Love, Chloe

by Alessandra Torre

  “She’s refusing X-rays,” he continued, and I nodded, unsurprised.

  “I’m RIGHT HERE,” Nicole yelled. “And I’m FINE. Chloe, call the studio and let them know I can’t film today. And if I need a doctor, find one who will make house calls.” She tried to run a hand over the top of her hair, and I saw the tremble of her fingers.

  “You’re not going to be able to film today?” Clarke turned to face her. “Nicki, you need to rest. Have you seen your face? You’ll have bruises, swelling—” I put my hand on his shoulder and stopped him, Nicole’s eyes widening as she lifted a hand to her face. Stupid man. He should know how much a threat to this woman’s looks would freak her out.

  “Don’t worry about it.” I smiled in my best attempt at reassurance. “I’ll call them.”

  “Good,” she snapped. “And get me a doctor. I want to be released from this hellhole now.”

  I took her order and escaped, finding a nurse and communicated her demand. And, forty-five minutes later, she was released.

  I leaned against a column in the parking garage and watched as Clarke and Dante carefully helped her into a car, her purse still in a death grip against her chest.

  “We’ve got it from here,” Clarke said, shutting the door and looking at me. “You’ve had a hard day. Why don’t you head home?”

  I nodded without argument, waving goodbye and watching them pull out of the garage and into the sunlight. I wondered, as I stepped into a cab, what more could possibly go wrong.

  As it turned out? A lot.

  The pregnancy news ate at me, devouring every spare brain cell, nothing else computing as I sat in the back of a filthy cab and tried to think. I needed to talk to someone, needed feedback, and my options were the girls or Carter.

  Shit. Carter. I had forgotten all about him and the I love you texts.

  It scared me, knowing that he might feel as strongly for me as I felt for him. Talk about a stupid fear to have. We were all running around this giant city trying to find love, trying to find soulmates. Looking for an all-encompassing, scary love just like this one. I should be jumping up and down in my Brian Atwoods and speed-dialing Carter’s number. Proclaiming my love to him and embracing the fact that—for once—I was experiencing this love with a nice guy. One who wouldn’t bang the maid, one who answered my calls, one who would put me before business. One who wasn’t, underneath all of his sexiness, an asshole.

  A small bit of happiness sparked inside of me. Was this it? Could he be my person?

  Could I do this? Could I be the girl who ran toward right instead of wrong?

  I could swallow my fears and take the jump. I could.

  The driver knocked on the plastic partition and I looked up, seeing our building. “Oh. Sorry.” I fumbled for cash and passed it forward. “Thanks.”

  When I stepped out of the car, Carter was there, standing on the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched forward. When he saw me, he relaxed, stepping forward and pulling me toward him, his hands gentle as they touched me, his eyes darting over my injuries.

  “You’re hurt.” His voice was tight and low.

  “No.” I shook my head. “Just scratches.”

  “Thank God. Are Dante and Nicole okay?”

  I nodded, trying to force out a simple yes, but my throat felt so full and I knew, right then, that I was going to cry. I fell into his chest and sobbed with no clear reason why. His arms wrapped around me, and he murmured my name into my hair, telling me it was going to be okay, telling me that I was strong and beautiful and amazing.

  He brought me inside and ran a bath. I watched the water and thought of the dust, tiny particles moving around the cab of the truck. He carefully undressed me and cleaned my wounds, his touch careful, his eyes concerned. I remembered the squeal of brakes, a honk, Dante’s shout. He’d shouted my name. The impact had been so loud. I could hear it, hours later. Without talking, without questions, Carter put me to bed, curling up behind me, one gentle kiss placed on the back of my neck.

  It was exactly what I needed.

  I did love him. I really believed that. I just didn’t know if I was ready to admit it.

  70. My Mouth is Big

  I kept Nicole’s secret for all of sixteen hours. Anything past that would have been impossible, it was just too great for me to sit on alone. Which was why, at seven in the morning, I woke Cammie up with an enthusiastic use of her buzzer. Lucky for me, I was in a car accident the day before, so I got a free pass. Once we covered my injuries and got some coffee brewing, we sat on her couch, whispering so as not to wake Dante, and I spilled everything.

