Claiming Cari (The Gilroy Clan Book 2)

by Megyn Ward

  He looks miserable. Angry and sick. I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want him to see me. I tried to pull away, but his hands are clamped around my arms. He isn’t going to let me go, so I close my eyes to make him go away and he sighs, the breath of it ruffling through my hair. “Cari, please look at me. Just—”

  “Why?” I say, opening my eyes because the way he’s standing over me, talking to me, makes me feel like a fucking child. “Why?” I demand it this time, and we both know I’m not asking him why he wants me to look at him or why he chased me down the hall.

  I’m asking why.

  Patrick lets go of me like it hurts him to touch me and I am glad. I’m glad it hurts. “Why?” I say it again, and he stares at me like he doesn’t know, or if he does, he doesn’t want to say it out loud. This time I’m the one who reaches out to touch him, and I do it just so I can see him hurt.

  “I didn’t—” He’s looking down at me with the expression on his face. The one that says I’m killing him. “I mean, I did, but not—”

  “It wasn’t enough to fuck me—” I slide my hand down his abs, the muscles under my fingertips giving a hard flex like I’m stabbing him in the gut with something cold and sharp. “You wanted to watch me get fucked by someone else?” I push my hand past the waistband of his boxer briefs, stroking his cock, feeling it harden almost instantly against my hand. Watch the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he swallows the groan my hands on him produced. I can do that. I can make him hard. Make him want me. I know how to do that. “You know, we can do that if you want. We can—”

  “Stop.” He yells at me, his hands streaking down my arms to grab me by the wrists, jerk my hands away from him. “Please, just... stop.” His tone softens and he holds me like that for a second, hard fingers circled my wrist, grinding the bones together like he wants to push me away but can’t quite manage it. “Don’t do this again.”

  It’s almost exactly what he said to me the night of the storm. The night I goaded him into bending me over the pool table downstairs. Into treating me like every other guy, I’ve ever been with. “Why?” I whisper it this time, and I don’t even know what I’m asking anymore. What answer I’m looking for.

  “It doesn’t matter to me. I don’t care.”

  “You don’t care about what?” I say, my tone so cold it burns my throat. “About the fact that I’m a whore who fucked her way through college or maybe about the fact that I let every guy I’ve ever been involved with shit on me and use me. Including you.” I’m doing it again. Pointing out to him that he’s no better than any other guy I’ve ever been with. That he treats me the same way they do. What I don’t say is that I’m doing it on purpose. Pushing him into it. Making him angry. Making it dirty so I can pretend, just for a little while that he’s no better than me.

  His fingers go soft, but he’s still holding me away from him. Like he doesn’t trust me. Like I might be dangerous. “I thought...”

  “You thought what, Patrick?” I laugh, and I can’t believe a sound so ugly is coming out of my mouth. “What did you think was happening here?”

  “I love you.” He stares down at me, his expression caught somewhere between desperation and determination. “I love you, Cari.”

  “No, you don’t,” I say, shaking my head at him. “You can’t.”

  His fingers tighten for a second before letting go completely, letting my arms fall to my sides. “What’s that supposed to mean.”

  “People like you and me don’t go together, Patrick,” I say, slipping through the doorway to stand on the other side of it.

  “I don’t understand,” He says, taking a step back like he’s no longer wondering if I’m dangerous. Like he knows for a fact that I am.

  “Yeah, you do.” I grip the doorknob so hard I can all but feel it buckle in my grasp. “Look...” I make myself say it because it’s the only thing left to do. He doesn’t want me to touch him because he sees me now. Not his friend or his roommate. Not the girl he hooked up with a few times and made breakfast for once. He sees me. The real me and it hurts so much I can’t breathe. “It was fun for a few days, but I’m kinda over this whole you and me thing.”

  His face goes still and pale like I just spit on him. “You’re over it?”

