Love, Chloe

by Alessandra Torre

  “Oh, yeah. The handyman.” I could hear the smirk on his face, and it pissed me off.

  “Just call me when you get back in town,” I snapped. “We can talk then.”

  “I’ll be back on the fifth. Let’s meet then. My club. Ten o’clock.”

  “No.” I sputtered. “I was thinking breakfast. In Central Park.”

  “Breakfast isn’t good for me. And you said it was important. So let’s knock it out as soon as I get back. Ten o’clock.”

  “I can’t meet you at ten at night, Vic. That doesn’t … work for me.” I let out a hard breath and dug harder on the seam, finding a loose thread.

  “For you or for the insecure boy you’re dating?”

  I frowned.

  “Ten on the fifth. Wear something hot.”

  And before I could find a response, he hung up.

  I knocked on Carter’s door. Glanced at my watch. Tried a second time. No answer.

  I eyed the stairwell and took that route, jogging down the stairs and into the basement. Carter had an office there, a tiny box stacked so high with items you could barely get inside. I had about forty-five minutes before Nicole would get out of her spa appointment and was hoping for lunch with my—I swallowed hard—boyfriend. That word still seemed foreign in my throat. Especially now, when I entered the dirty bottom floor, a place my prior boyfriends would never set foot in.

  His office was empty, but the engine room door was cracked. I peeked in, the room cool and dark, and saw him. His shirt was off, the giant mechanics of our building behind him. We were talking rough big machines framing his tan, muscular skin, and I couldn’t help but step inside, my hand pulling the door shut behind me, my sandals smacking against the floor.

  He looked up, a wrench in hand, and rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. Saw the look in my eyes, and stood, setting down the wrench. I forgot all about eating.

  He picked me up under my arms, carrying me backward, my feet hanging limp, a huff of breath leaving me as he pushed me against the wall. My red sundress got shoved up, his pants quickly unzipped, and then he was inside me. Concrete cool and hard against my back, his grip biting into my ass, the grunt of his thrusts hot in my ear. He fucked me against that wall, and when I came, I screamed, the yell lost in the loud rumblings of the machines. When he finished it was sudden, his grip on my skin tightening, and I felt the shudder of him right before he pulled out.

  That night, I told him about my attempt to call Vic and the disaster it had become. He listened quietly, his eyes darkening when I didn’t sugarcoat the ending and told him exactly what Vic had said. How he’d called him insecure. How he’d wanted to meet me at night. Carter had looked away, a pulse in his jaw ticking, then back at me.

  “I didn’t want to force you to meet him. That wasn’t what it was about.”

  “I know.” We sat on his couch, my feet in his lap, his thumb rubbing gentle pressure into the soles of my feet. I rested my head on the arm of the couch and looked at the ceiling. “And I do think I should talk to him. Just to clear the air. Just so there’s no doubt, in his mind, that we’re over. I want him to stop everything he’s doing.”

  “So then meet him. What difference is morning or night?” Carter’s thumb resumed its massage.

  I shrugged. “It’s a control thing, really. I guess I don’t like him dictating the place.” My lie came out perfectly. It wasn’t really the place, or the time that bothered me. It was the thought of seeing him. I wanted to put Vic in a box and pretend he didn’t exist. I didn’t want to look up into his face and see our history there. Even scarier, any regret on his face.

  “It’s the last time you’ll have to see him.” Carter ran his hand up the entire length of my leg, and I shifted, giving him better access.

  “Right.” I was starting to lose my train of thought, his fingers sliding along the inside of my thigh.

  He watched me squirm and his eyes darkened. “I don’t want you to meet him alone. Make sure there will be other people there.” There was possession in his words and it was unbelievably hot, his face tightening, hands a little rougher on my legs. My mind flashed back to our second encounter, in the hall of my apartment, when he’d been pissed. I’d thought that look on him was hot. A possessive Carter was even hotter.

  I slid deeper into the couch and pushed my foot into his crotch suggestively. “I’ll think about it.” I grinned when he crawled on top of me, his eyes narrowing.

  “You do that, Ms. Madison.”