  “Shut up.” Cammie’s eyebrows raised in evil glee. “She’s pregnant?”

  “Yes.” I giggled despite myself. It wasn’t funny. But for all of the shit I’d watched Nicole get away with, the woman had it coming. I composed my face and tried my best serious face. “It’s not funny,” I admonished.

  “It’s kinda funny,” Cammie mused, lifting her coffee mug for a sip. “Have you told Benta?”

  “No. Don’t.”

  She raised a hand in surrender. “No worries there.” Benta, God love her, couldn’t keep a secret for shit. You told her anything juicy and she’d have a Times billboard rented before the end of the hour.

  It felt good to let it out. To have a sounding board. And, let’s face it, it felt great to hear her gasp of shock, to have someone who truly understood and appreciated the magnitude of the fact that NICOLE WAS PREGNANT. Cammie all but whipped out a calendar, trying to figure out ovulation windows and the probability of whose sperm was luckiest. Or rather, unluckiest. I tried to picture a pregnant, hormonal Nicole and saw absolute disaster. When I thought of her as a mother … well. I already felt bad for Chanel.

  We talked for over an hour, and produced absolutely no game plan on how to handle the pregnancy test. I left with promises to keep her updated. So for right now, I was sitting on the information and trying to pretend I didn’t know it, and trying my best not to think about it.

  Talk about an impossible task.

  I knew from the news that my parents’ noose was tightening, their legal fight running out of options and funding. When I called on his birthday, Dad actually answered. We chatted about the Dolphins and then he shared a moment of truth, his voice tight and irritated.

  “We just thought we had more time, Chloe. They came in so fast … they took everything. If I had known, things would have been different. The investigation wouldn’t have mattered.”

  A bundle of sentences that took any remaining respect I had for my father and ground it to dust. I didn’t want parents who squirreled away money and then ran. I didn’t want to come from that stock. I wanted a dad who apologized to me. Who hugged me and told me that he screwed up. That he was sorry for not supporting me through the last year. Who said something that validated all of my love for him. On that call, he didn’t even tell me he loved me. It was as though my parents had only known how to show love through gifts and—without their money—had no feelings left for me.

  71. Distracted by the D

  I knocked on Carter’s door with one goal in mind: To Confess Love. He opened the door, and I didn’t even get out a greeting. He hooked a finger through my belt loop and pulled me into his chest. His mouth came down on mine, his other hand pushing the door closed and then I felt the full palm of his hand on my butt, squeezing hard. He gripped me like he thought I might slip away, his kiss deepening as we stood in place, my bag dropping through my fingers, my hands reaching up to grip his hair.

  Any chance of talking disappeared in the pull of his mouth off mine, his hand pushing me back, and as my shoulders hit the door, his knees hit the floor, his fingers at the top of my leggings. His name was a question off my lips and he ignored it, pulling at the waist of my pants and my panties, and then they were skimmed down my legs and around my feet.

  He was a man on a mission, and my flats were off, my left thigh lifted over his shoulde
r, and then his mouth was between my legs, my hands skittering over the door as I tried to hold on to something. “Carter,” I gasped his name around the time that his tongue found that spot, the one he discovered one morning and could barely hold me down after. It wasn’t my clit, it was further back … and when he flicked his tongue over it, I was gone. I collapsed against the door, my hands weak on his shoulders, my weight on him, his hands holding me up as he worshiped me with his mouth.

  Light flutters, so light and constant and perfect—at that spot then up to my clit, his fingers biting into my bare ass, a guttural groan humming over my sensitive skin and spelling out his enjoyment. I wanted to move, wanted to not be standing, two wants that got lost in the swell of pleasure. When I came, my nails dug into his shoulders, my foot braced against the floor, my thighs tightened around his head, and everything in my mind went black.

