Pastor Maxwell hears the concern in her voice, sees the horror on my face, and steps forward to the front of the stage, simultaneously waving at Marcy, presumably for her to do something with me. “I think our new visitor isn’t feeling very well, if we could give her a few minutes, folks.”
Marcy takes me by the arm, hand gently pulling me down the stage, my head turning back to see the invader again—the way she’s eyeing me, not a care in the world as she rips apart everything I’ve managed to accomplish.
“You look pale,” Marcy says, as we brush through the church doors into a short hallway. “We need to get you some water or some juice, maybe some crackers. Do you have blood sugar issues?”
We stop, and I lift off my heels to see through the window in one of the doors. Brooks’s head is turned to the devil before he unexpectedly meets my gaze, and I scurry backward. I think I’m going to be sick. This can’t be happening. No, no, no. He’s seeing someone—someone who can’t possibly love him like I do. I mean, Eliza … he was only a dumb fucking teenager when they began dating—when she stole him. But this woman, when did they meet? How long has he been fucking her? The thought makes my stomach go rancid.
“Sweetie, you look terrible. Do you need an ambulance?”
“N—no. I’m fine, I—I just feel like I’m going to pass out.”
Her arms hook under my shoulder, and she supports my weight as she leads me to a chair. I feel dizzier as I sit, my body starting to shake.
“You’re sweating. Sweetheart, I really think you should let me call—”
The sanctuary door swings open. A breeze of sweet, cool air as Brooks emerges, Pink Dress close behind. They’re a couple. Oh my God, he lied to me. He lied. Brooks is a liar. He’s fucking this woman, this woman who may very well be prettier than I am, who may fuck better than I do, who may not have lunch meat, who may be part of his fucking inner rich circle.
“Emily!” he says. “Emily, are you okay?”
My head drops to my lap as I bend over and hug my knees. I can’t look at him. Can’t look at her. I should have known after he didn’t contact me that there was someone else. What man wouldn’t at least want an attractive fuck buddy? The kiss we shared before was passionate, however brief.
Marcy stands, and Brooks sits beside me. I see the shoes of Pink Dress still planted near the front of the door. Brooks’s hand rests on my back, his other arm pulling me up. Jesus, help me. I feel like I’m dying of a broken heart all over again. His hand grabs my cheek as he turns my face to his, both our blue eyes connecting to make one endless ocean of love.
“Emily?” he whispers, his cinnamon gum breath warm on my lips.
“Brooks,” I mutter. This is all so very, very bad. I came here confident, ready to puppeteer him to the life I know he wants—the life he promised me. Instead I was meat, hung for the butcher. His eyes slice me further, love spilling into the air between us, soul unintentionally transparent before him.
I look away, and do the only thing I know to do—fall toward his lap, eyes rolling back into my head, his arms reaching out to catch me as his lover looks on.
“Shit,” Brooks says. “Help me! Get her some water.”
I breathe slowly, shallowly, and lie still. This is the best possible thing I could have done, faking passing out. I wish I could have passed out legitimately to free me from the thoughts of Pink Dress riding his dick, but apparently, I only pass out when I get my head slammed into concrete floors.
Shoes click down the hall, two sets, Marcy and Pink Dress running off to fetch the water.
“Emily,” Brooks breathes, shaking me gently. The roughness of his hand smooths damp hair from my forehead. His touch causes my eyes to flutter as his thumb grazes my cheek. It sparks a little flame of hope. He wouldn’t touch me like this if he didn’t feel something for me. The woman must be a toy—one I need to break. I was too soft on Eliza. She almost ruined everything. I won’t make that mistake again.
Shoes again. Click, click, click. “Kitchen was out of ice,” a voice says, thick with youthful sluttiness.
Brooks’s hand moves from my face. Something hard is pressed against my lip. I wish it were his dick, but it’s a cup. He lifts me as he tilts it against my lips, water spilling into my mouth and rolling down the sides of my face. I allow my eyes to slowly open and close as I try not to choke.
“Emily?” Another gentle shake.
My eyes squint as I sleepily peer at him, his full lips perfectly pouted in his concern. I draw mine back in confusion. “Wh—what happened?”
