Deliver Us (The Sinful Duet Book 2)

by Skyla Madi

  “She was getting better,” he snaps, cutting me off. Clearing his throat, he casts his attention to the main meals section of the menu. “Her treatment was working.”

  Try as I might, I can’t hold my disdain in, and it warps my face into a seething scowl. “You make it sound like she’s sick.”

  His lifts his beady stare. “Isn’t she?”

  “If you consider being human is an illness, then sure.” I shrug. “She’s terminally ill.”

  Marcus’s glare deepens. “I don’t expect you to see where I’m coming from, Caleb. You’re as sick as her.”

  No. I’m much sicker than her. If only he knew how deep it ran. What would he say if I told him his daughter is the only cure for my sickness? That I get my dose on her tongue? Her flesh? Between her…I grab my beer and swallow a gulp of it. I’m not ready to go there. Being with Cassia isn’t about sex. Sex isn’t what fixes me. The sickness in my soul can only be cured by recapturing her heart. Everything else comes second.

  “I didn’t bring you here to fight you or your beliefs.”

  He lifts his eyebrows, and his disbelief is sarcastic and offensive. “No?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you bring us here, then? To twist the knife in my back? To push it a little deeper? I trusted you with my greatest treasure, my biggest achievement.” He drums his chubby fingers against the table. “You gave me your word, said I could trust you. The second I turned my back, you just couldn’t help yourself.”

  I don’t deny it, the second part anyway. If he’d been more open to Cassia dating, then maybe it would’ve ended differently, and she’d be in Paradise Valley instead of New York City.

  “Marcus…” Linda whispers, reaching out to touch his hand.

  How she can stomach touching him is beyond me. He can play the victim all he wants, but I know the truth—Linda does too, but she’s useless, as usual.

  The waiter arrives, and Linda and Marcus order from the menu. I relax in my chair, content they’ve decided to stay for a while longer. I have to salvage my relationship with them in order to show Cassia I’ve been working on our future. That’s what Penelope said. In hindsight, I don’t know why I’m taking relationship advice from a seventeen-year-old girl, but it can’t make it any worse.

  Cassia’s parents and I wait in silence for twenty minutes. I finish my beer and start on another to take the edge off and grit my teeth against the incessant sound of Marcus’s thumbs as they hit the table over and over. I envision shoving my chair back and diving across the table to make him stop when a final tap rings out and he sits forward on his elbows.

  “I hurt her,” he admits, and my attention flicks to his face. “I know I did, but I only ever had her best interests at heart.”

  “You smothered her,” I feel the need to point out. The girl had no phone, no computer, no means of communication outside of work and church—there wasn’t even a lock on her door. She had no privacy.

  “I was trying to protect her.”

  “You slapped her face.”

  He flinches, and I purse my lips against another onslaught of accusations. I can’t help but feel like he’s offering me an olive branch and here I am smacking it away.

  “I…I…” Marcus’s eyes soften with regret, and his face turns a shade of pink. “I’ve lived with the regret ever since.”

  “She was miserable, and I made her…not miserable,” I say finally. I think it’s important he understands how she felt living in the cage they built for her and how it played out is part of our relationship. “Cassia wanted nothing to do with me in the beginning, despite how desperately I pursued her. We didn’t get together to piss you off. Despite everything you two had done to her, she didn’t want to hurt either of you.”

  We simmer on what’s been said until the main course has come and gone and we’re handed a pretentious dessert menu. As the waiter takes our orders and walks away, Marcus bursts into tears, covering his face. Linda and I exchange glances of shock as he fights to pull himself together.

  “I’ve been a horrible father,” he mutters, swiping at his nose, avoiding my eyes. “Cassia was such a perfect, innocent little angel, and I was her whole world.” His sad lips quirk with a tiny, warming smile, but he keeps his stare on the table’s linen. “We were inseparable, weren’t we, Linda?” Squeezing his hand, she nods her head and dabs at the corner of her eyes with a napkin.