  “Yup,” I can’t breathe. I can’t feel past the pain in my chest. The way he’s looking at me. “This—whatever this is—is over,” I tell him. “I’ll have my stuff out by tomorrow.” I swing the door closed, watching him disappear behind it.

  Ten

  Patrick

  I don’t know why I did it. Why I watched that video. But I did, and now I can’t unwatch it. I can’t go back and stop myself from clicking the link that popped up in my text messages. The shitty, ironic thing about it is it wasn’t even James who sent it to me. It was Rob. My douchebag fraternity brother she’d been dating when we met. The guy she caught cheating on her at a college house party. The reason I ended up giving her a ride home in the first place.

  Rob: LOL, is this who I think it is??

  I’d been brushing my teeth and scrolling through my texts, hoping to see one from Conner, telling me that whatever he’d gone home to do had worked, and this whole thing was over. That he’d done whatever it is Conner does, and James and Lisa were dealt with. That Cari and I can move on.

  I thought about her. Sleeping. Naked and warm, in my bed. I thought about her and how we’d finally turned a corner. Hit the reset button. We’d forgiven each other. Talked and laughed and touched each other without it devolving into something ugly and hurtful. That had to mean something. It had to mean we were ready to take the next step in whatever this is between us.

  I love her, and I think she loves me. Even if we weren’t ready to say it, I think we’re ready to show it. That’s what I was thinking about. Plugging her phone into the charger when she forgets. Pretending not to notice that she slips her laundry into my basket on wash day. Taking her lunch to her when she forgets it on the kitchen counter. Because even if she was doing those things on purpose, just to get under my skin, I still want to do them for her. Because I love her.

  That’s what I was thinking about—toothbrush hanging out of my mouth, water running in the sink—when I tapped my thumb against the link Rob sent me and changed everything.

  I can say that I thought he was sending me the link to a fraternity brother’s Facebook profile or the pathetically lame Tinder profile of one of our old professors. I could say that. I could. But it would be a lie.

  A second after my thumb tapped the link, I knew what it was.

  I knew.

  And I watched it anyway.

  Not all of it, but enough to know. Enough to see what Cari didn’t want me to.

  I felt sick. Angry. I wanted to kill James. Legitimately kill him for doing that to her. Taking a moment when she’d made herself vulnerable to him and exploiting it. Turning it into something shameful and ugly. And I wanted to kill Rob, someone who’d once claimed to care for her, for thinking so little of her that he forwarded it to me without thinking twice.

  Before I could react, another text came through.

  Rob: Bro, told you she was too

  much for you to handle. LOL.

  I reminded myself he didn’t know about Cari and me. He knew we were roommates. Friends. But he didn’t know about us. He thought there was no way a girl like Cari would be into someone like me. He never would’ve sent me that link, otherwise. Rob is an idiot, and I should cut him some slack. It wasn’t working. I still wanted to kill him.

  Me: Where did you get this?

  I can imagine Rob’s dumb, smug face, confused as to why I wasn’t broing up right now even though I’ve never broed it up with him. Not once.

  Rob: It’s all over the place, but

  I saw it on exhex first

  Rob: Funny, right?

  Exhex is a revenge porn site where pissed-off people can anonymously post nude pictures and videos of their exes. Rob’s been obsessed with the site since
we were in college. I spit my toothbrush into the sink because my hands were shaking and I needed both to pound out an answering text.

  Me: Hilarious, bro. If you send this to

  anyone else, I’ll know, and I’ll separate

  your head from your fucking shoulders.

  LOL

  He didn’t text me back.

  Rob said he saw it on exhex first. That means it’s been posted on more than one site. The realization knots my stomach, and I pound out an angry text to Conner.

  Me: James released Cari’s

  video. I thought you had it

  under control.

  It didn’t take long for Con to hit me back.

  Con: He’s still in the hospital.

  I just checked. He must have

  help.

  Con: ...

  Con: I’m sorry, man. I fucked

  up. I thought I had more time.

