Only it really feels like it is.
When I emerge from the bathroom, A.J. is in the kitchenette, washing my coffee cup in the sink. He rinses it, dries it, and puts it away in the cupboard. Watching that drives a stake through my bleeding, shredded heart. In his mind, I’m already gone.
Ignoring the tears that are now sliding down my cheeks, I cross to the sofa and reach for my suitcase, which is propped up beside it, but then I freeze with my hand on the handle when A.J. calls out, “So what do you think for dinner tonight? Are you sick of my pancakes? Because I was thinking of getting fancy and trying to make an omelet.”
It takes what feels like four hours for me to straighten and turn to look at him. “Dinner?”
He’s still at the sink, tidying up, with his back to me. His hair is loose around his shoulders. He’s wearing ancient, holey jeans and nothing else. The sight of his strong, bare feet against the floor makes me want to weep, they’re so beautiful.
“Yeah. You should be home around what, six? Seven?”
I can’t think. My mouth refuses to form words.
He turns to look at me. When he sees my face, he blinks in shock. “Angel! What’s wrong?”
And I totally lose it. I go completely, utterly nuts.
I shout, “Are you kidding me? Are you just screwing with me right now? First you’re throwing me out and then you want to know what I want for dinner?”
A.J. looks left, then right, like he’s wondering who this crazy person is and if there’s anyone else nearby who can help him handle her. “Who said I was throwing you out?”
My hands are balled to fists. I can feel how red my face is. My chest heaves up and down, and all I can do is stare at him, shaking. Through gritted teeth, I say, “Our week is up.”
Understanding dawns over his face. “Oh angel. Jesus.”
He drops the dish towel he’s holding and strides over to me. In several long, swift strides, he’s in front of me. He gathers me into his arms and hugs me, hard. “You’re not going anywhere without me, except work. And even there I’ll be lurking in corners, watching, making sure nothing happens to you.”
In a move I thought only happened in romance novels, my knees go weak. Now I shake even harder, clinging to his waist so I don’t slide bonelessly to the floor. “W-what happened to one week? What happened to our deal?”
He takes my face in his hands. “What happened is that I told you all the worst shit I’ve ever done, and you told me you belonged to me. You told me you loved me. Love,” he corrects himself, “present tense. I’m not letting you go, Chloe. You belong to me, and I won’t spend another day without you. I can’t live without you, don’t you see? Without you I might as well be dead.”
I burst into sobs and start to ugly cry so hard A.J. laughs.
“It’s not funny, you jerk!”
He kisses me all over my wet, red face, holding me tight, murmuring how much he loves me, how much he needs me, how he’ll never, ever let me go.
Mondays are officially my new favorite day of the week.
That day at work goes by in a dream. I’m surprised how well Trina and the staff handled everything in my absence; no fires had to be put out, no major mistakes were made. I make an appointment to have the stitches removed from my cheek, and another with the plastic surgeon my father recommended to see what can be done about any residual scarring.
I’m so happy I almost don’t care about the scarring. I’m so happy I feel like the sun is shining out of the top of my head.
Grace, however, is not happy.
“So you spent about a week and a half playing house with the drummer, and now you’re back at work avoiding all my questions like it’s your mother you’re talking to, and not your very best friend. Well, your other very best friend. Not acceptable, Chloe!”
Even her scathing tone can’t put a damper on my glorious mood. I sigh and sit back in my office chair, propping my feet on my desk. “I missed you.”
“Lie,” she shoots back without hesitation. “Who do you think is on the other end of the line, babe? I know you like I know the back of my hand. Other than those thirty-second check-in phone calls, you didn’t think about me once.”
I smile because she’s right. “Well, now I miss you. When can we get together? How’s Kat?”
She snorts. “Other than being worried sick about you and driving me crazy about the wedding, she’s her usual foul-mouthed, wonderful self. She and Nico are planning a party at their house next Monday for Memorial Day; I assume you and the Russian spy are coming?”
