His Town

by Ellie Danes

  The weight of the world had seemed crushing on that night. I remembered holding my head in my own hands. Pissed off that he’d left the meeting, but even more pissed off that his drunken bullshit caused me to lose out on some much needed sleep. With that, I’d found myself drifting off.

  The next morning, I’d gotten up off my dad’s couch and made my way into the kitchen, where I somehow managed to not step in the broken glass from the cup he’d knocked over. I made him breakfast, and was surprised when he didn’t insist on coming to the office with me. Instead, he’d eaten his eggs, thrown up, and then shuffled back to bed.

  Whatever had been bothering him had really been bothering him, and I had been worried.

  Around midday, he texted me with a pissy attitude. “What the hell is going on today? Keep me informed,” the text read.

  I’d responded with a simple, “Shut the fuck up. Relax. Be back soon.”

  The job would still be there when he was feeling better, but he didn’t seem to care. In perfect Dad fashion, he texted back, “Shove it up your skinny ass. I’m fine. Keep me informed.”

  Now that I thought back to it all, I had no idea what all happened that day. I had no idea what Jerome had to say, or what people asked when they realized John Cross was a no-show.

  All I remembered was that — just to piss him off — I let him know every single little non-work related thing that happened. Every time I moved a pen. Every time I took a piss. Every time I scratched my nose. Every time I heard Jerome kissing ass. Every single thing I thought of, I texted him about all of it.

  The only thing work-related that I actually remembered was the fact that I’d had lunch with the board members. I’d had no idea what we talked about. Just that I did my best to smooth over his bailing from the night before.

  When I left the office, I’d gone straight to his penthouse. “So I met with the board today,” I said. “You’re going to have to make it up to them, for bailing like that last night.

  His slightly bloodshot eyes stared up at me in surprise, like he hadn’t expected me to take the reins.

  He sighed deeply before nodding his head. “You’re going to do well.”

  “Do well at what?” I asked.

  “Running the company.”

  “Hardly!” I choked, completely amused just before clearing my throat. “But luckily we don’t have to think about that for a good long while.”

  He growled in what seemed like annoyance, and now that I thought back to that day, I wondered if he had any sort of clue of what was coming in his near future. I could have kept the conversation going and discussed what he was really thinking. I could have pushed for some kind of emotion from him, maybe some truths on the past love—who was not Mom—that he’d lost. Unfortunately, I was too uncomfortable with emotion to do anything like that.

  Now, though, the more I remembered that day, the more I wished I’d just had the conversation. I could have talked to him about it, heard what he had to say about the past regrets he had, and his thoughts for the future of the company. At the time, I wasn’t ready to hear about his expectations for me, but now I wish I’d just sucked it up because now I didn’t have a clue what I was supposed to be doing except sitting at that stupid desk in that stupid fucking office and looking at documents on my computer, or having meetings with rich men who were just as bored and angry as I was.

  I still wondered to this day if he ever came to the conclusion that I’d helped him get to his bed that night he came in drunk, or that I’d heard him talking and ranting about all those weird things. I wondered if he even cared. I also wondered if he’d remembered anything that he’d said to me. If it made him nervous that he’d somehow given me a glimpse into a world he’d kept hidden from me so long before.

  It had certainly made me nervous. I barely knew anything about my dad. What was it that he had been talking so heatedly and passionately about that night? What had bothered him so much?

  I knew those questions would never be answered — especially not now. But even if he hadn’t died, I probably still would have never found out what his erratic ramblings had meant.

  It would have wrecked him if I’d ever brought it up. I had hoped that from that day forward that his drinking would slow down — and eventually maybe even stop. But it didn’t.

  Not that it had much of a chance to, because he died so soon after.

  I sighed. The bottle of whiskey, now only half full, clanked as I placed it back on the table. My vision was slightly blurred, and my head spun whenever I moved.

  “Oh God, I'm drunk.” It was like a weird form of father-son déjà vu. Drunk on the throne chair, overlooking the city.

