I'm just not interested in you, okay?"
Her face falls and the seductive smile she had been sporting instantly vanishes. "But...I don't understand..."
The biggest lesson that Lyla is about to learn from post-war Nix Caldwell is that he has little patience. And when it’s gone, he doesn’t hold back. "What's to understand? I have no interest in you. Period. None. Do me a favor and don't come back around."
Lyla's face looks like it's about to crumble, then rage fills her eyes. "You're an asshole, Nixon Caldwell."
I look at her, my eyes probably as dead as I feel on the inside sometimes. "I know. Now, get out of here."
I turn my back on her, assuming she's going to leave. Instead, an empty bucket hits me in the back of my head. It bounces off and lands on the floor with a clatter. I look back at Lyla and she is wearing a very self-satisfied look, with her hands on her hips and her lips pouted out. For a split second, I think about retaliating...not physically...but verbally.
And just as quickly, it's gone. I simply don't care enough to engage and truth be told, I deserved to have her throw the bucket at me. I just stare impassively at her until she turns around in a huff and leaves my shop.
I reach back into the fridge and grab another beer. I'll have to call it quits today. No working with metal tools or fire when I've had something to drink. It's too dangerous.
Even for someone like me, who has been through Hell and back.
Emily
Crap! I'm late.
I hate the drive from Manhattan over to Hoboken and there's construction going on at the Lincoln Tunnel that has traffic backed up.
I shouldn't be nervous. I'm only going to see one of Ryan's best buddies, Lincoln Caldwell. He's the goalie for the New York Rangers and he graciously granted an interview to Ryan's little sister. I have to get it completed for one of my elective classes, The Economics of Sports.
I went ahead and officially declared my major in Journalism with an emphasis on Sports Journalism. Now, when I say I "officially declared", that just means I declared it to the university and to myself. There is no way in hell I'm telling my parents until I absolutely have to.
It really helps having a brother that plays professional sports and it would have been super easy to just interview him. But I don't share with many people that I'm related to Ryan Burnham. I want to keep my relationship with my brother private because I'm really enjoying the bond we've developed. And I don't want people trying to be friends with me just because my brother plays in the NHL.
So Ryan suggested I interview Lincoln. They became fast friends when Ryan signed on with the team and are pretty tight. I've met him a few times at some of the players' parties and he's a nice guy. A little bit of a ladies' man, but nothing I can't handle. Plus, he probably knows Ryan will kick his ass if he ever makes a move on me. I don't think Ryan will ever tolerate one of his teammates dating his baby sister. Which is fine by me. I may love all things related to sports but I have no desire to ever date an athlete. With the exception of my wonderful brother, most of them are just too full of themselves.
I mentally calculate my time frames. I'll need only about half an hour of Lincoln's time and that will get me back over to Manhattan in time for dinner. I'm eating at Ryan and Danny's tonight and I am so excited. This will be the first time we've been able to get together since the Fall semester started for me.
Ryan and Danny got married last December in a beautiful but simple Christmas wedding. The only ones in attendance, other than the happy bride and groom, were me, Ryan's best friend, Mike, and Danny's friends, Paula and Sarge from Boston. My parents weren't invited because my father was out of the country but I know my mother would not have come. She's still pouting over Ryan's "abandonment of his family" in favor of "that woman with the purple hair". At this point, I think it's safe to say that my mother has completely written Ryan off and that makes my heart hurt for Ryan and Danny. My father, however, has been talking to Ryan so maybe he can talk some sense into my mother. He’s the only person with any sway over her and really, it’s because my mother adores her husband. Truly.
I find Lincoln's condo easy enough and pull into a parking spot. I pull my visor down and check my face in the mirror. No stray mascara marks and my lip-gloss is still shiny enough.
I pull my phone from my purse and check my texts and emails briefly.
Great! There's another text from Todd.
Em...pls call me. I miss u so much. I luv u. We belong 2gether.
Ever since my mother made me go to that fundraiser with him, he's started his stalker behavior again. He keeps insisting that we belong together. He sounds...frantic. As if his life depends upon hitching me to his hip. Right now, it's just emails and texts, which I have been ignoring. But maybe I need to get tough with him.
I punch out a quick reply.
Stop texting me. We r over.
Short and sweet. Hopefully, he'll get the message. Hopping out of the car, I make my way up to the top floor apartment.