I see the dangling fishhook a mile away, and avoid it. All of A.J.’s secrets are safe with me, and always will be. “I don’t know. I haven’t even talked to Kat yet. Maybe?”
“No maybes. You’re coming.” Her firm, no-refusals tone softens. “How are you doing, really? Have you heard anything about dickface Eric?”
At the mention of his name, my stomach tightens. Feeling vulnerable, I lower my feet and sit up straight at the desk, hugging my free arm around my waist. “We got the restraining order, so that’s good. And apparently Eric’s out of the hospital, though he’s not back to work; he’s been suspended without pay.”
Grace mutters a few choice epithets about Eric’s manhood. “They should have fired that worthless prick on the spot.”
“They have to do an internal investigation first, though it looks like it’s just a formality. I think he’ll be fired soon. I guess there were quite a few skeletons in his closet his bosses could no longer overlook.”
“Well, good riddance. Honestly if I ever see his face again, I think I’ll break it.”
I love her for refraining from saying “I told you so.”
“So do you want me to spend the night with you for the next few days, until you get settled back in? Or you’re always welcome to crash at my place if you don’t feel comfortable at your apartment since Mr. Law and Order left you with such nice memories there.”
“No, I’m good. I’m staying with A.J. for the foreseeable future.”
The silence on the other end of the line is deafening.
“I love him, Gracie,” I say, much softer. “Wherever he is, that’s where I need to be.”
I wonder if Grace has bought a cat, because from the other end of the phone issues a sound like a cat trying to cough up a stubborn hairball.
“Okay, best friend, I’m ending the call now.”
“Wait!”
Her panicked shout makes me pause. I can’t remember the last time I heard Grace panicked. “What?”
“I just have one more question for you.”
“Which is?”
It’s her turn to pause. “Are you sure?”
There’s not even a second of hesitation when I answer. “Yes. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
I hear a deep, resigned sigh. “How the hell did I, badass bitch that I am, get stuck with two such ridiculously romantic girlfriends?”
I have to smile; that sigh means she’s got my back, even if she thinks I’m insane. She’ll never again say another negative or unsupportive word about my relationship with A.J.
“Are we in rhetorical question territory here? Or are you seriously expecting an answer to that?”
“Rhetorical, rhetorical,” she mutters. “And now I’m ending the call so I can pour myself a large glass of water.”
“Water? That’s not like you.”
“Of course I like water. Especially when it’s frozen into little cubes and completely surrounded by vodka. Good-bye.”
She hangs up on me, leaving me grinning at the phone.
I love my friends.
Over the next week, A.J. and I settle in to a routine. I go to work; he drives by on his motorcycle at least four times during the day to check on me. I come home after work; he cooks dinner. (He graduates from pancakes to omelets to French toast. The man has a serious addiction to eating breakfast foods for supper.) I clean up; he plays the piano or does some amazing drum solo on the pra
ctice kit he keeps in what used to be the lobby bar, whaling on it until his fingers bleed like that kid in Whiplash. Or he reads to me. Or we watch a movie. Or, or, or one of a thousand different things.
Showers and baths are taken together.
Everything, in fact, we do together, right down to folding laundry.
I had no idea living with another person could be so much fun.
“I never thought I’d meet a woman who has worse-looking hands than I do,” he teases one afternoon after I yelp in pain when the juice of a lime I’ve cut to use in guacamole seeps into a deep cut on my finger. We’re in the main kitchen downstairs, making lunch. The surface of the stainless steel table I’m standing at is covered in various dents and gouges, but is otherwise a perfectly competent prep area. I like having so much space to spread out; the kitchen in my apartment is miniscule compared to this. And A.J.’s kitchenette in his room is even smaller than that.
I flick a piece of avocado from my fingers at A.J. It lands on his cheek. “Gee, sweet talker, keep ’em coming. Those compliments of yours really get me hot and bothered.”
He smiles at my sour look, swipes the avocado from his face, licks his fingers, and pushes away from the opposite counter he’s been leaning on as he watches me work. He moves behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “Yeah? How bothered?” He slides his hand up my ribcage under my shirt and fondles my breast, tweaking my nipple between his fingers. It instantly hardens.