  I was a fucking shadow of what my dad was. A drunken man with a lot of work left to do. Drunk because the world was heavy, and having it on your shoulders all day every day was the most straining experience anyone could ever face.

  The only difference I could see was that my dad had actually wanted to go to work. He was fine carrying the weight of the world.

  I, on the other hand, was sick of it. I didn’t have any sort of motivation to do it anymore. I didn’t want to be the CEO of a company, let alone a CEO involved in a bullshit lawsuit that I wanted no part of, or a company that would keep me from someone as awesome as the woman I’d already fallen for.

  I took a swig of my drink again, allowing my thoughts to sink in. I wasn’t really making a lot of sense to myself. My brain was getting fuzzy. It was getting late.

  I needed to get to bed. I stood, only to find myself unable to really stand, and with a ridiculously hard thump, I found that I’d landed on my hands and knees beside the chair I now thought was cursed. I teetered a few moments, before the alcohol completely took over and I fell, ungracefully, the rest of the way.

  “Ugh,” I groaned, as I reached up to the couch trying to pull down a blanket. I didn’t want to even bother getting up. I just wanted to sleep. I unfolded the blanket and laid it over myself — probably less over me than off of me, actually — and laid my head down flat against the hardwood.

  I reached up and grabbed hold of the crystal whisky bottle, not even bothering to pour it out into a glass anymore. I was already on the floor. I’d hit rock bottom. Who gave a shit if I drank out of the bottle?

  I leaned up to take another large gulp, hoping to drown the terrible thoughts that had been bouncing around my head for hours. I was hoping to numb myself against the maelstrom of emotion that was wracking my entire brain and causing my mind to go into overdrive.

  In all honesty, I was sick of continually taking one for the team; I wasn’t sure if I even had it in me anymore.

  My dad had taken one for the team — every single day of his entire career. Everything he did was for the good of the company. And, well, he wound up dead. So was it really the best choice?

  I wanted to hide from my life, but I knew that wasn’t an option. The only option I felt like I really had was to lie here, or get up. That was the only thing I had control of.

  So I lay there, eyes open, blinking heavily. I should have just gone to sleep. That might have stopped me from thinking on it all too much. Well, might have. It also might have plagued me with dreams that I couldn’t stop—dreams about her.

  First it was Kate. Now it was my Dad. The emotions were never ending.

  I clenched my eyes tightly as I fought to not let the tears fall. I refused to be weak. Not now. Not over this, and not because alcohol made me into a big whiny asshole.

  I used to find comfort in the fact that my dad had had so much faith in me being able to do the job. Because hell, he knew more about me than I’d ever wanted him to. I always thought if he still thought I could do the job, then maybe he was right.

  But now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe he hadn’t known me as well as I thought he did. Maybe he just knew more than I wanted him to, but he still hadn’t really known me.

  Maybe I couldn’t be a good replacement for him. Maybe I didn’t have it in me. The only thing I knew for sure, was t
hat after that night with my dad, I came away with a new sense of clarity: my dad was human after all. He made mistakes, and he felt emotion.

  Whatever it was that he was holding onto burdened him more than I’d ever known him to be burdened. It burdened him even more than this job burdened me.

  I sighed, ashamed that I couldn’t be just a little more of what he thought I was. I was ashamed that I still wanted Kate, and ashamed that I didn’t give a fuck about the stupid lawsuit that had seemed like everything to him.

  I hated that I didn't give a damn like he gave a damn when he was alive; and more than that, I hated feeling like I wasn’t good enough to sit in his chair and look out over the city like he once did. And I hated, most of all, that the all-of-a-sudden half empty bottle of whisky wasn’t making it any better.

  Chapter 14

  Kate

  I held the remote so tightly that I saw the whites of my knuckle as I twisted it to the side and clicked through the channels. I sat with Claire on the couch, a scowl plastered on my face.

  I’d been muttering to myself, apparently.

  Apparently — because I didn’t notice it myself. The only thing that tipped me off was Claire.