  “Or what?” I challenged him.

  His hands settled on the clasps of my shorts.

  His fingers pulled at my thong.

  His head dropped between my legs.

  And our conversation officially ended.

  64. Six Tons of Oh Shit

  I sat next to Dante, my laptop out, fingers quick as Nicole barked things from the backseat. Good thing I took typing in high school. I needed every bit of my 50-words-per-minute ability when dealing with Nicole’s demands.

  “And tell him that if he can’t tell forsythia from winter jasmine that it’s his damn fault, and I’m not paying for it.” She paused and I heard the crack of a Diet Pepsi opening. “Did you run that background check on our new neighbors yet?”

  “Yes. Just a second, I’ll pull it up.” I opened the file and turned in my seat, glancing back at her. Later, they would say that that small movement, my shift to the center of the car, saved my neck. All I knew was when the airbag exploded, it knocked me sideways in between the two front seats. And when we were hit a second time, six tons of moving truck slamming into the back of the SUV, our eyes met for one horrific split second.

  A split second where Nicole wasn’t bitchy or demanding or unfaithful.

  A split second where she was confused. Then, smoke was everywhere, and I didn’t see her at all.

  I couldn’t breathe. It was hot and dusty, clouds of smoke coming from the airbags, and I clawed at the door, trying to get it open. My hand finally found the handle and I pushed it open, gulping at the fresh air, the cab clearing. I heard Dante cough my name and turned to look at him, his hand pushing at the airbag, his own door cracking. “I’m fine,” I called, fumbling for my belt, the hot metal of the other truck close, glass everywhere, and I wanted to look in the backseat, wanted to know … but I couldn’t, I didn’t.

  65. I Should Have Seen This Coming

  Nicole was not a person I’d ever felt affection for, yet there was this lump in my throat at the thought of her hurt. A bigger swell of emotion for Clarke. I didn’t know why he loved that rotten woman, but he did. If she was hurt or dying … I didn’t know how he would react. I stared at the carnage that was our vehicle and started to shake. The front hood was smashed, nothing incredibly major but enough to have stopped the Escalade in the middle of the street. It was the giant truck stuck into the back of the vehicle that was the problem. A collision that had eaten Nicole’s seat in the crunch.

  “She doesn’t wear a seat belt.” I looked up into the EMT’s face. “Nicole doesn’t wear a seatbelt.” Clarke used to get on to her about it, all the time, an old argument played on repeat between them.

  “Do you know what day it is?” The woman held my chin and shone a light in my eyes.

  “Wednesday.” I pulled away from her. “I’m fine. Do you know anything about Nicole?”

  “No. I’m sorry.” She didn’t look sorry. She looked irritated, her hand quick and impersonal when she yanked the cuff off my arm. I looked for Dante, pushing off the hood of the car, a stranger’s car, and she held me down. “Don’t move.”

  “Chloe.” Dante was there, a burn on his face, blood across his cheek but he was okay and I hugged him tightly. “They’re getting Nicole out now.”

  “Is she okay?” I thought of when it hit. Her face. Her eyes on mine.

  “I think she’s okay. Be glad she was sitting behind me, your side got the worst of it.” His eyes held mine, and I almost cried with relief. “Do you
have your cell? Mine’s still in the truck.”

  My cell. I reached into the pocket of my blazer. “Here.”

  “Thanks. I’m calling Clarke now.”

  I nodded, numbly noticing the cameras that had already shown up, the crowd starting, a few paparazzi present. Nicole would be crushed that she missed it, this opportunity in the spotlight. No … not crushed. I swallowed hard at my slip.

  “Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous?” the woman asked, and I shook my head.

  “Is there a chance you are pregnant?” I shook my head again, my birth control shot the one appointment I never missed.

  She dabbed a cut on my arm, and I flinched. Then, above the blare of a siren and the sounds of the city, I heard the most perfect sound: Nicole bitching.

  I pushed to my feet, ignoring the EMT’s protests and ran through strangers, toward Nicole’s voice. She was strapped onto a stretcher and yelling, one arm waving, a man grabbing the wrist and securing it down. I came closer, and her eyes zeroed in on me.

