The Perfect Plans Series [Box Set] (43 page)

Alex says nothing to her and I’m surprised to see he’s followed me into my kitchen sanctuary. Although not quite invited in, the opened door prompts Julia to follow in his wake.
Damn . . . I can’t escape now.

Alex leans his hip on the island, his hands working his t-shirt, preparing to slide it over his head, his corded muscles rippling in the action. I catch Julia momentarily gape at the sight.
Take a picture, bitch!
I snarl at her silently.

Tugging his shirt into place, he interrupts the silence, “What the fuck do you want, Julia?”

Finding the momentum to close her gaping mouth, she looks towards me, then back to Alex before replying, “A bar brawl, Alex,
really?
” I cut into her with my eyes at the suggestive contempt in her question, although her firm stare towards Alex leaves her unaware of my imaginary daggers.

His hands are braced on the edge of the island, his knuckles white with building rage. He offers nothing in reply. I can see the fury pass across his beautiful face—a face that only a few short moments ago was smiling in playfulness. Screw her for having the power to ruin that. I feel nothing but contempt for this woman.

His silence prompts her to continue, ‘“What were you thinking? And with Ben of all people! Jesus, Alex.”

“You, ‘of all people,’ have no fucking place to lecture me,” he glares at her, his words laced with venom.

“What the hell does that mean?” she snipes in return, although I see she’s somewhat taken aback by his unforeseen disdain.

Her ignorance seems to fuel his bite. “You have the fucking gall to come here and stand there acting like you didn’t fucking cheat on me with my
best friend?
”

Shock is clearly written all over her face.
Take that you cheating whore.

With the intensity of the conversation—a rather one-sided conversation mind you—I feel like a voyeur. My rational mind points out that as much as I want to be witness to Julia’s smack down, care of Alex, I don’t want to be in the middle of it. I feel uncomfortable and out of place.

I’m almost relieved as she looks towards me pleadingly, “Will you give us a moment, Aby?”

If it wasn’t for my anger at this woman for hurting the man I care deeply about, I’d almost feel bad for her. Having borne witness to Alex’s anger, it’s not an enjoyable experience to be on the receiving end. But she deserves it. However, in private, I realize, preparing to walk out of the kitchen.

Before I make one step in retreat, I jump at Alex’s biting reply, “She’s not going anywhere.”

Painful moments of shocked silence fill the room.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” he snarls.

Ever the professional, she takes a deep breath, clearly gauging how to proceed. “No,” she answers, her shoulders squared in assertive defiance.

Alex releases a chilling, sarcastic laugh. “At least you’re finally being honest about something.”

More silence. Agonizing silence. Again, I feel wholly uncomfortable. “Maybe I
should
leave you two alone,” I suggest, treading lightly in hopes of being excused.

“Aby, sit the fuck down. You aren’t leaving,” he orders, prompting me to swiftly take a seat.

Submitting to my continued presence at his order, Julia continues arrogantly, “Alex, whatever anger you feel towards me right now, it doesn’t negate the shit storm we have to recover you from.”

“Shit storm, Julia?” he questions, his eyes flaming.

“Yes,” she snipes back. “Your image, Alex . . . ” pausing to take a breath of composure, she continues calmly, “Your
image
is what I’m worried about. Your impromptu bar brawl is plastered all over the media.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

“Well, you should. Ever since you fell into this
relationship,
” she twists the word, waving her hand towards me, “ . . . you don’t seem to give a shit about anything—your career included.”

He says nothing, never relenting his gaze, anger coursing through every inch of his body.

“I’m not sure how to save you from this one,” she continues. “The producers called. They want you in LA tomorrow. What if they want to pull the contract?
Now
do you give a shit?”

“Then fuck the contract,” he retorts.

What is he saying? What have I done? I don’t want to be responsible for damaging his career. I sit, listening in panic. Wanting to scream,
‘
I’m sitting here too!’ Wanting to tell Alex to listen to her. Needing to feel anything but this helplessness.