  I had a vague recollection of him lifting me up. Of him carrying me to his bed. I found my bearings around the time that my back hit the sheets. I helped him pull off my shirt and watched as he yanked at his, his abs flexing as he threw it into the corner of the room, his fingers quick as they worked at his pants. He was so freaking hot. So strong, the cut of his muscles showing in the simple act of shedding his clothes. His eyes were on mine the entire time and when he crawled onto the bed, hard and ready for me, I was ready for him.

  I was so ready for him.

  “You need more furniture.” I picked up a shrimp with my chopsticks and gestured to his bare bones room.

  “I don’t like clutter,” he remarked, scooping fried rice onto his plate.

  “Yeah—I’ve seen your closet. I could tell.” I popped the shrimp in my mouth and chewed, watching him crack open a Coke.

  He glanced my way. “You prefer your men messy?”

  “Not at all.” I thought of Vic, who tossed his clothes on the floor, a maid picking them up the minute our back was turned. “I’m just jealous I wasn’t born with that gene.”

  “I don’t know if I was born with it or if it was beaten into me.” He made a whip motion with his hand, and I raised my eyebrows.

  “Please tell me it wasn’t by Presa.” I made a face and he laughed.

  “No, no. My mom. She wouldn’t let me eat unless everything was in its place.”

  I smiled at the image, one so different than my childhood. I could picture him, a miniature heartbreaker, then a lanky teenager, put into place by a bossy mother. “I wish my mom had been more like that. Maybe then…” Maybe then I’d be a lot different. Maybe then I wouldn’t have struggled so much when the rug was yanked out from beneath me.

  He shrugged. “It’s one of those things that you hate as a kid but learn to appreciate the benefits of later. I think they did a pretty good job of raising me.”

  “Was your Dad strict too?”

  He nodded, scooping out some noodles and holding them out for me. “Do you want kids?”

  Kids? That wasn’t something I had ever thought about. Literally. I had always assumed I’d have them, just hadn’t ever really thought if I had wanted them. Vic had wanted five boys. So that had always been that. Discussion over, damn whatever sperm or Chloe had to say about the matter. “I don’t know,” I said, taking a sip of my tea.

  “I think you’d make a great mom.” I almost asked him to repeat himself, wanted to hear the words one more time.

  “Really?” I scrunched up my face. “I can’t even handle myself.”

  “The best parents are those that try. And that can admit their mistakes.”

  Well, wasn’t that the truth. Maybe, if my parents admitted their own shortgivings, I would have seen more of my own. “So…” I said slowly, setting down the box of food and sitting back in my chair. “You’re saying that because I’m a train wreck, I’ll be a great mom?” I narrowed my eyes at him and he smiled.

  “I’m saying that Chloe Madison doesn’t seem to do anything half ass.” He stood and walked around the table, leaning over and resting his weight on the arms of my chair.

  “That sounds like a challenge,” I mused, grinning wickedly up at him.

  He laughed and pressed his lips to mine. “You up for it?”

  I was up for it. And as it turned out, so was he.

  72. Closure: Is it Really Necessary?

  The alarm blared, jerking me out of sleep, an insistent beep that was impossible to ignore, especially not at five in the morning.

  I rolled over, pulling a pillow over my head and listened to him silence it. I fell asleep around the time that his shower started and woke up again when he whispered my name, his mouth kissing my neck. He asked if my alarm was set, and I grunted out a yes. Then he was gone.

  My meeting with Vic loomed, just one day away. I dreaded it. I had always done better with Vic when I didn’t see him. There was something about us being face-to-face … it had, in the past, weakened all of my barriers. This time needed to be different.

  “You know, you don’t need Carter as a reason to say goodbye to Vic.” Benta reached over, stabbing her fork into one of my grapes and stealing it. “Cutting ties with Vic has been overdue, regardless of anything else.”

  “I know.” Benta caught the eye of the waiter, and I snuck a glance at my watch. Our lunch had been impromptu, the stars aligning to give us a forty-five minute window of time to inhale salads and pregame my meeting with Vic.

  “You broke up with him for a reason,” Cammie added.

  “I know,” I repeated, pulling my plate closer and warding off a second attempt by Benta.

