Chemical Attraction
Page 13
Vi scoffs. “Please”—she hops out and extricates me along with her in one jarring move—“I don’t think any of us will have an appetite once we’re through.”
I think on that inadvertent riddle she just gifted me as Sophie grabs my other hand like I were a child, and the two of them shuttle me inside.
“Of course, we won’t be hungry once we’re through, but, believe me, I can eat an entire acre of bloodied bovine. And the onion blossoms they serve here are to die for!”
Sophie pulls me in an alcove just past the entrance. It’s gorgeous in here, rustic pine—its namesake wood—runs through the floor and panels the walls. The dining room is filled to the brim and with at least ten people per table. Boisterous laughter ripples through the air in bursts as people predictably have a great time. A waitress walks by with a giant onion blossom sitting pretty on a platter, and I groan at how crispy and delicious it smells.
“I’ll take two,” I chirp. “I wish Dexter was here with us. We should totally triple date asap! You guys are going to love him as much as I do. He’s so witty, and sharp as a razor when it comes to business. Did you know his parents own a brewery? I smell free beer, witches!” I let out a howl and attempt to give them each a high five, but they’re tight-lipped and slightly distracted while craning their necks into the dining room.
Sophie looks to Vi and nods. “You know, Ember, we just might start that triple date sooner than you think.”
Vi flashes with anger my way. “Like now.”
“What? I’m not dressed. I don’t even have my face on!”
Sophie pulls me in and begins hissing, panting in my ear—and the restaurant, the tiny alcove we’re in collapses on itself as the floor beneath me begins to spin.
A Porterhouse? A bet?
The more she speaks, the more I want to jump out of my skin. This can’t be happening. This is a joke. I pull back to appraise them both, and my stomach plummets as I inspect their solemn faces.
“Oh my God.” I can hardly manage to get the words out. Then as if someone switches off the lights in my world, my body goes numb, and all I see is red. “I’m going to kill him.”
“Atta girl.” Sophie grabs me by the shoulders and navigates us past tables full of chortling patrons, each one with a silly grin on their face, and suddenly it feels as if the entire world were in on my humiliation.
Sophie stops abruptly, her cheek close to mine as she leans over my shoulder. Vi comes up alongside me, pointing to a table in the center of the restaurant. There he is, Dexter Dead Man Dining, flanked on either side by Rowen and Lane. A riotous laughter breaks out at once from the three of them as I stagger my way over.
“What’s so funny?” My voice drifts from me, foreign, unrecognizable, tight with revenge.
The three of them look up simultaneously, and those smiles slip right under the table.
Dexter bumps his seat back an inch as if he were preparing for a quick exit. “Ember?” He glances behind me. “Sophie, and Violet.” He offers an amicable nod, looking confused as hell. His mouth falls open as if to add something, but he glances to his cohorts a moment as if seeking their permission.
Dexter looks damning in that dark suit of his, his stubbled cheeks afford just the right hint of shadow to his comely features, and those marbled dark eyes look as if a storm were brewing. It’s hard to believe someone—the only person outside of my nuclear family that I have given my whole heart to could betray me so cruelly. I guess that’s not true. I had given my whole heart to my father, and he left it on the table when he took off in the night. My love was unwanted then, and it’s unwanted now. How silly of me to think that people had a thread of goodness in them—that Dexter was that person for me. I’m nothing more to him than a nighttime delight, something to heat his sheets, some young pretty thing he can go wild on to fulfill his perverse desires. The Dexter I thought I knew is nothing more than a lie.
Rowen looks to his better half. “Soph, what’s going on?”
I take a step forward. “Let’s have Dexter tell us.” It comes out monotone. The words pull from my lips like toxic fumes. “Say it.” I look right at him as his gaze hardens over mine. “What exactly are we celebrating tonight, Dexter?”
The muscles in his jaw tighten as he gives a brief glance to Rowen and Lane.