  “Oh my god,” she’d said. “I can’t handle your constant muttering!”

  “Then go away,” I said.

  “You’ve been going on and on about Ian, and it’s driving me insane,” she snapped over her shoulder as she stomped out of the living room, likely toward her bedroom. “Just go cuss him out already,” she yelled back before slamming her bedroom door.

  She left me sulking. Brooding. Thinking about the entire day all over again, which was making me mad all over again. How dare he just blow me off because of my dad?

  For some reason, knowing he lived upstairs made it even worse. Not only did I know that he lived just up above me, but I also knew which exact penthouse to bust in on, all thanks to the wonderful security guard downstairs, who seemed like an open book if you just batted your eyelashes in his general direction.

  I just needed to just calm the hell down. I needed to stop thinking about Ian, and it needed to happen soon before I did something stupid like go up there and punch him square in the mouth.

  I was dwelling too much on it, and getting angrier and angrier. I was angry with Ian. At the situation. At my dad. At the cheeseburger in my stomach the size of a wooly mammoth that didn’t seem to agree with me. At everything

  I was so angry that I slammed the remote down on the coffee table. Without thinking anything through, I got up, ran out of the apartment, and to the elevator.

  I hadn’t bothered putting my shoes on, or my coat.

  I didn’t even question where I was going. I’d already talked to the security guard. Luckily, though, Claire didn’t know that I’d stooped to that level. As far as she was concerned, I was still the rational sister she knew and loved. Aside from the constant mumbling under my breath. I’d called out some stupid excuse of how I was going to go check the mail, and since it was something I always did, I was sure she didn’t even question it. For that matter, she might not have even heard me at all.

  Now, I was fuming and stomping over to the shimmering steel doors down the hall of my apartment. I’d set it up so that this was all possible. I’d let myself sulk over it all day, and now I knew which apartment was his.

  I reached the elevators and repeatedly jabbed at the button for the top penthouse.

  I was going up. By God, I was going up. I let out the breath that was starting to feel sharp in my lungs. I could feel the familiar feeling of nausea begin to churn in my stomach and I knew that I was nervous. I took a deep breath. In, and then out, slowly. Again and again until the doors slid open and I shot like a bullet out of the elevator to the closest penthouse door. I rapped at the door with as much strength as I had. Over and over and over again. He was going to answer me. I wasn’t going to let this go.

  Ian Cross was going to get a piece of my mind.

  Chapter 15

  Ian

  I was drunk, and that was going to be the excuse I used when I found myself daydreaming about her. I’d tried to shake my head and wish away the sudden images that were popping in. But the silence wouldn’t let it happen.

  In my daydream, a small moan left Kate’s lips. "Ian..."

  I wanted to press nibbling kisses over her long, sensitive neck. I wanted to kiss, lick, suck, and nibble every inch of exposed flesh.

  I envisioned her delicate hands sliding into my hair, gripping hold of me, pulling me closer. I imagined her grabbing my shirt right at the hem along my lower back. I imagined her sliding a hand to my front to travel the length of my body.

  I shivered, almost as if I felt it in real life — the sensation of her delicate soft hands atop my burning skin. I wondered if she touched me if she might get the same satisfaction that I would experience by having her touch me — or better yet, by touching her.

  It was almost like I could feel her warm hands pull at me, and her hips against mine as our mouths made contact with each other. I imagined teasing her lips, barely touching them to mine before capturing her lower one just between my teeth, tugging and suckling gently.

  I imagined her sigh, a sigh of pure ecstasy and bliss. I was growing impatient with my own thoughts. I hated that I liked someone so much that I was willing to think about what it was like just touching her…

  Usually when I imagined myself with someone I would jump ahead to the action—the real action, that is. I didn’t usually imagine sex like this, though. Never a soft, gentle thought of something closer to lovemaking rather than just pure hungry sex.

  I wondered what it was like to shove my mouth on hers and have our lips sync into a wonderful, longing rhythm. I wanted her to wrap her legs around my waist, pull me closer as I felt her tongue on mine.