Lincoln, of course, welcomes me in and I'm struck by how beautiful his place is. I expected it to be littered with dirty clothes, beer cans and posters of naked women. Instead, his walls are painted a warm, taupe color and he has stylish, black leather furniture. Tastefully framed art prints grace the wall, and the only ode I can see to the fact that this is a bachelor pad is that he has an XBox 360 hooked up to a massive seventy inch television.
Lincoln Caldwell, goalie for the New York Rangers, is as beautiful as his condo. He’s a favorite subject for the newspapers and sports magazines, probably because his face could be considered a work of art in most museums. Dark brown hair, hazel eyes, and sexy hair that’s cut into a gazillion layers, perfectly framing his rugged face. He’d be a dream guy to have if it wasn’t for the whole “I don’t date athletes” thing I have going on.
I’m welcomed in and Linc chooses to have us sit in his living room for the interview. As soon as I take a seat, a huge, furry bundle of what I later learn is a dog comes barreling at me. He...she...it...hops the coffee table and crashes into my chest, sending me backward into the plush, couch cushions.
I'm gasping for air and the dog is licking my face from top to bottom. I hear Lincoln yell, "damn dog" and then he pulls the golden mass of muscle and quivering nerves off of me. I can now see it's a beautiful Golden Retriever...a boy, I believe...and he's staring at me with a big, goofy dog grin on his face.
"It's okay. I love dogs," I assure him.
Lincoln cautiously lets go of the dog's collar and I'm rewarded with the big lug—not Lincoln—coming over to lay his head in my lap.
"Sorry about that. Dog has no manners whatsoever."
I give the furry monster a quick scratch behind the ears and I get a well-behaved canine that promptly lays at my feet and goes to sleep.
The next half hour goes by quickly and Lincoln provides me with an engaging interview. Of course, he can't help by finishing it off with an offer to go out to dinner. I politely decline and he gives me a sad, tortured look. I'm sure that works on a lot of women, but not me. Instead, I give him a professional handshake, thanking him for his time. I do, however, lean over and give the dog a big hug and a goodbye scratch.
Walking back to my car, I glance at my watch. I need to hurry if I want to beat rush hour, although it won't be so bad heading into Manhattan as opposed to coming out.
I get in my little BMW 335i—a high school graduation present from my parents—and put my seatbelt on. I check my phone before heading out. Todd sent me three more texts while I was in Lincoln's condo.
U don't mean that. U still need me.
U need to call me. Now!
Why r u ignoring me?
Reading the last text, I feel an icy shiver go up my spine. Todd is sounding a little unhinged and I'm afraid I might find a dead rabbit in my stew pot when I get home. Gosh,
Fatal Attraction
was an awesomely creepy movie. I hope that it isn't turning into a real life event for me.
Turning the car on, I look in my rear view and side mirrors. Putting the car in reverse, I start to back out. At the same time, my phone rings and I can see on the screen that it's Danny calling. Keeping one hand on the wheel, I grab the phone and answer it, still backing out of my parking spot.
I barely get the words out, "Hi Danny" when I hear a sickening crunch of metal and my car jolts to a stop.
"Shit!" I yell.
"Are you okay?" Danny asks.
"No," I wail. "I just hit something. I'll call you back."
Looking in my rear view mirror, I can't see anything. I throw my phone down and jump out of my car. Rounding the back corner, I am horrified to see a motorcycle lying on the ground with its driver laying a few feet away. I immediately take in that he appears to be okay as he's getting up from the ground.
My heart is thundering in my chest as the crashing realization that I could have just killed a person sinks into me. My legs start to wobble and my head spins.
"Fuck, lady. Don't you watch where you're going?"
I look at the man who is standing up now and looking down at his bike. He takes his helmet off and throws it to the ground in anger.
I vaguely notice that he glares at me but it's like he's in slow motion. He sounds like he's in a tunnel and his voice is getting fainter when he says, "Hey...are you okay?"
His words say he is concerned but I still have barely enough of my wits to discern his tone of voice says he's still very pissed.
I try to answer him but I can't make my voice work. Then I realize my legs are giving way and I see the ground rushing up to meet me. Before I can hit though, the angry man is there, catching me in his arms. I'm vaguely aware that he picks me up and walks over to a grassy area adjacent to the parking lot where he lays me down very gently.
I can feel him put his palm to my cheek, and he taps it lightly. For some reason, I notice he has what looks like a paper towel duct taped to his finger.
Weird.
The guy stands up and walks away. I start to sit up and before I know it, he's back squatting down beside me. He hands me a bottle of water. "Here, drink this. I had it in my saddle bag."
I take a few sips, and immediately start feeling better. I look back again at the man, and it's like I'm seeing him for the first time.