A waitress pops up with two enormous platters, one in each hand. “Porterhouse?” She blinks those doe eyes innocently at the boy, and I take the giant slab of meat with a bone running through it like a fissure through my heart.
“I’ll help you with that.” I land the entire platter over Dexter’s shirt before reaching over and snatching a handful of mashed potatoes off his tie and smearing it over the top of his head. “That’s the least of what you deserve for what you’ve done to me. I said I loved you, Dexter!” I shout so loud my voice echoes off the ceiling, and it’s becoming increasingly clear that all eyes are fixed on me. “And you couldn’t say it back. Now I know why.”
His eyes latch onto mine a moment, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was pissed, but I don’t care enough to decode his emotions. I take off for the front with Sophie and Vi in tow as we blow past the crowds and jump into Sophie’s car.
A hand thumps against the rear window, and I glance back to see the look of anguish in Dexter’s eyes as we pull away.
Good. I hope it hurts just like I feel—like hell.
Dexter
Shit.” I bang my head against my headboard. It’s been three days since Ember landed my dinner on my lap, three days since I’ve heard her sweet voice—although it wasn’t exactly coated in sugar at the time. Three days since she cut me with those words, with the pain in her eyes that I never meant to give her.
I stare down at my phone, wondering how in the hell I got myself into this mess. I have nothing against love. Hell, I’ve always known it existed in some manifestation, but the truth is, I didn’t want to feel the knife plunging into my chest like it did with Meghan. I glance over her precious bear. And here that knife hasn’t stopped plunging into my chest since Friday night.
Damn, silly, stupid bet. And for what? Something I could have bought myself night one and should have rather than putting my hand in some juvenile frat boy ante.
My eyes close a moment and block the light from the world, ironic since Ember took all the light with her that night. That night. I was hours away from letting her know how I feel. I was about to pull her close, right here on this bed, and let her know that there has never been a woman who has unlocked my frozen heart the way she has. And now it’s right back to subzero temperatures, burned and necrotic from the deep freeze. There’s no way Ember will ever forgive me. Nor should she. And in the mother of all ironies, it was Trish I opened up to last night. I went over to visit Chelle, who is completely on the mend and apparently headed to the park this afternoon—but it was the fact Trish offered me a cup of coffee that loosened my vocal cords. It felt good to get it all out. The only problem is, I spilled all the right words to the wrong woman. Trish says she’s happy for me—too bad Ember isn’t happy.
All of my groveling texts, my direct approach to knocking on her dormitory door, none of it worked. Blocked at every pass. Something tells me that when Ember Sparks is pissed off at you, there is a better chance of a hailstorm in hell than her ever gifting you a warm smile again. Nope. I’ve done this. I’ve nailed the coffin shut with my ego, and now I’ll have to live with it. For a brief moment, I was living someone else’s life, falling for someone, out of control and reveling in it. I was a poster boy for my own reality show. Ember and I could have had it all, and in the rotten end we’re left with less than zero.
A hard thump comes from downstairs right before the doorbell goes off spastically.
I spring to my feet and fly on down, skipping three stairs at a time just to get there faster. I swing the door open with my heart stomping its way out of my chest, my adrenaline shooting through the stratosphere, but it’s not Ember’s beautiful face I see.
“They’re no longer in hot pursuit.” Scarlett glares at me with those heavily drawn in eyes, those bright red painted lips that look more like a slash than a bowtie. “Why have you been avoiding me? I want you back.” She pulls me in by the tie, a greedy grin taking over her papery skin. Her lips come dangerously close to mine as the hint of hard liquor emanates off her breath. “You know you want me, too, Dex Dex. We’re a good team, remember?”
“You called me a mule, if memory serves correct.”
She glowers at me as if it were all my fault.
“Crap.” I hold up my hands. “All right. I admit I was to blame, but you ultimately showed me the door.”
“You left me no choice!” she riots back.