  I know what I’m supposed to do. I’m supposed to text him back—tell him it’s okay. He tried his best. I understand. A week ago, that’s exactly what I would’ve done. I would’ve let him off the hook. I would’ve stuffed the rage coursing through my veins into a hole and cemented it shut with a layer of calm affability. And if this were about me, I would’ve been able to do it. No problem. But this isn’t about me.

  It’s about Cari.

  Con: Cap’n?

  Con: ??

  Con: Come on, man.

  Con: don’t do anything

  stupid.

  Me: Fuck you

  I went back to my room and sat next to the bed, my stomach roiling, head pounding, heart hammering, fast and heavy. I wanted to crawl into bed and lay down beside her. Pull her into my arms and hold her. I wanted to close my eyes and go to sleep and wake up again and have it be before. I wanted to pretend the last ten minutes hadn’t happened. I wanted to lay next to her and watch her wake up. Smile at me.

  But I can’t.

  I can’t do that because my whole body is shaking now, not just my hands. I’m sick with rage, and if I touch her now, she’ll know.

  She’ll know I watched it. That I betrayed her.

  But it didn’t matter. She’d taken one look at me, and she knew anyway.

  And then she bolted. Threw on her robe and ran because all I could say was her name, over and over. I meant to apologize. Tell her I didn’t care. That none of it mattered to me. That I watched it, and I was sorry, but I also wasn’t because I’d watched it and now I know. I know that I loved her. I love her, and we were still friends, and I needed her to forgive me for fucking everything up again because I know she loves me too.

  That’s what I was going to say. What I intended when I chased her down the hall. Spun her around so I could tell her. Talk to her. Explain.

  Cari, please look at me...

  As soon as she did, as soon as she looked at me, I saw it.

  I told her I love her and she laughed at me. Said what I’d been afraid of all along. That someone like her could never be interested in someone like me. Not for the long haul.

  I froze.

  Too slow and stupid to stop her, I let her end us.

  She said the past week was nothing more than fun. That people like her and I don’t belong together. She said she was over me.

  And I believe her.

  Eleven

  Cari

  I considered calling Miranda and canceling our meeting. There was no point in it anymore. She hired me because she thought I was different than the other brainless bimbos that applied to work at the gallery. She thought I was serious about art. That I was passionate about it. That she could trust me to be reliable and act in the best interests of the gallery. Now that the video was out there, she’d know she’d been wrong about me, same as everyone else.

  I could explain it to her. That yes, I’d gone out with Everett Chase on the night that presumably the video was made but that, despite what the time stamp said, it’d actually been made by a vindictive ex-boyfriend, over a year ago and without my consent.

  I knew it was the truth and even I didn’t believe it.

  And I would have to explain it to her. If I’d had my phone. But it didn’t matter because, by the time I woke up, it was already over.

  In the back of my mind, I knew this was going to happen. The second James sent me that video, I knew it would be posted. I knew there was no escaping it but I’d hoped... stepping away from the canvas in front of me, I gave it a long, hard look.

  Patrick again. Always Patrick.

  I love you. I love you, Cari.

  He took the leap. Did the one thing no one thought he was capable of. He told me how he feels. What he really wants and I laughed at him. Told him none of it mattered. That it was fun but that I was through with him. That I didn’t want him anymore. Didn’t love him back.

  I don’t know what prompts me to take my ear buds out, but when I do, I catch the tail end of someone knocking on the door. Must’ve been knocking for a while because there’s an impatient edge to the rapping that has me dashing out my bedroom door and across the living room. Throwing the door open, I find a very annoyed Miranda standing on the other side. As soon as she sees me, the annoyance smooths out completely. She looks almost pleased.

  “I called you but didn’t answer,” she says, breezing past me to toss her purse on the chair across from the couch. She gives me a glance, letting her eyes flick up and down the length of me. “I’m glad to see you’re using your day off wisely.”

  She focuses on me, totally unaware of her surroundings. No oooing and ahhhing over the apartment or the work Patrick’s put into it the way Chase did. I realize now that he did it to put me at ease. Either Miranda doesn’t see how nervous I am or she doesn’t care. It’s anyone’s guess which one.

