by K. Bromberg
I’m so grateful Zander is here and more than astounded at how hard he’s fighting in a battle that’s not even his to fight. I link my hand with his, fingers intertwining, as he continues.
“I know exactly who I’m dealing with. You think I’m scared? You think this grease monkey is scared of you? Yeah, I noticed you sitting across the street while I worked on the car the other day.”
His words connect the dots for me. Yet I’m too mesmerized watching Zander stand up for me in a way no one has before to react to the revelations. In a way I’ve never seen anyone stand up to my father.
“How’s it feel to have to sit behind the tinted windows of your town car parked on your daughter’s street to find out about her life? But if you ask my opinion, I’m not really sure you care. You’ve washed your hands of her well-being for years, so why change now? Ahhh, but you were controlling her in those years, weren’t you? And now you’re not. So you sat there and took in the weathered house and the blue-collar guy under the hood of a car and made assumptions just so you could pass more judgment on her. You have no clue what she’s been through. But I guess I shouldn’t expect anything less from you, should I? She’s just the collateral damage in your empire, and how dare she fight for herself for once, because she might leave a stain on your pristine reputation.” Silence descends around the table. Tension so thick it could be cut with a knife. Both men are frozen in a silent standoff.
My father breaks it first, striving to get the upper hand in a situation he clearly has no control of. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to your immature and unfounded bullshit any longer.” My father throws his napkin down, the picture of flustered fury. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone ever get to him like Zander has. “Stand up, Gertrude.” He shoves his chair back, where it crashes into the wall behind him as he raises his hand to summon the waiter.
“What?” Reflex has me saying the word. Shock has me rising to my feet without me even realizing I’m following his orders. Rather I’m so stupefied over his audacity that he’d think I’d want to go with him even now.
“It’s time to go pack your things and get you back home where you belong.” He grits the words out, temper so close to snapping all I can do is stare at him wide-eyed.
Then Zander’s laugh rings out in the restaurant. Mocking. Taunting. An audible fuck you. “She’s not going anywhere.” The words are delivered with a measured slowness. His tone ice-cold.
“You. Don’t. Control. Her.” The silverware on the table rattles as my father uses his finger to jab its top with each word he spits out. His shoulders are squared and body stretched to full height as he looks down at Zander, who is casually leaning back in his chair.
Zander flashes a smarmy smirk, but his eyes are dead serious when he stands up, now clearly at a height advantage. He leans forward, voice quiet but powerful. “Neither. Do. You.”
My father glares, jaw ticking, before shifting his gaze back to mine. “You have a soft heart, Gertrude, and in this cruel world, it’s a major weakness. Falling for this man is proof of it. He’ll take advantage of you and you’ll come running home broken, with your tail between your legs. I have no doubt.”
My eyes burn. My heart hurts. My head spins.
“Having a soft heart in this cruel world is brave. Not weak. But you wouldn’t know the first thing about bravery, now, would you?” And without another word, Zander links his hand with mine and we walk out of the restaurant together.
“This isn’t over,” my father calls after us.
But all I can think is that it was over a long time ago.
Chapter 22
GETTY
The hammering begins before I take my makeup off. Loud, forceful blows echo through the house and feel resoundingly similar to the way my father’s words felt when he spoke them. Impactful. Relentless. Damaging.
And as much as I want to go and ask Zander why, right now of all times, he’s working on the deck, I don’t. I need a moment to myself. Time to decompress.
Sitting in front of my vanity, I stare in the mirror and go over the events of the day. Waking sated and feeling incredible. The morning of discord. Zander’s confessions at the Treehouse. The zip-lining. Just jump. His voice fills my memory and a trace of a smile turns up my lips. The dinner with my father. Zander’s surprise offensive on my behalf. The absolute silence on the drive home, both of us lost in our thoughts.
I close my eyes momentarily and allow my composure to crack. Weeping for the loss of a father who was never really a father—but I’d always held out hope he would see his wrongs and right them some day. A little girl always wants her daddy to love her. Tonight proved to me that will never happen and that not everyone sees love the same.
But then again, I should have known that already, since Ethan once professed his love for me and look how that turned out.
Outside the sounds of the hammer continue. Five sharp hits before a reprieve, during which I can assume he picks up another nail to start the process all over again.
With a sigh I lift the makeup-remover towelette and wipe it over one eye. And then the other. I rub and scrub and remove the mascara and eyeliner as best as I can. Try to rid myself of the face of the weak woman I no longer want to be.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
When I open my eyes to my reflection, my lids are clean, but traces of black shadow remain under my eyes. A smoky black stain telling me she will never leave me. That I’ll always be that woman until I can erase the darkness that still lingers. The shame. The insecurity.
So I scrub harder. The pounding noise becomes a sound track to my burgeoning panic as I wipe and scrub to rid my face of every last reminder. Of the past I desperately wish I could forget.
Before I’m done, my movements have grown frantic and my emotions run haywire as the tears that I’ve held back all night slowly slide down my face. Some of the black makeup smears and makes trails down my cheeks. Visual reminders when all I want to do is get in the car and drive. To somewhere new. Away from the pain. Away from the hurt.
But I can’t.
