Inner Core: (Stark, #2)

by Sigal Ehrlich

  Morning rolls in, bringing with it a vile migraine due to lack of sleep. I shuffle around getting dressed, but before I can make a cup of coffee, a knock at the door thwarts me from puttering about any further.

  Who the hell?

  With basic lingerie as my only articles of clothing I shrug on one of the thick, snuggly robes from the bathroom and head over to check who could be knocking at my door at this hour, which, in my opinion, is too early to be even considered legal.

  “Room service.” A smiling set of white teeth attached to a short blonde bursting with energy greets me. For a moment I gaze at her, puzzled.

  “Uhm, I didn’t...” I begin, but stop, realizing that no, I didn't order any breakfast but that yes, someone else had done it for me. I frown and roll my eyes at the notion, then notice that the confused server thinks I just rolled my eyes nastily at her. I hold my finger up signaling for her to wait a moment, and sprint to bring her a ten dollar bill from my purse.

  “Thanks.” I shove it into her hand as I take the breakfast tray from her. When she glances at the money she tilts her head and flashes me a radiant smile.

  “Have a great morning, Mrs. Stark,” she says happily, and leaves. I shake my head at the tray in my hands as I set it onto the table in the sitting area of my insanely posh suite. A smile sneaks onto my lips when I notice the coffee mug. Tasting it, I can’t stop my smile from stretching further.

  Just the way I like it.

  Halfway into my caffeine dose my phone disturbs me; I check the screen and my face twists.

  “I said I needed time,” I say sharply, not bothering with any greeting.

  “Boy, you're moody,” Daniel says in his morning lazy, husky voice. I can just imagine him still in bed, disheveled and sexy as hell, perhaps scratching his crazy morning hair, or that six pack of his.

  I shake my head. I shouldn’t be drooling; I am pissed.

  “No, I'm not moody.” My irritation returns and quickly swells. “As amazing as this revelation might be to you, there are times when I'm not too eager to put up with your crap.”

  “I see,” he responds. I can hear him shift on the other end.

  “You can’t even begin to fathom the magnitude of how hurt and mad I am, Daniel. You really fucked up, big time. You know what, let’s just not talk now.” I sigh.

  “Fine.”

  And we end the call. Not a moment passes and a message lands in my phone.

  Daniel: Hales, believe me I can fathom the magnitude of how hurt you are, and as I’ve mentioned before, I regret this more than you think I should.

  The next knock at the door startles me from going through my emails, and also makes my heart jump high en route to my mouth. Could it be him?

  “Coming,” I say as I walk over to check who it could possibly be this time.

  “Good morning. I here for you morning treatment,” says a fleshy lady, her words rolling through a thick Russian accent.

  I’d forgotten. The reception clerk mentioned something last night about a treatment scheduled for this morning. Studying the masculine lady in front of me, I stop myself before rolling my eyes this time.

  She looks me over and strides in without a formal consent, carrying a folded massage bed under her arm as if she were clutching a morning newspaper.

  “Undress,” she commands, and a survival alert pops up in my head telling me to run for my life.

  “It’ll, err, it’ll have to be just half an hour,” I stutter quietly.

  She pouts her lips and nods disapprovingly. Perhaps it’s better to be late to work than to upset this Olympic shot-put champion.

  Amazed by how gentle her touch is, I let myself finally relax and enjoy the welcomed pamper. I take in a rich indulging breath. Resting my eyelids I absentmindedly summon the most horrifying scene to my head. A steamy session between Daniel and a perfect body, blurred face woman makes my stomach nervously agitate.

  “Sorry,” I manage to say to the lady above me, before running with one hand over my mouth and the other trying to cover my hanging lady parts to the en suite. In my haste to vomit my bowels into the toilet I don’t even close the door behind me.

  “You davai? You okay, lady?” The short cut, fair haired face appears at the door frame of where I am kneeled oh-so-gracelessly on the floor in front of the toilet. I take a deep breath, highly self-conscious at my disadvantaged position and nod.

  “Pregnant?” Her accent rolls the terrifying word. My eyes tear open, flashing to look at her. Goodness Gorbachev, NO, are you nuts?

