by Brooks, Abby
Chris lowered his voice. “Do you think they had ties to the mob?”
I very much doubted they had ties to the mob, but I kept my mouth shut. Chris lived on gossip and his days were fueled by imagination and chaos. My more practical suggestions of tax evasion or…okay. I really didn’t have any practical suggestions. There wasn’t one down-to-earth reason for an entire salon to up and disappear overnight.
“Well, hell.” I gathered my things, laying my journal on the seat next to me as I slipped my pen into my purse and slurped down the rest of my iced coffee.
It wasn’t like Utopia was the best place to work. It wasn’t the worst, either. What it did have going for it was that it was a steady source of income. Though, according to Nash, I didn’t really need an income, steady or not. He earned more than enough money to support the two of us, but there was something important in knowing I contributed. Something Nash—with his ‘old money values’—would never understand in the same way he couldn’t understand my friendship with Magic Man. No matter how much I explained that Chris was fun, that he did things his way and loved himself for it, Nash only rolled his eyes and changed the subject.
I took the job at Utopia because I wanted to understand life as a masseuse before I took on the challenges of running my own business—which was the ultimate goal, a health and wellness business of my own. Nash countered that I was stalling because I knew massage therapy was a terrible way to make a living.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
Being a small business owner sounded all hunky-dory and filled to the brim with passion and freedom, but I suspected there was a treasure trove of difficulties waiting to be discovered. The sole purpose of my job at Utopia was to help me understand the challenges of therapeutic massage without having to learn how to run a business at the same time. A very practical and sensible plan to launch my free-spirited career, if I did say so myself.
“I’ll be right there,” I said to Chris as I gripped the phone between my ear and my shoulder, grabbed my purse, and raced out the door.
“Honey,” he cooed, in a voice almost as sweet. “There’s no reason to be here. They’re gone. Poof. Thin air.” He lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper. “Why would anyone get involved with the mob anyway? It never turns out well.”
I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “Yeah. Well. I want to see for myself.” And I wanted to take a picture to prove to Nash I wasn’t making the story up. Not that I was the type to randomly quit a job. And not like Nash was the type to accuse me of lying about my place of employment being randomly closed in the middle of the night. But, you know, just in case.
I scurried out of the coffee shop, taking time to wave at the barista behind the counter, and then hauled myself into my Jeep. The top and doors were off, because duh. Who wouldn’t want to soak up all the fresh air and sunshine Galveston, Texas had to offer?
The sun beat down on my neck and shoulders and the heat stole my breath. But once I got moving, the wind blew away the confusion of finding myself suddenly jobless. By the time I arrived in front of Utopia, I was almost giddy at the thought of starting over.
Maybe this was the push I needed.
Maybe Nash was right.
Maybe I had been stalling.
Maybe the universe noticed and decided to shove me out of the nest.
Time to fly, baby girl. Spread those wings and stop coasting.
I smiled and raked a few loose tendrils of red hair back into my ponytail. Alright then, universe, I thought to myself. I’ll see your bet and raise you.
If the powers that be thought it was time for me to move forward with my life, then I would be a fool to ignore the signs. It was time for change! For self-empowerment! For Catherine Wallace to step out of her own shadow and shine!
Chris sauntered my way as I hopped out of the Jeep. His purple hair swooped and swirled around his head, and his muscles bulged under a yellow tank top. White skinny jeans hugged his solid thighs. But for all the color, and there was so much color, his personality was the brightest thing about him.
“See,” he said, waving a hand at the empty building. “Poof.” He made an exploding motion with his hand and let out a puff of air. “Now what?”
Darla arrived beside him, the total opposite of our Magic Man. Where he was color and flash, she was nothing but black upon black upon black. Long, straight, black hair shone down her back. Black eyeliner rimmed her eyes. Black shirt. Black pants. Black shoes. “Yeah,” she said with a sigh. “Now what?”
Beside them, I felt unnaturally normal in my shorts, T-shirt, and ponytail. “That is a fabulous question.”
“Of course it’s fabulous.” Chris wrapped an arm around Darla. “That’s all I do.”
I snapped a picture of the empty store front, then aimed my phone at my friends. Darla scowled while Chris preened. They both smiled at the image when I showed them. We stood around and chatted about the hows, whats, and ifs for a while before climbing into our respective vehicles in a serious state of confusion.
I picked up my purse and knew instantly something was off. The weight was all wrong. I unzipped it and peered inside. There was way too much space in there. I stared at the yawning, empty bag, my heart yammering away, already aware of what my brain had yet to figure out yet.
Holy.
Crap.
My journal! I had no recollection of it after I set it on the seat beside me at the coffee shop. If it wasn’t in my purse, it had to still be there.
Sweat broke out at my temples and I dropped my head on the steering wheel. I had to laugh, or I’d cry. Of all the things I could have forgotten in a public place, it had to be the leather-bound notebook which held all my thoughts, never bothering to censor myself. The one place I was one-hundred-percent honest about what I was thinking, even when it wasn’t pretty. Or polite. Or remotely socially acceptable.