  I look down and feel a flush creep across my chest. I’m not wearing pants. My legs are covered in paint. “I was just—”

  “I’m a gallery owner, Cari—I know what you were doing.” She waves a hand at me that’s meant to shut me up. “Well, let’s see them.”

  My paintings. Right. She’s here to see them.

  “Okay,” I mumble, rubbing my hands over my bare legs. “Do you think I can—”

  “Put on clothes?” She finishes for me before giving me a vague shrug. “You’re not the first artist I’ve shown that works naked.”

  I’m not naked. I’m wearing a shirt. And underwear. But now doesn’t seem to be the time to split hairs or catch a case of modesty. “This way,” I tell her, leading her across the living room, past the kitchen to my room. When I push the door open, it’s like I’m seeing the space for the first time. Like it’s Patrick beside me, showing me the room, giving it to me without so much as a twinge of regret. And even though I know how hard he worked on it, I take it.

  Because that’s how it is.

  Patrick gives and I take.

  “Excellent light,” Miranda says to herself, her artistic eye drawn around the room. I watch them drift a sense of pride swelling in my chest, and I open my mouth to tell her how hard Patrick worked on it, but it snaps shut when her gaze lands on the painting Chase gave me.

  “I—” I start to explain, but she cuts me off completely.

  “I suppose we should get it out of the way—I saw the video.” She tells me, her gaze finally moving past the painting to rest on me. “It was in my inbox this morning when I checked my email.”

  “Oh...” I knew it would happen. I did—I’d just hoped that I’d have a chance to tell her first. Explain. But of course, James sent it to my boss. My friends. Patrick. Anyone who cared about me. Any way to hurt me. “I see.”

  “Do you?” she says. A small smile touches her mouth, and I can’t tell if she’s angry or amused.

  She came here to fire me, face to face. She came here to tell me how disgusted she is by me. She came here to tell me I’ll spend the rest of my art career doing reproduction work in some sweatshop somewhere, or those god-awful landscapes they hang in hotel lobbies and model homes. A week ago, I
wouldn’t have dared to hope for even that much. A week ago, I was content with making her coffee and placating temperamental artists.

  Now, I want more. Knowing I’ll never get it is killing me.

  “Yes, I went out with Mr. Chase but we never—that wasn’t...” I feel like I’m going to pass out. When Miranda starts laughing, I can actually feel myself tipping over.

  “I know that’s not Chase in the video,” she says, wiping tears from her eyes even though she’s still laughing. “Whoever it is, the poor guy can’t fuck his way out of a paper bag—Chase is imminently more skilled than that.” She looks at me like a horrible thought just occurred to her. “Tell me that it’s not Patrick.”

  “What?” I squeal, shaking my head. “No—” I can feel my chest heating again. “It’s not Patrick. He would never do something like that.” I stand there, stunned and stupid. “Wait—you’re not mad?”

  “Hell yes, I’m mad,” she says. “I’m fucking furious.” She sits on the edge of my bed and sighs. “I’m furious for you, Cari. Not at you. Do you know who released it? Ex-boyfriend?”

  A breath I didn’t even know I was holding whooshed out of my lungs. “How’d you guess?”

  “It’s always an ex-boyfriend,” she says like everything is settled.

  “You’re not going to fire me?”

  “For what?” she says. “For being a human being?”

  “Keeping me around could ruin you.” I shake my head. “I won’t stay if it means trouble for you.”

  “This is art, dear-heart—not politics.” Miranda kicks off her heels and curls her legs underneath her. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this whole thing doesn’t triple my business... now, are you going to show me these paintings Chase has been mooning over or not?”

  I unstack the canvases carefully, arranging them in chronological order. The first one is the painting Chase saw—the one I painted of Patrick the night he drove me home. The last is half-finished and still on my easel. I turn it around so she can see it.