  Just as I try to find a way to get the burly androgynous out of the room, as massage is the last thing on my mind right now, she growls, “Pregnant, no massage!” Serving my excuse on a silver platter. I bob my head timidly, with an awkward simper, affirming. She observes me and shakes her head exasperated, mumbling something in her mother tongue under her down coated lips. Folding the bed she continues murmuring to herself, things that even in her enigmatic language don’t sound in my favor. At the noise of the closing door I lift myself up and stagger to wash my face. Staring at my reflection in the mirror I frown, pissed as hell.

  “Jerk,” I direct to my ass of a boyfriend, shuffling to the bedroom to get ready for work.

  When Ken doll Josh, aka boss, concludes with the last of my tasks for the day, he suggests we go out for coffee to further discuss the coming trip to the Maldives. Content at the needed distraction, especially being this exciting topic, I gladly comply and even offer that it’ll be my treat.

  “I need you to iron out all the loose ends with the photographer and the stylist til the end of the week. I want everyone to confirm the dates and time tables before we send out the official agenda.” He takes a bite of the cheesecake in front of him; I nod as I put it all down in my tablet then turn to take another sip from my recyclable cup.

  “Umm, that should also include Ian,” he adds and his lips twist in a devilish grin saying my un-biological brother’s name.

  An incoming message alert beeps from my phone draws both of us to look at the device rested between us. Josh’s sleazy smile at Ian’s mentioning doesn’t fade. It takes me a minute to figure out what I am looking at as I observe the peculiar multimedia message. There are two framed color boxes next to each other, one looks like a dark chocolate shade and the other a deep patterned crimson.

  Daniel: Which one do you prefer?

  What in god’s green earth does he want? Is this a twisted way to get my curiosity up and make me communicate with him? I am not playing along!

  A mixture of both.

  Whatever it is I am not being hauled into it. Josh farrows his eyebrows and I just shake my head in response, signaling for him to go on.

  When I return to my desk there is another message from Daniel.

  Daniel: Lets talk!

  You can’t tell me the moon is shining and expect me to just drop everything and gape at it.

  Daniel: WTF?

  No, we will not talk now.

  Infuriated, I call Tasha and give her a quick count of the turn of events since I left her last night. I need to vent this out before I reach a boiling point.

  “I think imagining your boyfriend screwing someone else is Dante’s forgotten tenth circle of hell,” I sulk.

  “True, so don’t imagine,” she states somewhat dryly. “What an ass,” Tasha adds.

  “Couldn’t agree more,” my answer comes back as a murmur.

  “But he still has a point,” she voices rather tentative.

  “Et tu, Brute?” A small croak comes from the other end.

  “C’mon Hales, he does have a point,” she justifies, sending me to new levels of exasperation. Can’t she just be less logical and more livid for once?

  “Still a major ass, but an ass with a solid point. You guys broke up.”

  I take a moment to think and she mumbles under her breath, “But hey, if you choose to go for murder, I’ll help hide the body.”

  I snicker, deeply pleased with the support, but I’m unable
to enjoy it for long before she continues in a harder tone.

  “How many wrongs did we commit between the two of us before we got it right?”

  Mrs. Logic is back, way too freaking soon.

  “Still,” I sound like a stubborn, grumbling little kid, nevertheless not caring.

  “Let him stew and think about it in the meanwhile. Now I’ve got to go work for the ass, missy.” We both giggle hanging up.

  For the next few days I refrain from talking to Daniel, though he persistently insists on talking to me, not that it helps him in any way. He also keeps sending those bizarre emails and texts with questions about my likes or dislikes, which I shrug off with simple yes or no replies.

  Chapter 17: In the Best of Hands

  Ian, ever concerned about my wellbeing, or more precisely my lack of merriment in this case, invites himself over to my humble new pad after work to free me of my alleged misery. His exact words are somewhere along the lines of, “You're depressing me via telepathic transmissions, and gorgeous, we both know how I don’t do depressed. It threatens me with wrinkles. So today I am going to exorcise these hideous, mood inflaming maladies from your gorgeous soul.”