  I wanted to feel the electricity that I knew was between us — even knowing what I knew now. I wanted to explore every crevice of her mouth, and I wanted her to do the same with me. I wanted to feel her hot heated breath fall over my skin when she gasped my name.

  I wanted my hands to flow through her luscious red hair and wander down her body — that perfect, perfect body — so far that I’d find her soft delicate skin doing the impossible, lighting a fire of friction right in the palm of my hands, scorching me to the core.

  I could only hope that I wouldn’t be alone in my exploration. I could only hope that she’d want me just as much as I wanted her. I could only hope she’d explore me, tear away at my shirt and never pull away from my kiss unless it was to gasp for a much needed breath.

  I imagined what it’d feel like to feel her hands roam down my bare chest, and I felt myself tighten in my pants, despite the large amount of alcohol in my system.

  I wondered what it’d be like to feel her mouth on mine, our tongues dueling as we ripped at each other’s clothes. I wondered if I’d have the strength and smoothness to skillfully rip everything away without damaging it. Over the years I’d perfected the art of undressing a woman. It was something I was proud of. Because hell, I knew how I was — I was impatient, and not only was I impatient, I was also very in-the-now. When it came to sex, I was ready. The problem was that women — no matter how in a hurry, no matter how heated, no matter how incredibly turned on — hated when you ripped their clothes.

  Once I got her clothes off, I wanted to know what she tasted like. I wanted to expose her breasts. I wanted to drink them in with my eyes and tease every single inch of her with my tongue.

  I wanted to look into her innocent eyes and see mischief. I wanted to see the look of pure enjoyment — of blissful lust — all over her face.

  I wanted her to tease me, too. I wanted her to tighten her legs around me and press the most sensitive area of her against me. I wanted her to grab me. Squeeze me. Claw me. Shred me to fucking pieces.

  A low, throaty groan escaped my lips as I thought about it all.

  “Kate,” I found myself moaning out, completely absorbed in my own imaginatio
n.

  Somehow I’d made it back to my dad’s chair, but moaning Kate’s name woke me from my fantasy. My eyes shot open and I sat up in the chair, sweat trickling down the back of my neck, dampening my shirt collar.

  In all honesty, I’d felt bad for fantasizing about someone I’d ended things with. Or, someone who was basically supposed to be my sworn enemy. I couldn’t help but chuckle at how ridiculous that sounded — even in my head. My sworn enemy. Kate wasn't an enemy—far from it.

  I pulled at the top few buttons of my shirt and pulled my shirt open just a little more. My bare chest felt cooler almost immediately as the air from the room whispered against it.

  I wondered if I’d drifted off. I wondered if parts of my fantasy Kate images were actual dreams, but I didn’t bother thinking about it too long.

  My brain was flooded and I really needed to lie down. But just as I was about to stand to head toward my room, a loud banging sounded from my apartment door.

  It took a moment to realize what was happening, but then it clicked. Someone was there, and they sure as hell weren’t going away by the sound of it. The knock was loud, hurried, and annoying.

  I groaned at the incessancy and rudeness of it.

  “Who the fuck?” I got up from the giant chair, suddenly realizing just how tipsy I was. The room started to spin, as well as the buildings outside my window. I groaned and closed the curtain with one hand. Setting my drink down on the kitchen counter just a few wobbly steps away, I shouted, “Who is it?”

  No answer. I walked to the door. I honestly didn’t give a damn who it was; I just wanted them to go the fuck away.

  Whoever it was, they were going to get a huge piece of my mind. No one needed to get into my apartment as much as this person’s knocking seemed to suggest. The pounding continued, as if the knocker had an issue with my door.

  “Hold the fuck on!” I yelled. I gripped hold of the door handle, but just before I slung the door open, I halted. Maybe this was a stupid move. I had no idea who this could be. Did I really want to open it quickly, without any sort of thought of what kind of psycho waited on the other side? A small bit of determined carefulness might have been the answer I needed. So instead of slinging the door open, full force, I opened it slowly.