I’ve given up wearing a bra at home, because A.J. takes it off as soon as I walk in the door anyway.
Pretending to ignore him, along with the flush of heat that spreads from my lower belly down between my legs as he continues to pinch and stroke my nipple with his rough fingers, I shrug.
His other hand slides down my hip, then between my legs. I’m wearing jeans; he rubs me through the fabric, his fingers warm and hard. Automatically, I spread my thighs a little for him, but keep right on making the guacamole, mashing the ripe avocado in a bowl with a fork as if I’m not being wonderfully molested by a big, brawny male with whom I just happen to be madly in love.
He takes my indifference as a challenge. “Not so bothered, hmm? How about hot?”
Unbuttoning my jeans, he pulls down the zipper, and slides his hand past it, into my panties. When his fingers brush over my clit, I almost moan, but catch myself in time.
I shrug again and go right on with the guacamole, which I now have zero interest in.
“Oh, yes, definitely hot,” he whispers, his mouth at my ear as his fingers probe deeper. “Hot and wet.”
My hands fall still. I close my eyes, breathing shallower as A.J. puts his lips against the pulse in my throat and sucks me there, one hand pulling and rolling my nipple, the other buried between my legs, stroking and slipping in my wetness. When he pinches my clit between two fingers, I finally give in and moan, long and low.
His voice turns to a growl. “I’m going to fuck you on this table, angel.”
He shoves the bowl of guacamole aside, yanks my jeans and panties down and off, turns me around and grabs my hips, then lifts me onto the cold metal table. Moving fast, he pushes me onto my back, takes both my legs and sets them on his shoulders, then bends and puts his hot, expert mouth where his fingers have just been.
I moan louder, arching against the table. My fingers dig into his hair.
“Fucking delicious, baby.” I look between my spread thighs to find him staring up at me with glittering eyes. He swipes his tongue slowly through my wet folds, and I shudder. “Mmm. But we can’t let this guacamole go to waste.”
Before I realize what his intentions are, he scoops a big glob of fresh guacamole from the bowl beside me and smears it between my legs. I gasp. It’s cold and wet and—
And oh dear God his clever, clever tongue. His full, luscious lips. He’s eating it out of me. He’s licking me clean.
I fall back against the stainless steel. Out of my mind with pleasure, I cup my breasts in my hands, pinching my nipples as he’d done moments before, every ounce of my focus on that amazing, carnal feast going on between my legs.
I feel something new, slippery and a little stinging. I open my eyes to find A.J. grinning wickedly at me while he squeezes the juice from half a lime into my exposed cleft. Without taking his gaze from mine, he lowers his mouth again and begins to suck.
The pressure builds. I feel it, coiling tighter and tighter deep inside me, sparking my nerves. Our eyes stay locked together as he eats me, his tongue flicking faster and faster, his teeth scraping over my clit.
“A.J.” It’s a warning; I’m right there. I’m just about to come.
He unzips his own jeans, frees himself, takes his jutting cock in his fist and starts to stroke it, still sucking my pussy, his gaze still on mine.
“Please. Please. A.J., God, please give it to me, I need you now now now—”
He rears up and plunges deep inside me, burying himself to the hilt. I groan, flexing my hips to meet his thrusts, holding on to his forearms to keep from sliding as he grips my hips in his hands and fucks me mercilessly, his face hard, his eyes ablaze with lust and love.
“You belong to me.” He sounds like an animal, snarling and wild, his voice almost unrecognizably rough.
Knowing that I’ve affected him as much as he’s affected me sends a thrill straight through my body.
“Forever,” I whisper. My eyes slide shut. My head falls back. I come.
Within seconds, he follows with a roar, pulling out abruptly before he comes inside me. He collapses on top of me, takes my face in his hands, and kisses me so hard I forget everything else. There is only me and A.J., joined in perfect harmony.
Joined forever.
“Forever,” says my angel.
With that one word, she not only breaks my heart, she breaks what’s left of my miserable, selfish soul.