My mouth goes dry and my skin prickles with awareness. He is unbelievably gorgeous. Almost super model perfection, but with a hint of danger and darkness. His hair is long, coming to rest right above his shoulders. It's a dark, brown color with glints of warm, golden highlights running throughout. His eyes are the color of spring ferns and framed by lashes so thick, I'm briefly jealous. His face is perfection. He has perfectly slashed brows, and a perfectly straight nose, and a perfectly square jaw.
He must have been cut from butter is my first thought. Or marble. Or buttery marble.
Best of all, he has at least a week's worth of dark stubble on his face, which makes him look menacing and sexy all at the same time. I take in with appreciation the tight fit of his Harley Davidson t-shirt and dark jeans, showcasing a lean and well-muscled body. He is the exact opposite of any man I have ever thought of dating, and my mother would consider him the Anti-Christ on just his dark looks alone.
I feel dowdy next to him and my hand subconsciously comes up to smooth my hair.
"Are you injured, Lady?"
I'm dumbfounded looking at him. I'm sure he probably thinks I swallowed my tongue in the accident but I have just been blindsided, by what I believe to be, the most physically splendid specimen of a man I have ever seen.
Seriously.
"Maybe I should call an ambulance," he says.
"Emily."
His eyebrows cinch together in confusion. "Excuse me?"
"My name's not Lady...it's Emily."
He gives me an exasperated look and I swear I hear him grumble, "I don't have time for this shit."
I take another sip of water and I'm feeling much, much better now. The fact that I was so petrified I could have killed someone and then almost fainted has completely left my mind. I'm just sitting here enjoying this magically, hot man in front of me.
He stands up and glares down at me. "Do you think you can stand up?"
I nod my head, expecting him to gallantly hold his hand out to me. It doesn't come and after a few seconds, I realize it's never going to come. So I push myself up from the ground, brushing blades of grass from the seat of my jeans.
"I'm assuming you're okay?" he asks.
I nod my head. "Yeah. It just freaked me out when I thought I had killed you. I've never fainted before."
"You didn't faint," he snaps. "You just got a little wobbly."
Okay. What was this asshole's problem?
"You think I'm an asshole? You just ran me and my bike over."
Oh, crap. Did I voice that asshole comment out loud? Apparently, my brain is a little more addled than I thought.
I take a deep breath and then I start rambling...like an idiot. "I'm really sorry. I was distracted. I'm getting these crazy, stalker messages from my ex-boyfriend, and I'm afraid there may be a dead rabbit in a pot when I get back to my apartment. And then I got a call from my sister-in-law, but I know that's no excuse. I thought I had looked. I'll pay for the repairs. Are you injured?"
He's looking at me as if I was an alien. He shakes his head and sighs. "Let's go see what the damage is."
I follow him back over to our vehicles. My back bumper is crumpled in but his bike is a mess. It's dented all over and the front wheel is turned at a weird angle.
I can't think of anything to say, so I offer lamely, "It's a beautiful motorcycle."
He looks at me incredulously. "It was a beautiful motorcycle, you mean."
"Yes, that's what I mean," I respond politely. I feel like such a tool.
"Look, just give me your insurance information and we won't even bother to call the cops."
What? No! He cannot have my insurance information. You see, I've had a little problem with speeding tickets back in Boston along with two other wrecks, that technically were my fault but I could push some blame too on the other drivers if I was that type of person. Which I'm not...anymore. If I get any more insurance points, I can probably kiss my license goodbye.
"No. We can't put it on the insurance," I say adamantly. "I'll pay you for the damage myself."
He smirks at me and it makes me want to slap his face.
No, kiss his face.
Wait...definitely slap his face.
"Lady, do you know how much that motorcycle costs? There's no way you can afford it out of your pocket, and I don't care how much designer clothing or expensive jewelry you wear."
"For the second time, my name isn't Lady. It's Emily," I grit out. "And for your information, you have no clue what I can and can't afford."
"Do you have about $10,000 you can cough up?" he asks. "Because that's what it's going to cost in materials and labor. The front axle is completely destroyed."
Ten-freakin-thousand-dollars? Oh shit, I was in trouble. There is no way I can come up with that amount at one time. My parents let me draw two thousand dollars a month from my trust fund if I need it but he would have to agree to accept payments.
I put on my most conciliatory face. "Look...I am really, really sorry I did this. But I cannot put this on my insurance. I'll lose my car if I do."
"And this is my problem how?" he taunts.