  And who could really argue with that?

  Of course before hanging up he reminds me, “And in the meantime, regardless of your mood, always remember the holy trinity.”

  When I ask doubtfully what the heck else he wants from my poor soul, the answer is, of course, “Drinks, laughs, and sex.”

  I open the door on the second knock. On the doorstep of my temporary shelter stands the exuberant half of my duo of soul mates, radiant and ever-dapper. I observe him, thinking that only Ian can make a simple black tee and a pair of worn cargo pants look like red carpet couture.

  Ian presses a kiss to my lips just before letting out a loud whistle and proclaiming, “Holy mother of divine fuck.” A giggle rolls off my tongue. “Poor little Hales, crushing in this hobo’s temp solution.” He twists his lips in utter sarcasm.

  I make a face and shrug at the obvious absurdity of this place.

  “Let’s go, gorgeous.” Ian offers me his hand after glancing around the oversized, posh, exaggerated room one last time.

  “Where to?”

  He glances at his massive orange scuba watch then his gaze turns my way, in sheer devilment. “Bubbly O’clock.”

  “My favorite time of day.” I smile in agreement and push the door closed.

  Before settling into one of the cozy sitting areas at the hotel’s lounge bar, we approach the provider of our legal drugs for our drinks. Ian gauchely checks out the attractive, preppy bartender, thoroughly scanning his gaydar embedded eyes over the poor guy, who seems discomfited.

  “We’ll have the Drescher, cava,” he finally says with a clearly bored tone after taking a short peek at the drink menu.

  Gaydar results flashing red: playing for the wrong team.

  “Sir, unfortunately we are out of cava. Will spumante be okay?” The bartender, despite having been violated visually, responds very politely.

  “Will paying with monopoly money be cool?” Ian snaps, deadpan.

  I can’t help the snicker escaping my mouth and send the bartender a quick apologetic smile. “Spumante will be just fine, thank you.” I jump in before Mr. Bitchy here decapitates the guy for not having the right bubbly.

  “We’ll get the drinks to your table,” the bartender says to me, sending Ian a fleeting, hostile look.

  As we wait for our drinks, I examine the room around me til my eyes rest on a lady sitting two tables from us. From out of the corner of my eye I see that Ian has also spotted her. The horror is clearly visible on his face as he scrutinizes her way too colorful ensemble. And, as anticipated, the reaction doesn’t take long to come.

  “Did Bozo cum all over her?”

  I crack up into snorting laughter at his gracefully illustrated metaphor, and in response his lips quirk impishly. “Do people do it on purpose?” He lets out a perturbed sigh. My brow arches inquisitively. “Not even a quick glance at a freaking reflective surface before leaving home?”

  I giggle at Ian’s grossly exaggerated exasperation, to put it mildly.

  He glances my way from under his lashes and titters. “This could truly scar me for life. Seriously, some people just shouldn’t be!”

  “I love it how you never, ever overreact,” I say, and he shrugs, then explodes into low chuckles.

  I thank the waitress for our drinks and sign the bill to my room, then raise my glass for a clink, which Ian mirrors. Hearing Ian’s phone ring I cock an eyebrow. Checking his screen, he presses the end button.

  “Seriously?” I ask, referring to the ringtone.

  “Well gorgeous, my milkshake does bring all the boys to the yard.”

  I shake my head, amused.

  We sink into conversation about Ian’s latest adventures, including an all-nighter chick flick marathon with Tasha in preparation for the new movie in the series to come out. The next topic we dissect is my voluntary exile and Daniel’s erroneous “accomplishment”. After I recite a long speech about how disgusted, hurt, and angry I am with Daniel, Ian takes possession of the conversation.

  “Gorgeous, you know, at the end of the day logic goes only so far, and though you try very hard to avoid it, the heart does play a major part.” He sizes me up with his exotic green eyes that are fenced in by long dark lashes. “How much do you love him?” He brings the tall champagne flute to his lips, his eyes not leaving mine.

  “Can’t even be quantified.” I heave out an annoyed acknowledgment, knowing well how, long ago, I carved Daniel’s name in my heart. For eternity.