The Memorial Day party at Nico and Kat’s ultramodern compound in the Hollywood Hills is less of a party, and more of a wild, celebrity-studded, booze-soaked bacchanal.
Hundreds of people are here—many of whom I recognize from film or television—splashing in the pool, lounging on sleek deck chairs, dancing to the DJ who’s set up on a raised platform by the pool house across the lawn. It’s a catered affair, with black-tie waiters hoisting trays of hors d’oeuvres above the heads of laughing, half-drunk guests. The whole thing is a scene right out of Entourage. In fact, I think I see Adrian Grenier, the lead from the show, across the yard doing body shots from the cleavage of a bikini-clad girl.
We’ve only just arrived, but I can tell A.J. wishes he were anywhere but here. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Kat begged me to come because we haven’t seen each other in weeks, but now I’m wondering if I’ll be able to really spend time with her at all. This crowd is insane; she must be crazy busy playing the good hostess.
We make our way through the crowd. It seems everyone recognizes A.J. He’s clapped on the back and nodded at, he shakes hands with several people but doesn’t stop to talk. The women who ogle him he ignores completely, making me feel all sorts of smug. We take up a spot next to a white Lucite bar in one corner of the yard, and I order a chardonnay from the bartender.
Because it’s mandated by law, the weather is a perfect seventy-two degrees. The view from the backyard is spectacular; I see all the way from Malibu to downtown. The ocean is a shimmering strip of navy in the distance.
“You okay?” I only ask because A.J.’s face is about as warm as a slab of granite.
“Parties,” he says, gazing around the scene.
I take that to mean he doesn’t like them, because he doesn’t add more. I’m about to tell him we can go as soon as I see Kat, but then I spot Grace across the pool, waving madly at me.
“Grace!” Excited, I wave back, motioning for her to come over.
Her martini held high over her head, she shoulders her way through the crowd. When she gets tired of being jostled and spilling vodka down her arm, she throws her head back and downs t
he drink, and then sets the glass on the tray of a passing waiter. Then she’s standing in front of us, flaming red hair and a tight white dress and a pair of leopard print Louboutins that add six inches to her already statuesque frame. She looks like an Amazonian goddess. Several people nearby are gawking at her, girls included.
Almost half of her life is missing from her memory, and yet she’s stronger and more self-assured than anyone I know.
She pulls me into a hug, enveloping me in the scent of vodka and Clive Christian, her signature perfume.
“You look great,” she murmurs into my ear. “I can’t even see the scar.”
I had the stitches in my cheek out last week. The plastic surgeon I went to did a little laser resurfacing afterward. The skin is still pink, but I’ve covered it with a special redness-reducing foundation and powder Kat recommended. I’m almost as good as new.
Almost. Every time I see a cop car now, I break out in a cold sweat.
“Thanks, Gracie. I missed you.”
She pulls back, holds me at arms’ length, and examines me. She smiles broadly. I can tell what she’s thinking: Someone’s finally been properly fucked. I grin back at her, nodding.
“A.J.,” Grace says, turning her warm gray eyes to him. “Thank you.”
He smiles at her, befuddled but interested. “For what?”
Grace gives me a little shake. “For this.”
Then she shocks the hell out of both of us by throwing her arms around his neck and giving him a big kiss on the cheek. At the end of it, we’re all laughing.
It feels so good.
We stand and talk for a while, about nothing particularly deep or important. I know I’ll get the third degree from Grace as soon as she can get me alone, but for now I just enjoy the sun, the conversation, and the wonderful feeling of A.J.’s arm slung over my shoulders.
Then Grace, looking across the yard toward the house, does a double take. “Holy shit. Is that Bono?”
A.J. says with a smirk, “Stupid wraparound purple glasses give it away?”
“Haters gonna hate,” she replies, not looking away from the surprisingly short lead singer of U2. “I’m going to get an introduction. Judging by the way he’s fondling that cocktail waitress, I bet he and his wife need a lot of marriage counseling. God, I can’t wait to hear all about it. Back in a sec.”
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