  “Somewhere along the way…she grew up and changed. I resented her new interests, her hobbies. I used religion and the strongest name I knew to control her—and I shouldn’t have. I just…I just wanted to keep her the way she was for as long as I could.” His expression falls into a deep scowl. “And then entered—”

  “Thomas,” I cut in. I feel my expression change too, a scowl to match his. Fucking Thomas. The boy who took Cassia’s virginity. The lucky fucker who had her before anyone else—who’ll always have her before anyone else.

  There’s a pregnant pause, and I almost tell them the reason I invited them here, but dessert arrives quicker than expected. The three of us stare at our mousse. My appetite for it is gone. Seems like theirs is too. Regardless, I pick up my tiny spoon and sink it into the chocolate dessert. “I’m moving to New York to get her back.”

  Linda gasps, covering her mouth with her slender fingers, her red, manicured nails almost touching her watery eyes. “You’re going to see her?”

  I nod, choosing not to mention she won’t be happy to see me.

  “And where do we fit into this?” Marcus asks, eating a spoonful of mousse. “You invited us to dinner to tell us you’re going to New York?”

  Nervousness threads through my chest and tightens my lungs, a real deep strand of it. “Yes and no.” I run the sweaty palms against my thighs. “I want to marry her.”

  He pauses, his mouth hanging open, his spoon mid-lift. “You want to marry my daughter—my only daughter?”

  I nod again. “Yes.”

  Clearing his throat, he drops his spoon into his dessert and pushes it to the side. Leaning forward on his elbows, he pins me with an indifferent stare. “I’ve heard stories about you, Caleb Andrews.”

  I lift my shoulder and drop it, glancing around the room. People stopped openly staring at us forty minutes ago, but every now and then I catch a pair of eyes lingering in our direction. “Everyone has.”

  “Are they true?”

  I look him dead in the eyes. “Some.”

  “And you want our blessing?”

  Blessing? No. I don’t need their blessing. I’ve never needed anyone’s blessing to do anything, ever. What I need is a ceasefire. I need to repair this bridge so I have something to show Cassia. I want her to see I’ve been here laying the ground work for us. For our future. It’s the only way I can atone for letting her go so easily.

  “I’m not asking for your blessing, Marcus. It makes no difference to me. I invited you to dinner to tell you I want to bury the hatchet and move on from here. What Cassia and I have is real. It wasn’t some sick plot to get back at you. There was no malicious intent. We went about it the wrong way, sure, but we weren’t given a choice.” I adjust my position in my seat, moving forward to place my elbows on the table to match Marcus. “I’m not going to lie to your face and tell you the stories you heard aren’t true, most of them are, but I was in a bad place after losing my sister and my mother. That’s no excuse, plenty of people have lost loved ones, I know, but what I did, I did to survive. I was spiraling out of control, that I admit. Then I met Cassia and…” I don’t want to share the details of us with them. It’s too private. I’ve already opened myself up. I can’t rip my heart out and show them too. I clear my throat. “I love your daughter, that’s no lie. She saved my life.”

  I avert my gaze to the exit, wondering how long it’ll take me to get outside and have a cigarette. A habit I’ve taken up again since Cassia left. Out of obligation, I stay seated.

  “If you can bring her home,” Marcus starts, drawing my attention, “even for a
short visit, I’ll pay for the damn wedding. We just want to see her.”

  Swallowing, I think about the conversation I’ll have to have with Cassia in order to get her home. There’s a chance she won’t go for it, but if it means having her parents on my side… “I can bring her home.”

  “Do you promise?” Linda asks, making herself a part of the conversation for the first time tonight.

  I nod. “Promise.”

  New York City

  Present

  A small bell chimes as I push open the glass studio door and step into the heated space, leaving behind the harsh New York winter. I rub my hands together and breathe into them, desperate to warm my fingers before they snap off. I can’t believe people live here. It’s fucking inhumane. I’m from Arizona; I can’t thrive here. Christ. On average, there are two-hundred-and-ninety-four sunny days per year in Paradise Valley. On the news this morning, news anchors threw a pot of water into the air and I watched as it turned to ice and blew away in the wind. Luckily, our apartment building has incredible heating. Most of the time, I can get away with wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, but it doesn’t change the fact it’s cold as hell outside. Cassia couldn’t’ve run away to one of the four deserts we have in Arizona? It’s no wonder she’s become such an ice queen. It’s hard to be happy when the weather is freezing your blood in your veins.