Years of me lived in those pages. And not the gussied-up version that I presented to the world, but my heart-wrenching moments, my celebrations, my judgements and deep thoughts, my heart and soul.
I smeared my hands over my face, remembering the last entry.
Please, oh please, I thought. don’t let anyone have found it.
And if they found it, please don’t let them read it.
And if they read it, please don’t let them still be there when I show up!
After waving goodbye to Chris and Darla, I pulled out of the parking lot and hightailed it right into a traffic jam, distracting myself from the journal debacle by daydreaming about a night alone with Nash now that I didn’t have to work. His ring sparkled on my finger and I idly spun it round and round with my thumb while I crawled through the thick traffic, wondering if we could use this time to rekindle some of the fire we had lost. Maybe what we needed was more time together. Maybe the sudden loss of my job was a blessing in disguise.
Nash checked off every box on my dad’s list. Wealthy. Driven. Polite. Polished enough to let everyone around him know he came from money.
My mom’s list? Not so much.
Though considering she was the complete opposite of my father in every conceivable way, that was no surprise. In the same way that when they got divorced shortly after I entered kindergarten, it wasn’t much of a surprise to anyone but little old me.
And my list? How many boxes did Nash check off for me?
See, that’s the thing about being raised by two people who see the world in completely different ways. Nash managed to check all my boxes while also somehow leaving them all unchecked. I wanted the predictability he offered but often found myself bored in our perfectly normal life. But, since Dad was living in a comfy home with marble countertops and Mom had her RV parked somewhere in Florida the last I heard, I decided a long time ago to pay more attention to the side of me that agreed with my father.
By the time I made it back to the coffee shop, almost two hours had passed since I left. The chances were slim that my journal was still sitting were I left it. I pushed through the doo
rs and bee-lined for my table. Panic strummed through me for a few terrible seconds that each lasted a year until my eyes fell on a strip of worn leather poking out between the wall and soft cushion of the bench seat. A choir of angels sang. Light shone down from heaven above.
“Thank fucking God,” I said, dropping an ultra-rare f-bomb and drawing the attention of a couple of soccer moms who widened their eyes, excited to have something to be offended about. I swooped up the journal and hugged it to my chest as I bounded out the door, crossed the parking lot, and climbed back into my Jeep.
It was a blessing that no one found this thing. In addition to whining about my passionless experiences with my fiancé, I had droned on and on about the meaning of life, written absurd poems, and doodled out my daydreams. There wasn’t a more intimate primer on all things Cat Wallace than this journal. I ran a hand over the scarred leather cover and flipped through the pages, shaking my head at my carelessness as years’ worth of my looping script blurred in front of me.
Until I got to the last page…
Instead of looping script, I saw tight, formal print…
Instead of blue pen, I saw pencil…
I flipped back to the page and my heart fell into my stomach. That wasn’t my handwriting. Someone had found my journal. Even worse, someone had read it and felt inclined to reply.
Chapter Four
Mr. X’s journal entry
I shouldn’t have read your journal. I know that. When I found it, I thought maybe I could find your name somewhere on the inside, and that maybe, when I gave it to the barista, he would know you and could give it to you when you returned. I thought I could save you from an invasion of privacy.
But your words caught me and before I knew what I was doing, I was the one invading. I should have stopped, but I couldn’t. Your thoughts, the way you see the world…I kept telling myself I’d read one more page, only to continue reading and find something even more beautiful. Or heart-breaking. Or a question so powerful I’d sit back in my chair and ponder the answer.
Your words caught me. They pulled me in, captured my imagination.
I should apologize for the invasion of your privacy, but I can’t apologize for this. It’s like you were left as a gift for me. A reminder that there are still people in this world worth knowing. Your kindness. Your intelligence. Your insight…
I wish I knew who you were. I wish we could sit and talk, and I could pick that marvelous mind of yours before I set about solving your physical problem.
And believe me, I would solve it.
Every woman deserves to have her body worshipped and if your ‘Nash’—I’m sorry, but what kind of name is Nash? Wherever his name came from, if he isn’t doing that for you, then he’s not worthy of the person I found in the pages of this journal.
I promise you, there is more to sex than a ‘second-long dick sneeze.’
If you’re with the right person, it is worth starting wars over.
Worth empires collapsing.
Though I’m not sure anything is worth knives in the backs of friends and family.
If I could spend one night with you, I would trace my fingers along your body as you quivered beneath me. I would taste you and tease you, gripping your waist while you arched your back and moaned. I would run my hands along your thighs, lower my face, and lick and suck until you screamed my name. You’d forget the world in your ecstasy and then I’d make love to you while you came and came and came.
I would ruin you for other men, but you would have all the words you could possibly need to describe the sensation. There would be no more gray and ash and boredom. There would be heat so vibrant, the world would catch fire. Your body would be my temple and I would be your savior and you would never feel like an obligation again.
Any man who takes without giving is a fool.
And I’m sorry, but your Nash sounds like a fool.
I, however, am not.
Contact me. Please.
[email protected]
Chapter Five
Cat
Oh, I was quivering alright, though, I didn’t think it was the kind of quivering Mr. X had in mind. How dare he? Not only did he read my journal, but he had the audacity to reply and the balls to believe he could solve ‘my problem.’