“You’re going to let this fling ruin your career?” she asks in sarcastic awe.

I can’t believe what I’m witness to. Has his career truly taken a backburner because of me? Am I responsible for this? Needing to make him see reason, I pipe in, “Alex, maybe you should . . . ”

“Get the fuck out, Julia. Email me the meeting info. Tell them I’ll be there.”

Seemingly at a loss for words, she glances in my direction with one last embittered look of scorn before turning to leave, slamming the door behind her.

Silent, we remain in place, having not moved since her exit—as dramatic as her entrance.

“Alex, we should to talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he replies, still staring at the empty space previously inhabited by Julia.

“Yes there is,” I continue in earnest. “This is your career. This is
affecting
your career. I’m affecting your career.”

He runs his hands through his hair. “No one is going to tell me who I can and cannot be with,” he replies with disdain, effectively silencing me. I can do nothing but stare at him, his hands held in place in his curls, vacant, unreadable blue eyes staring straight ahead.

We remain this way, lost in the aura of madness that has enveloped the flat in that last five minutes. Since
her
arrival. I squeeze my eyes closed as if to wish away the unconscious replay of her loud, demanding door knocking, and subsequent entrance. Feeling helpless to the tormented rage that I see has swallowed Alex, I realize that I have lost him to his anger, as I did last night. I flinch at the familiarity of the feeling.

All because of me. This is all my fault.
I
caused this. Julia’s right.

WORK SUCKED TODAY, to say the least. My escape to the office was worsened further after receiving Alex’s call to say he’s stuck in LA for a few more days. I’m not sure what’s worse—his being away for another lengthy period of time, or knowing that the basis for his departure is to repair the damage from his fight with Ben. Damage for which I hold myself responsible. Well, partly responsible. Regardless of the situation, and what went down, I’m a key player in all of this. I have to accept that.

It certainly doesn’t help that he won’t talk about it. I tried my hardest to get him to open up after Julia left, but he shut me out. He doesn’t even want to entertain the conversation. I know he’s hurting. And rightly so. But I wish he’d communicate what he’s feeling with me. Since I feel somewhat to blame, I’d really like to repair some of the damage. At least to his betrayed heart. It’s beyond frustrating when all you want to do is console and mend, but you’re shut out.

My lingering guilt has seemingly taken hold, left solely with my own thoughts as companionship in my lonely flat. I miss him so much, and I know that even if he were here with me now, I’d still miss him—I’ve felt a distance between us ever since Julia’s visit. It leaves me feeling bereft and anxious. I’m not quite sure where to go from here, but dammit I’ll do whatever I need to. It’s killing me to know he’s hurting. I’m so overwrought with guilt that I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t even want to imagine what he’s having to say, or do, right now in L.A. I’ve never been exposed to Hollywood producers before, but I can only guess what type of wrath such bad publicity would ensue. I pray to God this doesn’t affect his upcoming movie. I’m not sure I could handle being the cause of that.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.
Ugh.
Who could be visiting me now? Still seated on the sofa, staring absently at the floor, I curse slightly under my breath at my unwanted visitor. I just want to be left alone. Begrudgingly I push myself up to make my way to the door.

Opening it slowly, I find Julia standing on my front stoop. What the hell is she doing here?
I have absolutely nothing to say to this woman,
I think to myself, moving to close the door in her face.

“I have something you
need
to see.”

Her words linger, causing me to open the door slightly. “And why would I want to see anything you have to show me?” I reply with sarcasm, my annoyance lacing my gaze, “I’m pretty sure I don’t have the blood alcohol level to deal with you right now.”

“It’s not about Alex this time. It’s about you,” she continues in firm urgency.

Okay, bitch, you have my attention.
Inhaling and releasing a deep breath at my decision to concede, I motion for her to come in. “How do you even know where I live?” I question, leading her into the living room.