  Reluctantly, I shrug out of my coat and hang it on the coat rack as a sugary, mature laugh pings through the air. Turning, I push my fingers through my short hair and step off the black landing, into a messy office space cluttered with paintings—wrapped and unwrapped—distribution orders, shipping slips, and bubble wrap. I inhale the smell of paint, sage perfume, and roasting coffee and hold it in my lungs. Somewhere among the scents, I notice a faint hint of turpentine. Exhaling, I walk through Bree’s spacious office area and into the studio at the back. Sure enough, there she is, pouring steaming coffee into two large mugs, the phone jammed between her shoulder and her ear.

  My lips quirk at the sight of her, and I can’t help but feel relaxed. At ease. It’s the power of her company, the soothing aura she emits. She claims it’s because of the different kinds of crystals she’s loaded the studio with, but I don’t think that’s it. Like her Aunt Agnes, Bree has a big, kind heart. She didn’t have to take me under her wing—or offer me studio space—but she did.

  After Cassia left, painting with Agnes and Bree was the only thing I enjoyed. It was the only thing that brought a smile to my face. I was young, but I used to draw and paint before Penelope was taken and my mother died. I’ve learned so much working with Bree, even developed my own style and technique. The other artists that work here are legitimate. They sell paintings left, right, and center, and make big money. I’m small time compared to them. Bree says I remind her of her humble beginnings. It’s hard to believe her successful art empire grew from a small Etsy store on the internet.

  “Okay,” Bree sings into the phone. “I’ll let Michael know. Thanks, Peter. Bye.” With her free hand, she takes the phone and sets it on the counter beside the mugs. “Good morning, Caleb,” she greets me with a broad, bright pink smile over her navy, sweater-clad shoulder. “How are you?”

  “Fine.” I lean against a stone column, watching as she sets the pot of coffee down and saunters to the fridge for creamer, her big blue and floral boho skirt swaying as she walks. “How are you?”

  “You sure you’re fine?” she asks, ignoring my question, casting me a concerned side-glance. “Do I need to call my aunt?”

  I push off the column and saunter toward the skinny, white counter to stand beside her. “Don’t bother her. I’m fine, honestly.”

  “Really? Because you look terrible.”

  I snort. “Gee. Thanks.”

  She gently slides a mug of coffee toward me, and I stare into the tan liquid. I never used to like coffee, couldn’t stand the taste, but Cassia likes it. On occasion, I’d taste it in her mouth and it became addicting. Now, most days, I drink more coffee than I probably should. I love the taste, the smell, and the tiny buzz of energy in my veins. It reminds me of her.

  “You’re dressed well, and you smell good, but your face is…” She pulls a face—a zombie face, I assume—and a laugh bubbles from my chest.

  “I’m ugly. I get it.”

  Scoffing, she slaps my shoulder and turns her body toward me. I peer down at her. Bree is a short, little thing. She claims he was taller when she was younger and that turning forty-five has robbed her of a few inches.

  “You’re not ugly. I don’t think you could be ugly even if you tried. I’m just saying…” She reaches up and pushes my hair around with her fingers, an attempt to tidy me up. It’s how I’d imagine my mom would do it, if she were alive. “You look tired.”

  “I threw a party last night. Didn’t sleep.”

  Scoffing, she pushes my head, releasing my hair. “Ick. You’re gross.”

  “It’s not like that.” I grab my coffee and shout after her as she strolls into her office. “I had too much on my mind.”

  “You wanna talk about it?” she shouts, somewhere out of view.

  “Pass, thanks.” I walk over to my station and set my coffee on my counter beside the easel that holds my current work in progress. I yank off the veil and sit on the stool in front of it. A giant pair of pouty, parted lips cover my medium canvas. Exactly how I left it two days ago. At the time, this piece seemed so easy, but then…I guess they’ve all seemed easy in my mind, before I put my brush to the canvas.