“You fainted. Are you okay? How do you feel?”
His hands cradle my head, resting in his lap on top of his cock, except there’s no excitement to be felt.
I bring a hand to my forehead and close my eyes again. “I—I’m really dizzy.”
“We should get her to the sofa in the ladies’ room,” says Pink Dress.
Listen to this bitch, only wanting me out of his lap—off his cock.
Hands are on me—Marcy’s and Pink Dress’s—pushing me off Brooks and up straight in the chair. Brooks stands, and I’m hoisted up—safe in his strong arms, head pressed against his neck. I can think of another place I’d rather he take me, but then I feel a morsel of guilt as I remember this is God’s house. I shouldn’t be thinking such things here, of all places, even though I know He wants us together. He made us to match—for our souls to join for all of eternity.
My breasts bounce as Brooks carries me down the hall, my hands wrapped around his neck as heels click along behind us. Brooks stops. Turns and uses his foot to kick open the ladies’ room door, the waft of lavender and shit assaulting my nose. How romantic, I think, my lips brushing against his neck as he lowers me down into the overstuffed chaise and adjusts a pillow behind my head.
“Would you like some cookies? Doughnut?” Marcy asks.
I shake my head. “I’m fine. Just need to sit for a few minutes.”
“Did you feel all right earlier this morning?” Brooks asks, hands in his pockets now.
Hmm. What to say, what to say? “You know, I did feel a little off. I remember the sanctuary felt like it was a hundred degrees.”
“You need to eat something,” Marcy says again, the bossy brat. “I think we have some of those Lorna Doone cookies—”
“She needs some real food,” Brooks interjects. “There’s a sandwich shop next door. They have smoothies, too.”
“Fabulous idea,” Marcy says. “I’ll go fill Pastor Maxwell in so he can tell all of our brothers and sisters you’re all right. I’m sure they’re worried out there.” She smiles at me, then pushes her way through the door and into the hall, sending a shitty lavender tornado my way.
“I should get back out there, too,” Pink Dress says, crossing her arms.
“Yeah, my parents are probably wondering what happened.”
“I may not see you until tonight.” To my horror, they hug. “And we have to swing by my sister’s before our date.”
That’s it. That’s fucking it. This bitch is toast.
“Actually, do you think you could stay with Emily for a few while I grab her something to eat?”
She pulls away from him. Glances at me. “Of course.”
“You’re the best.” He smiles, then turns to me. “Emily, what would you like?”
I’d like for Pink Dress to die is what I’d like. “Surprise me.”
He smiles. “Be right back.”
Once he’s in the hall and the door swings shut again, Pink Dress sits in a chair nearby, hands awkwardly patting her legs. “So,” she says, “I’m Isabel. How do you and Brooks know each other?”
I almost make a grave mistake. Almost fuck up and tell her I met him in fifth grade. “I was friends with his ex-fiancé.”
“Oh,” she frowns. Then, her eyes brighten. “Oh, was. Good. She didn’t deserve him.” She turns to the mirror. Smooths her hair, and rubs some eyeliner from the corner of her eye.
“She sure didn’t.” And you don’t, e
ither. “So, where are you guys going for your date?”
She turns to me again, a smile taking up half her face. “This amazing Korean barbecue place. Breakers. You been?”
“No. I haven’t lived here very long. Is that all you’re doing?”
“Eh,” she shrugs. “We both have to work tomorrow. But maybe we’ll have dessert.” She winks at me before turning to the mirror again.
My cheeks burn as I fantasize about grabbing her by the hair and smashing her head into the mirror. She pulls gloss from the bust of her dress. Puckers her lips and applies it, and then points to the bathroom stall before stepping inside. The thought of her having dinner with Brooks and then feeding him her pussy bothers me more than if he were to go fuck Eliza again. My teeth grind as I press my nails into my thighs. I could kick open the door. Rip her hair out. Drown her.
But, you know, jail.