Zander proved that tonight with the truths he threw in my father’s face. I showed it too. I stood up to him for the first time in my life. And God yes, it was hard and it hurt, but at the same time it felt so damn good. To finally have a voice, a way to assert myself, and prove not only to him but to myself that I am earning my new place in life. That the meek, scared Gertrude no longer exists. Sure, her memories remain, but I will try to use them as fuel to encourage me to succeed rather than as a fear preventing me from doing something.
Rising from the vanity, I pick up my discarded dress on the bed. I rub my fingers over the expensive fabric and place it in the laundry with the knowledge that I’ll never wear it again. To Mable’s it will go.
A symbol of my past sold for pennies on the dollar. I wish my memories were as easy to get rid of.
With a grumbling stomach, I head toward the kitchen. I’m hungry but don’t have any desire to eat. That sick-to-my-stomach feeling I had listening to my father’s disdain still lingers.
When I glance out the kitchen window, I see that Zander didn’t even bother to change. The first few buttons of his shirt are undone, cuffs rolled up at the sleeves. His shoes are off, bare feet sticking out beneath his trousers. But it’s the etched look of concentration and anger that holds my gaze.
He moves to a rhythm only he knows and I can’t help but watch and wonder why he’s so upset. Because he is upset. On the way home, I thought his silence was just a courtesy so I could work through how I was feeling. But now as I watch him, shoulders squared, body tense, face reflecting the civil war of emotions going on inside him, I know his silence has nothing to do with being respectful and everything to do with him.
I just wish I knew what it was.
There’s a precision to his actions that’s mesmerizing and probably best explained as control
led fury. And I’m not sure how long I stand there and watch him, but the more time that passes, the need to do something for him after all he’s done for me tonight develops to the point where I can’t ignore it.
Food. Food helps and comforts. He skipped dinner like I did, so I’m sure he’s hungry, but more than anything, it gives me something to do and will ease my restlessness. Normally I’d lock myself in my room and paint, but for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel inspired. I’m drained and not sure I can handle any more emotion being thrown into the mix.
So I’ll attempt to cook.
The flashbacks come out of nowhere while I’m rummaging through the cupboards and the refrigerator to see what ingredients we have on hand.
The beef bourguignon I had to prepare every Monday and the herb-crusted chicken that was mandatory on Wednesdays and all the other particular preparations Ethan required when our house staff had the night off. The plates upended in my lap because the beef was too tough or the sauce wasn’t thick enough. My answering scramble to hopefully fix what I could so I didn’t have to give him the proper apology he’d deem fitting for the infraction.
The sound of the hammer pulls me back to the present. Never again, Getty. Never. Again.
I look back to all the offerings in the kitchen and struggle with what to make, slightly amused that while I can cook four rather complicated meals to perfection, I really have no idea how to cook anything else, since Ethan never accepted any variation.
Settling on the one meal I can’t screw up too horribly, I opt for eggs, bacon, and toast. Simple. Almost error-proof. And with the hopes that the same meal we had this morning will bring us back to that feeling of contentment we found at the Treehouse.
Soon I’m lost in the easy preparation, but when I reemerge, the hammering triggers thoughts I don’t want to acknowledge. How I want him to slow down, take a night off . . . because the faster he finishes the repairs on the house, the sooner he’ll return to his everyday life.
Away from here.
Once the food is cooked, I load the plates and head toward the sliding glass door just as Zander comes in.
“I figured you were hungry. . . . We skipped dinner. . . . So I made you something.” Suddenly I’m stumbling over the words, feeling ridiculous that I’m nervous about it. “It’s nothing special.”
His eyes widen at the sight of the food. “Yeah. Thanks. I’m hungry.” Somehow it seems the words are just as hard for him to come by too. “Let me go wash up. Thank you.”
When Zander returns to the kitchen, a strange look flickers over his features as he sits down. “Breakfast for dinner, huh?”
I fight the inherent need to apologize. “Yes. Is that okay?”
A soft smile graces his lips as he shakes his head. “Just reminds me of my parents, Rylee and Colton. They used to do this thing when I was younger. They’d pick one day out of the month where we got to eat pancakes for dinner and ice cream for breakfast.”
My laugh floats through the room as the warmth of his smile translates into his eyes. There’s something about the quiet nod of his head that tells me this is a good memory. One he’s fond of. After a night filled with tension, it’s a welcome sight and I want to know more. “Why?”
“It had something to do with when they were dating. Holds some kind of special significance, but anytime I asked to know more, Rylee would shoo her hand at me and say that sometimes you need to live in the moment and enjoy the little things, because you never know what tomorrow brings.”
“She sounds like a neat lady.” My comment causes a shadow to fall across his face before he concentrates too hard on the food on his plate. “You must miss her.” My voice is soft; I’m treading cautiously into unknown territory.
There’s no response aside from silence. Then the scrape of the fork over the plate. The crinkle of the paper napkin. The clink of ice in his glass. So we sit and eat in the quiet of the house that only moments ago was filled with the angry noise of the hammer. Now we both seem loaded down by the weight of our own solemn thoughts.