  “You!” I swear there was an accusation in her voice, and I raised my hands in innocence, my eyes darting over her. She looked filthy, her white sheath covered with air bag powder and dirt, her hair coming out of her ponytail, her makeup a mess. Combine all that with the panic on her face and she looked deranged, but, thankfully, very much alive. She jerked her head toward me. “Come here!” she hissed, and I stepped forward cautiously, her voice dropping and eyes darting, like she was about to share a secret. “I need you to go to the car, right now, and get my handbag. It was on the floorboard. These IDIOTS—” that word screamed at full force in the direction of the medics—“won’t get it for me.”

  “Your purse?” I asked blankly, glancing over my shoulder at the remains of the SUV, which seemed likely to burst into flames at any second.

  “Yes. It’s a black Birkin. Get it and keep it with you. Do you understand?” She pinned me with a look, as if her ten-thousand-dollar purse contained the cure for cancer.

  “Yeah,” I managed. “Yes,” I corrected.

  She stared at me blankly. “NOW!” she screamed, her good arm jerking.

  “Sorry.” I nodded to Nicole, and turned back to the car, dodging my overbearing EMT and carefully approaching the wreck. I was stopped five feet away.

  “Where are you going?” It was a cop, his face no-nonsense, no pity given to my injuries.

  “I was in the crash.” I gestured toward it, in case he was confused. “I just need to get my boss’s purse.”

  The guy’s head was already shaking before I finished the request, and I swallowed any explanations of a Birkin’s expense or the heights of Nicole’s fury before I looked like an idiot. “It has her insulin shots in it,” I bluffed. “The medics need it. If I could just have thirty seconds.” I did the begging hands, jumping up and down routine and felt the edge of my bandage pop off. His eyes darted to the stretcher, Nicole’s curses audible. “Please.”

  “Thirty seconds,” he said gruffly. “Go.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered, moving as quickly as I could, and pulled open the front door, the back one too mangled, and crawled over the center console, my eyes scanning the backseat floorboard. I let out a sigh of relief when I saw her purse, lying on its side. Its contents had spilled everywhere, and I leaned farther in, trying not to bump against anything, my hands grabbing at items and stuffing them quickly inside. Her iPhone, the screen cracked. Her moisturizer, then her keys. A few items had rolled under the seat and I stretched my arm, my nails digging into the edge of something plastic and I grimaced, sliding the object closer to me until I could finally get my fingers around it.

  As soon as I saw it, I dropped it, a gasp slipping out, the stick rolling and I grabbed it before I lost it again.

  So many memories, so many personal emotions tied to that simple white plastic piece, its window facing away. Just holding it felt like such a violation.

  “Just do it already.” Vic banged on the bathroom door, his voice irritated. I said nothing in response, my butt bare on the porcelain seat, the expensive tile of his parents’ bathroom stretching before me. “It’ll be fine, whatever it is. Just do it.”

  It didn’t feel fine. It felt like a war of emotions. It felt like I was between two different life paths and whatever was on that stick would, literally, change my life. I had unwrapped the package with trembling fingers. Read the instructions twice. Let out a shaky breath as I had completed the steps.

  My test had been negative and I had learned a lesson from it, getting on birth control the very next week.

  Now, even though it wasn’t my pregnancy test, I felt that same drop in my stomach. That same jittery moment of hesitation when I didn’t really want to know the results. I looked down, my hand closed around the stick.

  It wasn’t my business to know. I should put the stick in her purse; gather up any other items, and leave.

  I should forget that I even saw it.

  Instead, I opened my palm and looked at it.

  66. Out of the ClearBlue Sky

  It was a ClearBlue pregnancy test, which made everything easy. No lines, no online instruction manual to hunt down. Just a simple word displayed across the top. PREGNANT. I had expected it, had known somewhere deep inside, what it would say, but I still inhaled sharply, my hand shaky as I gripped the stick harder.

  “Time’s up.” The voice came from behind me, and I jumped, turning to see the cop. “You got to get out.”