  “How’s Paul?” I shout through the studio, knowing the question about her new husband will draw her from her office. I like having her close when I paint. It fills me with confidence. Helps me detach and keep from falling too deep into my art. “Is he liking his new job?”

  I wait a few moments then, sure enough, she’s to my left, easing herself onto her usual stool. It’s not often we have the whole studio to ourselves, but when we do, painting is easier. I glance sideways at her as she tilts her head, analyzing what I’ve done so far.

  “Paul’s great. I’ve never seen him so happy.” She points to the top lip of my artwork. “Add some more highlight along the cupid’s bow. Working in the museum is the best thing to ever happen to him, you know?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” I say, reaching for the thinnest brush I have, lying against the edge of the easel. “He’s married to you.”

  “You are so charming it makes me sick.” Bree grins and turns on her stool, her long black hair twirling with her as she grabs my sealed box of pre-mixed paints. “Okay, so getting a job at the museum is the second-best thing to happen to him.”

  I laugh and take the paints from her. I’m glad she’s happy. Her marriage to Paul was shotgun. It happened overnight, but I’ve never seen a couple more in love than they are. Maybe it will wear off over time. Maybe it won’t. I hope it doesn’t. Bree deserves the world. We haven’t known each other for a long time, but it feels like forever.

  “Oh!” She shoots off her stool, swiping her waves out of her hair, making her feather necklace jolt against her chest. “Before I forget, I’ve got to go to the post office to get some supplies, then make some calls. We sold three of your paintings overnight and they need to be shipped out today.”

  I lift my eyebrows. Three? Overnight? That’s a new record for me. “Oh, yeah? Which ones?”

  “The eyes, the arched back, and the lips with the rosary beads. I’ve already transferred your percentage through.” Bree eyes me curiously, a sad smile on her painted lips. “Buyers really like your muse. How’s it going with her?”

  I hate it—her sympathy. I turn my attention back to my painting. “Fine.”

  “Ah.” She exhales, planting her small hand on my shoulder and squeezing lightly. “I assume the party, the lack of sleep, and the ‘fine’ feelings are relative?”

  I don’t say anything. Normally, it’s easy for me to open up to Bree, but I’m not feeling it this morning. I just want to paint, sulk, and figure o
ut what the hell I’m going to do to win her back.

  “Well,” she says, blowing air from her cheeks, “you’ve got my cell number. Call me if you need anything.”

  I nod and she walks off. When I hear the front door shut, I reach into the pocket of my black hoodie and pull a little black velvet box from my pocket. I needed it with me today. Having it on me helps replenish my strength to keep going, to keep chasing her. The ring was Cassia’s great-grandmother’s. Her father gave it to me when he drove me to Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix.

  The gold and diamond ring in this little black box represents my entire future. My salvation.

  Holding my breath, my stomach rolls as I open it up and set it next to the canvas for inspiration. I grab my brush, dip it into my paint, and deepen the shiny highlights over her beautiful, curious, lustful nineteen-year-old lips…

  …exactly how I remembered them the last time I kissed her.

  Chapter Five

  C A S S I A

  “These are your menus. One of our friendly wait staff will be right with you,” I say, smiling politely. “Enjoy.”

  The elderly couple thank me as they open their menus, and I walk back to my place behind my podium by the entrance. I stand there, bored, wishing I were anywhere else, but I shouldn’t complain. I don’t like my job on the best of days, but at least I’m out of that dingy, alternative dive bar I worked in when I first came to New York.

  I glance into the empty restaurant and blow out a heavy, exhausted exhale. The dinner rush is tapering off finally, and in a few minutes, my shift ends and I can go home. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, the awful thumping music from last night beats against my skull. I close my eyes and say a silent prayer, hoping to God that Caleb isn’t planning on throwing another one of his all-night parties.

  “I wonder if management knows their hostess sleeps on the job?”

  My eyes shoot open, and there he is. The man of my dreams, the star of my illicit nightmares. I straighten, my heart taking a dive into the tips of my high heels. “Caleb? What’re you doing here?”