  “You know what I think?” Cammie mused, taking a long and dramatic sip of ice water.

  “I think … you better hurry up because I have to get back to work?” Benta drawled.

  “I think,” Cammie said, shooting Benta a glare, “that Chloe’s a saboteur.” She looked at me. “You know you have a good thing with Carter, and it scares you. So you’re tempted by Vic purely because you want an excuse for your relationship to fail.”

  “But she’s not tempted by Vic,” Benta argued. “Right?” She looked at me.

  “It’s Vic’s money,” Cammie interrupted me before I could speak. “That’s what she’s struggling with.”

  “I’m not tempted by Vic.” I swallowed. “And I’m over his money.” I looked down at my plate, thinking of every horrible thought that had crossed my mind, back when I’d first met Carter. How much money and future lifestyles had ruled my decisions back then.

  Benta laughed. “Really? The same Chloe Madison who balked at our Spring Break trip because she was too fancy for Carnival Cruise lines?”

  Cammie leaned forward with a smile, because it was apparently Make Fun of Chloe Day. “The same Chloe Madison who had daily maid service at your old apartment?”

  “That was Vic’s maid,” I pointed out.

  “And you loved it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Who wouldn’t love daily maid service? That’s a stupid statement.”

  But I did. I’d loved it. I’d loved everything about that life. And maybe that was what I’d struggled with so much in terms of Vic. Maybe it hadn’t been him, but his money, his lifestyle—a distinction that turned my year of struggle from being lovestruck to just being materialistic. Ouch.

  “Chloe’s right.” Benta’s comment dragged me back to the conversation. “I would love daily maid service.”

  “Let’s not talk about Vic and maids,” I groaned. “Please.”

  Cammie raised an eyebrow at me. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “How terrible of us to remind you of his cheating right before you end things with him.”

  “I already ended things with him,” I shot back, standing and gathering up my trash. “This is just closure.”

  Closure. Such an odd concept. Did relationships really need it? Or was it just an excuse for one last glimpse at what could have been?

  I didn’t ask them the question. They were, at times, a little too honest for my heart’s sake. But I thought Benta and
Cammie were both right.

  I needed to kiss Vic’s ass goodbye because it was the right thing to do and it was about damn time.

  I needed to embrace my relationship with Carter and stop being a wimp. Whether I’d told him so or not, I loved him. He made me realize how empty my old life had been. And in his eyes, I saw a future that I wanted more of, a future where I was a better person.

  Wow. I might have just become a grown-up.

  I met Vic in the downstairs bar, instead of his upstairs office. I’d been in that office too many times. Bent over that desk, on top of liquor invoices and payroll docs. Pressed up against the window, my cheek to the glass, his hips pumping against my ass. Vic loved that office. I didn’t want to think about how many women, both during and after me, he’d had up there.

  I got there first, finding a stool at the bar and pulling out my phone, returning a text to Cammie.

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  I looked up at the bartender. A drink. Ha. Alcohol was the one thing I didn’t need to add to this situation. “Diet Coke,” I said. The man winced, but grabbed a glassful of ice.

  It took fifteen minutes for Vic to show up. When he did, it was in a dark gray suit, a blue shirt underneath, his jacket unbuttoned, his tie loose around his neck. His hair was neat, his skin tan from his fishing trip. He smiled at me as he approached and my hand tightened on my glass. The problem with not drinking? You lost the careless steel it could give your spine.

  I started to speak, and he cut me off, leaning forward, so close I could smell his cologne. “Cute outfit.”

  “Thank you.” I’d dressed casually, knowing it would irritate him, especially in this club, an establishment that prided itself on an unbendable dress code. My jeans and V-neck had made the doorman shake his head as soon as I had stepped up, his mouth souring into a scowl when I flashed the gold card that Vic had given me. There were only a handful of them in the city, some VIP bullshit that Vic printed up that gave carte blanche at any of his places. I hadn’t ever used it when we’d dated, everyone knowing who I was but now, eighteen months later, all of the faces were different, the city of New York one that changed often and easily forgot.