  I hid the stick in my hand. “Just a minute.” His face hardened. “Five seconds,” I promised, my hands skating over the floor, making sure that nothing else had fallen. I stuffed it all, including the test, into her purse and closed the top flap, sliding my hand through the straps and crawling back into the front seat. At the last moment, I had the good sense to grab my own clutch. “Okay, I’m done.”

  Nicole was pregnant. No wonder she was so frantic for me to get her purse. If someone else had found the test, if word and photos had leaked out … I thought of Clarke and of his reaction. I thought of Paulo, and my world got a little darker.

  Who was the father? Did she know? There really wasn’t any math to do, the timeframe worked for either of them. Somewhere there’d be a joke about the condom queen getting pregnant. I gripped the handle of her Birkin tightly and stepped away from the crash. Spied them loading Nicole into an ambulance and headed that way.

  Babies should be celebrated. Loved and treasured. I should be excited for her.

  Instead, watching the ambulance’s door slam, I felt sick.

  67. Dropping the L Bomb

  “Here.” Dante held out my phone and I took it, watching Nicole’s ambulance pull away. “Clarke’s going to meet us at the hospital.”

  “Which one?”

  “Langone.” He watched me closely. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” I shifted Nicole’s purse to my other hand. Either it weighed a ton, or guilt and secrets added pounds. I was terrible with secrets. Vic used to sniff them out immediately. I’d say hey and he’d start an interrogation. Cammie and Benta could spot my tells too. Apparently, my whole persona changed—voice, face, and actions. The more I tried to act normally, the more awkward I was. Strangers, acquaintances, they didn’t see it. Hopefully, when I returned her pregnancy-test purse, Nicole wouldn’t see it either.

  “I’m so sorry, Chloe. The asshole in front of me slammed on the brakes.” He looked over at the wreck with a grimace.

  I waved off his apologies. “Don’t apologize. It was an accident.”

  He blew out a breath. “Want me to get you home?”

  “No. I should get to the hospital.” I glanced down at my phone. Three missed calls and two texts, both from Carter. I opened the first.

  Joey called. Said he heard Nicole got in a bad car accident. Please tell me you are okay.

  I swore under my breath, the text sent ten minutes earlier. I almost didn’t open his second text, anxious to call him and let him know I was okay.
But I did.

  I love you. I need you. Please be okay.

  I stared at the words. Love? My emotional stability trotted to the closest cliff and jumped off. Between Nicole’s pregnancy news and the accident, I couldn’t have an I Love You conversation with Carter right now. Did I love him? I thought so. But my emotions were all over the place. And he thought I might be hurt. Who knew what kind of false emotions he was dealing with?

  I was torn, trying to decide how to respond, when I heard my name called. I looked up, Dante waving me toward a taxi. I took a deep breath and looked back at my phone, typing out a quick reply.

  I’m okay. I’m sorry you were worried. I have to visit Nicole at the hospital. I’ll call you shortly.

  It wasn’t romantic. It didn’t address his I love you at all. But hopefully it would calm his fears and stop any panic.

  I saw dots appear, his response, and started toward Dante.

  Thank God. Be careful and call me when you can. I love you.

  That again. I felt a burst of happiness. It felt strange, being happy on such a horrible day, and I locked the phone, feeling guilty, and tried to swallow my smile as I stepped into the cab.

  68. Wounds Aren’t the Only Superficial Things

  Nicole’s skinny arm reached out from under the hospital bed’s sheet, waving for the purse. “Chloe!” she barked, and Clarke turned, his worried eyes meeting mine. I stepped into the hospital room and passed it over, her eyes meeting mine. “Did you get everything?” she asked pointedly and I nodded. “Everything?” she repeated.

  “Yes. Everything.” I emphasized the word and I think she got the point, pulling the bag from my hands and peeking under the flap of it.

  Clarke stepped toward me, lowering his voice. “She has some bad surface wounds,” he said. “But everything is superficial.”

  “Really?” I glanced at Nicole, who closed her purse and clutched it against her chest like she might never let it go.