Her pee trickles gently into the toilet, forcing me to think about that pussy of hers and how he may be in it later. I didn’t change my entire life to let some Victoria’s Secret wannabe fuck up my life. Quietly, I get up. Walk to bathroom counter and reach for the hand soap. Squirt several pumps onto the floor—squirt, squirt, squirt—the sound of urine still flowing from her inevitable unicorn twat. I bend down, spread it around with my hand, then walk back to the chaise. Rub my hands off on the back of it, and sit back down.
That should do it. She won’t be going on a date tonight after she sprains one of her pretty ankles.
The toilet flushes. The stall opens. One step out. Two steps out, my heart racing as she approaches the soap. She doesn’t complete her third step, as her foot slips, her arms swiping furiously in the air as she falls backward, her ass slamming against the dirty bathroom tile as she catches herself on her elbows and screams in pain.
“Dammit!” she yells, sitting up and clutching her left arm against her chest.
I jump up. “Oh my God, are you okay?”
Her eyes squeeze shut as a single tear falls from her lashes. “I … I think my arm is broken.”
Dramatic, much? “Try to move it.”
She attempts to straighten it out, but cries out in pain. “I can’t.” She shakes her head. “It’s definitely broken.”
Shit. Well, I didn’t mean to break bones, but I guess I’ll take it.
The door opens. My head turns to see Marcy, open-mouthed and wide eyes. “What’s going on?”
“She broke her arm.”
“Get my phone. Call Leo,” she cries. “I need to go to the hospital.”
My head turns to her again. “Who’s Leo?”
“My boyfriend.”
Brooks and I stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the hallway of the church, waving and smiling in sympathy at Isabel as she’s rolled out on a stretcher. Curious eyes peer from the sanctuary. Once the EMTs reach the door to the parking lot, bodies filter into the hall.
“I hope she doesn’t need surgery,” I say with sincerity. I do feel terrible. If I hadn’t squirted the soap on the floor, it wouldn’t have broken her arm. “Should we go with her?”
“Nah, she’ll be fine. She’s tough. And her boyfriend is meeting her. Her sister, too.” His phone rings. He feels around for it inside his pocket. Silences it. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” Though it doesn’t matter his response. I’d go anywhere in the world with him.
“My place.”
Stealth-like, he pulls me through a back door, clutching the food he’d brought me in his other hand. His head peeks over his shoulder three, maybe four, times on the way to his car. We get in, but he doesn’t open the door for me this time.
“Sorry to rush you out like that,” he says, once the engine purrs. “I don’t particularly feel like dealing with questions.”
“Questions...?” Routinely, I open the visor mirror. Discreetly, I blot my face with the back of my hand before closing it again.
He stops at the edge of the parking lot. Turns onto the road in the opposite direction of the ambulance. “Surely my parents could have realized who you were, so I would rather avoid any questions about why you are going home with me.”
My nostrils flare as I process his words, but I relax them back into place. Don’t act bothered. Remember the bitch book. As hard as it may be, remember the bitch book. “I’m actually wondering that, too. Why am I going home with you?” I hold my breath, bracing for his reaction. The book has great reviews, but there were two to three people who claimed it ruined their relationships. Apparently not all men like alpha women.
Stunned, his head jerks as his eyes cut to mine. “Well, you don’t have to. I just figured you probably shouldn’t be alone after passing out.”
I shrug. “Fair enough, I guess.” Now, remember, Emily. Don’t be too available. “But I can’t stay long.”
“Easter plans?”
“Something like that.”
“I had Easter plans until you and Isabel both decided to have disasters.”
His phone rings again, vibrating from the center console—his mother popping up on the screen. He declines the call with a press of his finger.
“Are you really that scared of them knowing I’m with you?”
“Of course not.” The car rolls to a stop at a light. “It’s just that with me not having dated anyone since Eliza, everyone would jump to conclusions.”
There it is. The truth. “Which would be?”
“I am sure they would think there’s something between us.” His eyes turn back to the road as he shifts and pulls left onto his street, Dogwoods blowing in the gentle wind.
If my invisible frown could demonstrate the depths of my disappointment, it would swallow me. But I can’t show weakness. “Which would be completely ridiculous.”
I’m not sure what I expect. For him to disagree in some small way, perhaps. But he just laughs. “Yeah, it would. I mean, you dated Deacon. He might as well be my brother.”