“And here we are, right where we left off.” I nod to the door. “Come on, this is over. You don’t need my negative energy. I’m sorry, Scarlett, but you don’t have my heart. Let me call someone to pick you up. You’re in no condition to drive.”
“Oh, I’ve been driving all morning.” Her eyes come alive like flames, bloodshot and dangerous. “Would you like to know where I’ve been?” She ticks her head toward the door. “Paid a little visit to that bitch ex-wife of yours who used to call me a country fried skank.” She twitches a quick smile. Those bright red lips of hers look as if they’re issuing me a warning, and I’m taking it.
“You saw Trish?” I glance to my bedroom where I’ve left my phone to rot.
“That’s right.” A sputtering laugh comes from her, and it’s becoming crystal meth clear she’s come genuinely unhinged. “You know who else I saw? My sweet little Chelly pie.” The clown grin on her face turns upside down. “But Trish wouldn’t let me near her.” Her brows tick up as if someone up above were pulling them on a string. “So, I simply got in my car and waited. Said they were leaving, so I followed right along. You really should talk to Trish about being a little more careful.” A long, drawn-out laugh belches from her. “Let’s just say I got my Chelly pie time in while Trish was yacking her head off.” Scarlett takes a step back. Her affect bleeds of all emotion. “She’s in the car now, Dexter. Chelly and I are finally going to be a family. You can be the daddy. Would you like that?”
“Who’s in the car?” The world warps into a pinhole as both rage and worry take over at once. I lunge for the door, and a stiletto boot lands square over my back sending me to the wall. “So help me God, if you hurt my baby.” I twist my way to the door and find myself staring down the barrel of a graphite black Ruger. I know it well. I gifted it to her.
It’s all I can do to steady my breathing. My hands slowly rise as if I were under arrest, my eyes never leaving that damning dark hole that has the power to do me in, change my destiny, make me a memory to my own daughter, to Ember.
“You don’t want to do this, Scar.” I swallow hard, carefully moving my gaze to meet with hers. “Put the gun down.”
Both hands are steadied over the hellish device. Her face is squinted in pain, her mouth pulled down, forming a hard square as she grunts and pants, intermittently holding her breath as if she were standing on the ledge of a skyscraper, death at hand—only it appears it will be mine.
“Give me the gun.” I hold out my hand, slow and steady, hoping she won’t notice that my proximity to hers is closing. “I won’t tell a soul. We’ll get Chelle and go out for donuts like we used to.”
An agonizing sound comes from her throat, caught between a laugh and cry.
“You’d like that?”
She groans and nods, tears pouring from her like rain, muddying up her mascara, making her look every bit as deranged as she’s proving to be.
“Why are you doing this?” My right foot edges out toward her without ever lifting off the floor. “Why do you care so much about me when you can have anyone else on the planet? My God, you have male models by the dozen throwing their briefs at you.”
“I don’t care about them!” she screams so loud the windows rattle, and I freeze like wild game staring down the hunter’s barrel. She closed her eyes when she shouted those words, and I missed my chance. I could have knocked her feet out, knocked the gun out of her hands, but Chelle and Ember blinked through my mind in that brief moment and all I saw was them. If this were it, the sum-total of my existence, I would have lost so much. I would have failed so many. I could be a better person if I tried. I could love deeper. I could show my daughter that it’s good to fall in love, to have someone in your life. I could have said those words to Ember that night at the Pinewood Steakhouse. I should have, and now I see what a coward I was. My ego stood up that night and sealed my mouth shut. I was caught. The evidence was damning, but to hell if I was going to spew the words she needed to hear. I needed to lick my wounds for a moment. And for what? I realized the error of my ways as soon as she took off—only then it was too late. And now with Scarlett tottering on the edge of an emotional oblivion, it just might never happen.
She steadies the gun with her hands as she widens her stance. “Say you love me!” she shrills so loud her voice goes threadbare.