  “As I see it...” He stops to remove smeared mascara from beneath my eye with his finger.

  I roll my eyes inwardly at the gesture. Ian’s tendencies to obliterate personal space have grown on me: I'm almost indifferent to them now.

  “...the key ingredient you’ll need in order to get to the celestial is…to let go.”

  Reflexively my lips tug into a twisted frown.

  “Do you really want to start world war damn three over this?” His brows rise. “Read my lips, Hales. You guys were on a fucking break—screw that, you actually broke up!” He bobs his head, emphasizing his logic.

  I wrinkle my nose, a gesture that doesn’t completely express my agreement with the point he just made.

  “So just stop this shit already and go home, or at least meet him for god’s sake. Let him apologize the hell out of this one.”

  When I simultaneously shrug and sigh, Ian’s smile widens. He next jibes, “Between the two of us, gorgeous, you can deny it if you want but we both know that even methadone can’t help with this addiction you’ve got, huh?” He pats my thigh and grins, overly confident as ever.

  “I’ve got it so bad, don’t I? Sometimes I could hate myself for it.” I shake my head. “What's become of me, Doc?”

  Ian’s lush lips turn into a half smile.

  “The prognosis, my gorgeous patient, is that you have a severe psycho addiction, and its complications are incurable.” He hugs me and kisses my lips. We trade assenting stares. “So it’s forgive and forget,” he declares.

  I nod, still contemplative. We were broken up when it happened. Painful as it is, it's the truth. Even hurting as I am, I can’t hold it against him, not forever. If it could only be easier, telling wrong from right.

  “Hales.” Ian rests a tanned arm on my shoulder, pulling me close into his embrace, fluttering his lips over my temple. “Just so we're crystal clear here, forgive doesn’t really work without the forgetting part.”

  I lean my head on his shoulder and nod with a bitter arch of my lips.

  Almost impossible to execute, but true.

  “What would I do without you?” I lean deeper into him.

  “You’ll never have to find out.” He kisses the crown of my head, solemn this time.

  I simply adore you, Ian.

  “You know as well as I do that we are so much better
together,” he says, taking a sip of his fizzy and lets me have some of it too. He then gently pats my lips with a napkin, making me smirk, elated.

  “With you and me in this universe that crap about great minds thinking alike should be revised to great minds are totally kickass together.” I let out a short laugh at the amended idiom. “It’s not that, god forbid, I'm trying to dismiss your wise dogma, but I haven't contributed much to your educational monologue, peaches.” I emphasize 'monologue' as I say it, tilting my head to give him a syrup glazed smile.

  “Well, you contributed enough.”

  “How, exactly?” I bat my eyes at him like a doll.

  “By listening while looking so striking.”

  I shift to sit up straight and give his shoulder a friendly smack.

  “C’mon, I’ll help you pack,” he says, offering me his hand and I sigh, this time in consent. The feeling of physical disgust that has clung to me like second skin for the last few days is showing the first signs of departing.

  “Anyway, sulking is so spring 2011. Put the gloom away, babe, it’s so un-chic. I need a smile on these lush lips of yours.” He grins, all teeth and wrinkles around the eyes. “Hayley J. Grace, now is the winter of our discontent!”

  I let him pull me to the bank of elevators, murmuring, “I so wish…” Even with this new resolution in mind, when it comes to Daniel the little voice inside my head keeps nagging at me to guard myself carefully.

  Chapter 18: Forgive and Forget?

  “I think we’re finished here.” Ian gestures toward my few packed belongings that rest on the enormous bed. “My work is done. Me going.” I nod and hug him tightly, standing on my toes to peck his groomed, stubbly cheek.

  As though on cue, my phone rings. Ian cocks an eyebrow and almost falls into hysterics when he hears my new ringtone. I cringe and hiss at him through gritted teeth. “Not proud…”

  “Perfectly timed,” Ian murmurs. “Go home, and have make-up sex til your body raises the white flag.” He grins over his shoulder and shuts the door behind him.

  “Daniel,” I answer trying hard to sound indifferent.