Will Brooks bring it up whenever it’s time to take another step—Deacon, a manufactured barrier, keeping us from what we both need? How hard will it be to make Brooks forget?
Once we pull into his driveway and enter the house, he tells me to have a seat. Asks if I want anything to drink, as the soda he got me is watered down.
“Just water.” I curl my legs beneath me, and my eyes fall on the panda drawing. A smile threatens my lips. How surreal it is to be here, alone with him, knowing he’s kept a piece of us.
He returns from the kitchen, icy glass held out for me. To my dismay, he sits in the chair next to the couch instead of next to me.
“Still feeling all right?”
“Fine.”
“What brought you to church today?”
“Jesus.” I take a sip of water. “What about you?”
“Ya know, family stuff. I don’t go often, mainly on holidays.”
I change the subject, not yet married to the principles in the book, because I ask a pathetic question. “So, who’s Isabel?”
“Oh, she’s my cousin.”
I smile, my hand brushing across my mouth.
His brows raise. “What?”
“I thought she was your girlfriend.”
He grimaces. “God, no. No ‘keeping it in the family’ for this guy.”
My dress is tight and uncomfortable, so I pull my legs from under me. Lifting the top piece of bread, I peek at the sandwich. Looks like turkey and cheese. It’ll do. I take a bite. Decide I’ll be visiting the place soon.
As I chew, I can’t stop looking at the damn panda drawing. I know it’s a reckless question, but I ask it anyway. “Did you draw that? The pandas?”
His head drags in its direction. “Oh, no. I can’t draw for shit. It was a gift.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“It was forever ago. You remember when—” His head cocks a little, like he’s heard something.
I set down my half-eaten sandwich as he stands from the couch and rushes into the foyer. “What?”
“Shit!” He rushes back into t
he room as I stand. “We gotta hide!”
“Hide?”
“Yes, hide,” he growls. “Get up!”
He yanks my hand. Pulls me into his bedroom. He opens his closet door, and pushes me inside. His phone lights the area as he shoves me behind some clothing in the corner. He scoots in next to me, our bodies pressed against each other as a voice yells from within the house.
“Yo!” Deacon. “Dude, you home?”
“Did you leave the door unlocked?” I whisper.
“He has a key.”
“Where are you?” Deacon shouts, his voice closer now.
Brooks steps closer to me in the dark, his finger finding my lips to keep me from talking.
Footsteps extremely close now, likely in the bedroom. “What animal takes one bite of a sandwich and just leaves it? You taking a shit, dude?”
A jiggle and creak of the closet door startle me. Brooks presses even harder into me, the firmness of his chest against my tits, pinning me to the wall. I want to push his finger away. Pull him to my mouth. Devour him in this tiny, dark space.
“Hey. He’s not here, but his car is. Must have gone for a walk or something.” More door creaking, like he’s leaning against it.
We stay frozen until his footsteps are gone—until the sound of the front door is followed by the hum of a car and closing of the front gate. Finally, we let out our breath, and Brooks pulls away from me. Opens the closet.
He turns to me, clearly distressed. Sweat beads on his forehead, and the top of his shirt is soaked. He wipes his face with his forearm, then walks to his dresser and yanks off his shirt, the harsh light of the late morning highlighting every flexing muscle on his body. When he turns back to me, new shirt in hand, my eyes are involuntarily trailing over him, fucking him with my pupils. He looks at me as if he knows my needs, and for a fleeting moment I think he knows that his are just as great, but his morally-concerned self would never do anything about it.
“I’m kind of nauseous. Do you have any Pepto or anything?”
He pulls on his shirt. “Actually, I think I do.” He walks to his medicine cabinet before coming back with it.
Such an ugly, hideous pink. Just like the pink shirt I practically lived in when I was in third grade. Gross, disgusting shade of fish guts. It was the worst color on me then, and it’ll be the worst color on me now. As he’s pouring it, measuring with precision, I say, “Oh, you don’t have to measure,” and I pull it from his hand, intentionally spilling it all over myself.
The Evolution of Ivy: Antidote (The Evolution of Ivy, Volume 2) Page 6