“It’s good. Thank you,” he finally says with a nod of his head, but he still doesn’t meet my gaze. And I’m left wondering what exactly he doesn’t want me to see if I look too close.
“Mm-hmm.” My vague response earns me a lift of his head so I can finally see his eyes.
“How are you doing . . . after earlier . . . tonight, I mean?” And I know he’s serious, wants to know, but there’s a sadness in his gaze that has me wanting to delve further into what’s going on with him. I only wish I knew how to go about it without him feeling like I’m crossing those boundaries of his.
I shrug listlessly. Scoot my eggs around on my plate as I try to figure out the answer. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hurt. . . . Everyone wants their parents to love and approve and want the best for them.” Something flashes in his eyes and disappears just as quickly. “But at the same time, what was shocking for you to hear was my everyday reality. I’d assumed some of those things were true for so long . . . and then hearing you say them out loud, throw them on the table, was a double whammy. Recognition and hurt all in one swoop. And his reaction . . . his lack of response told me it was all true.”
“Shit, Getty.” He blows out a sigh and runs his hand through his hair, sounds apologetic. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Because it was your battle to fight and I couldn’t help myself. I stepped in when I shouldn’t have. Because sometimes there are truths you know deep down, and it’s only when someone else says them aloud do you really hear them. Those are the ones that hurt the most.” His voice is barely audible. I know he’s not just talking about tonight but rather his own life too. “So, I’m sorry.”
“No. Don’t apologize. Don’t you get it, Zander?” I hold his stare for a moment before I continue. “You’re the only person who has ever stood up for me in as long as I can remember. And you’re right. The truth stings when you hear it validated by someone else . . . when someone else who has known you for a whole five minutes sees it clear as day. But do you know what that meant to me, knowing that my feelings mattered to someone enough for them to stand up to one of the two people who have disregarded me for so long?” Tears well in my eyes. The ones I promised I’d never shed again when it came to my father.
He nods ever so slightly, lips twisting and eyes closing momentarily in thought. “You deserve to have someone fight for you, Getty.”
My heart swells at his soft-spoken words. “We all do.”
He opens his mouth several times to say something before stopping himself. And even without words I can see his vulnerability. His need for more from me and yet what that more is I’m not sure.
Without warning, he shoves his chair back and averts his eyes as he grabs his plate and brings it to the sink. “It was good. Thank you,” he repeats. “You cook a mean breakfast.” His voice is gruff, the chuckle he emits strained.
He begins washing his plate and when I look down at mine, I realize that I barely touched it. Well, except for the bacon . . . because, hello, it’s bacon, but the rest of my food just looks spread around. The food I fixed for comfort now seems to have done anything but that.
At a loss, I clear the table in silence and wipe down the counters I already cleaned before we ate. I keep busy while I try to put my finger on what has upset Zander. When I set my plate next to the sink, his wet hand reaches out and grabs onto mine. Startled, I look up to him. His eyes are intense. Angry. All-consuming.
The handsome, valiant, considerate, funny, drop-dead-sexy man in front of me after such an emotional day stops me in my tracks. There’s an undeniable need within me to feel close to someone. Everything collides at a fierce pace. And from one beat to the next, throwing reason and boundaries and everything I’m supposed to think about but don’t want to right now out the damn window, we meet in the middle.
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br /> Our lips crash together in a whirl of need and want. Passion ceding way to pure greed. Finesse disregarded by our hunger. We turn into a frenzy of motions. Hands groping. Mouths demanding. Bodies grinding closer.
His mouth closes over my nipple through the thin cotton of my cami-tank. My head goes dizzy. My hands unbuckle his trousers without any conscious thought. Goose bumps race over my skin. Hands finding his skin warm, cock hard and ready for me. My body begins to ache. His hands slide inside my waistband, and the cool air of the room strokes my skin as he pushes my pajamas down. The ache turns molten; liquid desire burns its way through every muscle. The clatter of dishes being swept into the sink startles me. Our smothered laughs as his lips find mine again. His hands on my waist, lifting me up, setting my butt on the counter. My legs part automatically. The tear of the condom wrapper from his wallet.
My desire is ravenous. Real. Unbridled. So very new to me.
Our movements slow. Our gazes focus downward where his dick is unhurriedly pushing its way into me. The torturous anticipation of watching me take him in—while the sweet burn of my muscles accommodating him inch by inch seeps through my entire body. Nerve by nerve, sensation by overwhelming sensation.
And then when he’s fully sheathed—with his hands gripping my thighs and my fingers digging into his shoulders, a moan falling from both of our mouths—the urgency returns. The carnal need takes over as our bodies move in sync, trying to give and take and own and sate.
Murmured words fill the room, the running water of the sink the only other sound. Now. I want you. Yes. I need this. Oh God. Right there. Fuck. Harder.
He pulls me into him. His hands slide under my tank and brand themselves to my back as he picks me up a bit to adjust the angle. And just that tiny change—my weight the determining factor for the depths he can reach—catapults the sensations he’s drawing out of me from borderline heaven to full-blown ecstasy.
His name on my lips. His dick swelling inside me. The need to lose myself in something other than what happened tonight. His hushed pants in my ear as he works our bodies into that point of no return.