But I can’t say it. The only sound we hear is the firing of that Ruger, shockingly loud, numbing all of my senses, deafening me to the world as I fall to the floor.
A pool of blood pours out of me like oil, like wine, and the world collapses to darkness.
Final Results
Ember
Okay, do not go ballistic.” I shudder as I offer up the final few moments of a pep talk I’ve indulged myself in on the drive from Leland. As far as pep talks go, it wasn’t your standard fare—more like, do not rip the donkey balls from his body upon seeing that smug expression on his face. Not that it’s a given for Dexter to offer up a smug expression, but it is sort of his go-to look. No sooner do I take the final bend on the way to his palatial estate than my phone pings. I don’t waste a second before pulling over. I’m about a house away, and this is the perfect distance to rehearse all the madness that’s been ruminating in my brain for the last few days. Yes, I was pissed when I discovered that my love could actually be measured in ounces, aka a Porterhouse—and I’ll admit, that glistening piece of meat looked mighty delicious that night just prior to me accessorizing his outfit with it—but as Sophie and Vi pointed out, I had reduced his own heart to a year full of potential venti iced lattes. So instead of having it out with him at Leland, I decided that I should ambush him on his home turf and maybe take his ego down yet another notch by letting him in on my own little latte wager.
Dexter sent about fifty texts, all letting me know that what began as a farce ended with something he’d much rather tell me in person. So here I am. In person, ready and willing to hear whatever Dexter Houston has to say.
I glance at my phone, and it’s not a text from Dexter. It’s Trish.
Where the hell is Chelle? Dexter’s not picking up. The police are looking everywhere. Do you have her? Please help.
“What?” I hiss, staring at my phone as if it were suddenly sprouting fiction. No sooner does my hand grip the handle of the car door than I look and spot a figure moving in the black Jaguar in front of me. “It’s Chelle!” I exhale a burst of relief and sag into my seat a moment. Just as I’m about to text Trish back, a woman in a dingy white sweatshirt with the hood pulled partway over her eyes jumps into the driver’s seat and takes off with both the Jag and its pint-sized passenger. “What in the hell?”
I start the engine and roll up a notch, still keeping an eye on that Jag. I glance over to Dexter’s house, and the door is closed.
“Huh.” My gut says ditch Dex and follow that Jag so I do. There’s something odd about her. Was that the old sitter? The one Chelle loved so much? I mean, clearly Dex knows they’re together because she just left his home.
The Jag makes a haphazard U-turn and races back my way. Her hood is off and in its place a spray of red hair surrounds a familiar face that just about any pre-teen in the country could identify.
“Scarlett Stafford!”
She speeds by so fast I can hardly see the top of Chelle’s head in the back seat.
“What in the hell is going on?” I turn my poor clunker around and hit the pedal to the floor, gunning it as fast as I can to keep her in sight. She makes a left back out onto the main road just as the sound of sirens pierces through the air. And instead of driving toward the threatening howls, the Jag makes an abrupt right, ditching into a set of dangerous switchbacks that are carved into a steep hillside. It’s a shortcut that leads to a long, winding road, which eventually spills out into major traffic. I’ve driven it a handful of times myself, but it’s so steep and scary I try to avoid it at all costs. Scarlett takes the blind turns as if she knows them like the back of her hand. Which I don’t believe for a minute, but even if she did, it would be considered dangerous driving and she has Chelle in the back of the car! My God, what if she’s kidnapped Chelle, shot Dexter and left him for dead? I shake the ludicrous thoughts out of my head. There’s no way Scarlett Stafford is that insane.
The desperate video she put out plows through my mind like a semi truck.
“Oh God! She’s that insane!”
Scarlett speeds and swerves her way up the embankment, driving over the lines, skidding out with every other turn. There’s no way she’s sober. She can hardly keep on her side of the road. I have to get Chelle out of that car.
The road opens to a clearing up ahead, and Scarlett sees this as an opportunity to hit the gas, so I do the only thing I can think of—I do the same.
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