“I’m very resourceful. I take my job very seriously.”

I turn to object to her last statement, “You said this wasn’t about Alex.
I’m
not part of your job.”

“Indirectly, of course you are. As long as you’re sleeping with my client,” she snipes back in aggravation.

“Oh,” I laugh, continuing with my own venom, “ . . . for the purpose of
this
conversation we’re referring to Alex as your ‘client,’ as opposed to your ex-boyfriend—the man you slapped in the face with a good fucking of his best friend. You have way too many blurred lines between your personal and professional life.”

“This isn’t about me. It’s about you,” she retorts, slapping a pile of newspapers on the coffee table.

My eyes are immediately caught by the sight of my name—my repeated name—on every one of them. Looking back to her, I exclaim in accusation, “Did you . . . ”

“I don’t aid in the tarnishing of Alex’s image. I aim to protect it,” her tone is laced with disgust at my insinuation.

I stare at her momentarily, lost to the sudden whirlwind of dread that appeared at the sight of this morning’s latest news. In a daze, I sit down on the sofa, reaching for the papers. I slide them apart, slowly separating each one enough to read their headlines.

Alexander Tate’s mystery woman is a mystery no more

Alexander Tate’s mystery woman is revealed to be Abigail Ryan

Canadian born, Abigail Ryan is the mystery woman seen with Alexander Tate

“This time next week, the captions will be much more riveting, of course, when they include the details of your . . . ” she pauses at my panicked darting gaze. “They’ll include everything, Abigail.”

“But how . . . ?”

She rolls her eyes, “It’s the media’s job. I found out everything I needed to about you after the first media frenzy. I had the upper hand because it was my client. The rest of the media world is catching up, and now that they have your name, your history is their next agenda.”

The room is spinning. Returning to the papers before me, I unconsciously search the words as if they’ll alter before my eyes—a desperate need to make it all stop.
Is she right?

Oh my God, of course she’s right. They’ll dig into my past.

“They’ll include Liam. Do you really want to drag him into this? Do you really want to hurt him again?”

“Liam has nothing to do with this!” I jump up from the couch. How dare she talk about him as though she knows him. Or me, for that matter.

She seems slightly amused at my outburst. “Sure he does. Don’t be so naïve. And don’t shoot the messenger. I didn’t put you in this predicament. Your life choices are your own doing.”

“You don’t know anything about my choices, or why I made them!” I continue to scream, moving around the table to stand before her in my sudden confrontation. “What happened between Liam and I is none of your business!”

“You made it my business, the world’s business, the minute you decided to move into Alex’s life!” she screams back, before pausing to compose herself. Her disposition suddenly calmer, with an almost understanding tone, she continues, “That’s the world Alex lives in, Abigail. He lives in the spotlight—his fame at the cost of the scrutinizing eyes of the public. A world I don’t think you want, or are able to live in.”

Staring at her, my mind races, overloaded with everything I’ve seen and heard since she walked in the door—the media headlines filled with my name and her suggestive remarks about my wants or needs.
Damn her!
Why did she have to come here? “I live in the same world as you, Julia,” I bite sarcastically.

“Do you?” she questions in equal sarcasm. “This isn’t the movies. This is the
real
world. It’s not all fairy tales and happy ever-after. It’s a cruel, realistic place where people make mistakes and are scrutinized, not forgiven. Where dirty laundry is the news of the day . . . ”

“So this
is
about you. You, Alex and Ben. This is just a vengeful attack towards me for airing your dirty laundry.”

“Oh Abigail, go home. You don’t have the faintest idea how to survive here.”

“Here?” I question her continued riddling. “What the hell does that mean? Here with
you?
Does my presence in
your
world hinder your promiscuous lifestyle? Am I now a renewed reminder of the stupid choices you’ve made? It must sting to know that I
was the one who told Alex that you slept with Ben.”