Of all the cocky, self-assured assholes out there, he had to be the cockiest. The asshole-iest. The…the…the worst!
Contact me. Please.
I rolled my eyes. Had he actually believed that would work? That I would read his stupid little note and then be dumb enough to reach out, all wide-eyed and innocent, ready to let a stranger put his hands on me so I could ‘forget the world in my ecstasy?’ Thanks, but no thanks, Mr. X. I knew enough about the world to know not to climb into vans with strangers offering candy.
I tossed my tainted journal on the passenger seat, turned the key in the ignition, and made my way home. Nash would be off work in a couple hours, and I intended to greet him in my sexiest lingerie and highest of heels, a glass of wine in each hand.
I didn’t care what Mr. X said, Nash did not take without giving and I was going to prove that tonight. Besides. We had reason to celebrate. Thanks to a little kick in the rear from the less-than-professional-and-possibly-mob-connected owners of Utopia, I was finally going to start my own massage business.
Images brought to life by Mr. X’s words distracted me as I drove, and my inner thighs clenched deliciously. I tried to fight off the thoughts, but couldn’t stop picturing hands on my body. The hands of a faceless stranger, trailing goosebumps along my skin. His lips, tongue, and teeth teasing moans past my throat. For the first time in a long time, I felt passion—warm and molten—bubbling through my veins.
Feeling guilty, I opted to imagine Nash in place of the highly cocky and inappropriate stranger. All that did was cool the fire, which planted a pebble of sadness in my stomach, so I turned on the radio and sang loudly—and badly—to Taylor Swift the rest of the way home.
* * *
Oddly enough, Nash’s sleek black Lexus sprawled in the driveway when I pulled onto our street.
Nash never missed work.
Even if he was sick as a dog, he would still suit up and make the drive from where we lived in Galveston to his office in Houston. Once, he stayed at work for fourteen hours with a stomach bug so bad anyone else would have taken a trip to the hospital.
Not Nash.
It was one of the reasons my dad loved him so much. You could depend on Nash Addington to do what was right, come hell or high water.
I hopped out of the Jeep, excitement building in my belly. If Nash wasn’t home sick, and of course he wouldn’t be home sick, then the only other thing he could be doing is planning to surprise me with something. We had put off getting married for over a year now. The time just never seemed right, with how busy Nash was at work. And because three of our four parents wanted our wedding to be big and showy, a true spectacle for the socially inclined—with the oddball out being my mom, of course—we just kept putting it off.
Sometimes, when we were curled up in bed, me with a book and Nash looking studious with his glasses and laptop, I’d daydream about eloping. Nash wasn’t a fan of the idea. Or at least he pretended not to be a fan of the idea. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe it was all for show. Maybe, he’d been planning it all along and today was officially the first day of the rest of our life.
I bounded up the walk and burst through the front door, dashing my keys on the table and dropping my purse…right next to someone else’s. I stared at the thing, refusing to think about what it might mean. Murmured conversation and low laughter sounded from deeper in the house and I followed it down the hallway, bending to pick bits and pieces of women’s clothing off the floor until I held an entire outfit in my hand, lingerie and all.
I knew what I would find when I opened my bedroom door. How could I not, given what I held in my hands? But, still, I wasn’t prepared for what awaited me when I pushed into the room. My Nash,
on my bed, kissing another woman’s neck. Cupping her breast. Muttering against her skin the way he used to when we first fell in love. Caressing her. Reveling in her. Completely unaware that I stood there, my stomach in my feet, my heart in my hands, his ring on my finger, and my jaw on the floor.
“What. The. Hell.”
Nash lurched out of bed at the sound of my voice. He stood there in front of me, naked, his erection wilting as the woman shrieked and clutched my sheets to her throat. As if I hadn’t already seen everything she had to offer. And even I had to admit, what she had to offer was spectacular.
“Cat…” Nash cupped his goods and I scoffed. Like it mattered if I saw him naked or not. I’d been seeing him naked every night for the last seven years. He was, in fact, the only man I’d ever seen naked in person. I was so well acquainted with what he was trying to hide that I couldn’t stop from laughing.
“Really?” I pointed at his hands. “Is that really necessary?”
He blinked, but didn’t let go, holding onto his bits like he was afraid I’d try to yank them off. I considered it, but decided the effort and subsequent mess wouldn’t make me feel any better. He blathered on, making one excuse after another about how innocently he and Camille met and how he never meant for this to happen. All while she continued to shriek and squeal like I had a gun pointed at his head instead of the business end of her thousand-dollar shoe.
I wanted to throw it at his head. First one, then the other, then each article of clothing, one at a time, just the way I found them. But I didn’t. There was something empowering about holding onto her clothes. I stomped around the bedroom, spewing obscenities and waving shoes in his face until my anger threatened to turn into tears. No matter what, I wouldn’t let him see me cry. The moment I showed weakness, he’d step in for the kill. He had to see me as a volcano, spewing heat and rage, not a hurt little girl, rejected and crying in the corner.