“Hey.” His voice is soft; when I glance back at him, I see his eyes are, too. “Forgetting something, aren’t you?”
My brows lift. “What?”
He leans across the center console and kisses me — a no-nonsense, domineering possession of my lips. His hand slides into my hair at the nape, his tongue sweeps into my mouth, and by the time he’s done, I’m panting.
“Oh,” I reply breathlessly. “That.”
“Yeah, that.” He grins at me. “Now go, before I decide you should blow off this whole lunch with the girls thing, and take you back to my boat to make you my sex slave.”
I tilt my head. “Actually, that doesn’t sound half bad…”
His eyes darken. “Don’t tempt me.”
I laugh, push open the door, and hop out. Bending down, I blow him a kiss before I slam the door.
“See you later, sailor.”
The grin on his face is hot enough to leave scorch marks. “Count on it, darling.”
The Porsche tires squeal as he rockets away from the curb, barrels down the road, and turns out of sight… leaving me alone on a sidewalk, chewing my lip and staring up at the cheery pink awning of my favorite bakery. Never has a cupcake shop looked so ominous.
Though, admittedly, that has more to do with the fact that there’s a group of women inside waiting to pick my brain for details of my sex life, and less to do with their top-notch pastries.
Phoebe called shortly after my meltdown, insisting I come to lunch with her and “the girls” — a group I must assume includes Gemma, Shelby, Chrissy, and Lila. Resistance seemed futile, especially when Parker suggested he’d use the time to meet with Nate and discuss my parents’ case.
I heave a deep, martyred sigh and force myself to walk inside, thinking it’s probably a bad sign I’d be happier talking with the guys about a grisly crime than deconstructing my somewhat baffling relationship status with these girls.
“Zoe!” Phoebe yells as soon as I walk through the door, hopping to her feet — which are, of course, clad in fabulous stilettos. “We’re over here!”
She waves like a lunatic, as if there’s a remote chance I haven’t seen their group occupying the large table in the corner. Unlikely, considering the rest of the cafe is pretty much empty.
I wave awkwardly and walk toward them.
“Hi, Zoe!” Gemma says, grinning at me as she scoots over to make room in the booth. “Come sit.”
“What do you want?” Phoebe asks as I settle in. “Latte? Coffee? Cronut?”
“I’m fine.” I try to smile. “Really, not that hungry.”
Phoebe thinks about that for two seconds. “I’m getting you a chocolate cupcake. They’re out of this world.”
“But—” Before I can get the protest past my lips she’s already gone, striding to the counter across the room with the determination of a soldier heading off to war.
“My advice? Don’t fight it,” Lila says, smirking at me. “When it comes to the West family, it’s easier just to cave. Trust me.”
“I’m starting to learn that,” I murmur. Glancing at the women clustered around the table, I try not to panic. “Anyway… thanks for inviting me to your girl date, or whatever this is.”
“Happy to have you,” Gemma says.
“Totally,” Chrissy agrees. “We could use another sane person around here.”
“You had sex!” Shelby announces, narrowing her pretty brown eyes at me.
My mouth drops open.
“Shelby!” Chrissy scolds.
“What? She’s practically glowing. It’s obvious she had an encounter with el peen de Parker.”
“Was that supposed to be Spanish?” Lila’s nose wrinkles. “Because that’s not the word for penis. Just for the record.”
“That’s rude!” Chrissy elbows her friend. “You can’t just go around telling people they have sex-glow.”
“Not the point.” Shelby looks undaunted, smiling over at me like we’re long lost pals instead of virtual strangers. “You totally had sex with Parker.”
“Can we please keep in mind that this is my brother we’re talking about?” Gemma grimaces. “Seriously… there’s an ick factor.”
“Sorry!” Shelby throws up her hands, not sounding sorry in the least. “Screw me for being excited that someone around here is getting… well… screwed. I’m just happy to hear Zoe is getting some. Any more sex-less women in a single place, stray cats are going to start following us around.”
“Uh huh, I’m going to stop you right there.” Lila’s perfectly-plucked eyebrows rise in graceful twin arcs. “I have many problems in my life; celibacy is not one of them.”
“To be honest, I get more than I can handle.” Gemma’s smile is wistful. “Chase makes sure of it.”
“I also get it on the regular,” Chrissy adds. “Well, if you consider on the regular the rare five-minute intervals that occasionally pop up when both kids are miraculously sleeping, Mark and I are both home, and one of us isn’t covered in some kind of baby spittle.”
We all look at her.
“I will pray for you,” Lila tells her very seriously.
I snort.
“What are we talking about?” Phoebe asks, returning to the table loaded down with three different kind of cupcakes and two iced lattes balanced in her hands.
“Getting some,” Gemma informs her cheerfully, snagging a chocolate cupcake off the plate.
“Oh, Nate gives it to me on the regular,” Phoebe informs us happily.
“Fine! Whatever!” Shelby crosses her arms over her chest. “So, I’m the only celibate one. Fabulous.”
“Have a cupcake,” Lila suggests.
Shelby looks aghast. “Oh yeah, an extra five hundred calories that’ll go straight to the cellulite on my ass will certainly help matters.”
“Wait…” Phoebe pauses mid-bite, her large red velvet cupcake poised in the air, and glances at me. For a second she looks elated… but then her face contorts into a nauseous twist. “That means you and Parker…. Oh. I don’t know whether to be happy or grossed out.”
“A little of both,” Gemma says around a massive mouthful of chocolate.
“That was supposed to be for Zoe,” Phoebe tells her sister.
“I can’t help it.” Gemma licks her lips. “I’m starving today.”
There’s a beat of silence before they all explode. I feel utterly confused as every other woman at the table except Gemma starts bouncing in her seat and practically squealing.
Gemma looks at me and rolls her eyes.
“Dog whistle?” I ask.
She laughs. “They do this every time I eat anything in front of them. They all think I’m pregnant.” She glares at her friends. “Which I am not. For the record.”
The squealing stops.
“So…” Phoebe looks at me. “Guess this means you’re officially part of the fam, Tink.”
I blanche. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s just sex.”
Gemma looks thoughtful. “I doubt that. If it was just sex, you wouldn’t be here trying to befriend his crazy family.”
My mouth opens; I search for a reasonable explanation and come up empty.
“You like him!” Phoebe starts bouncing in her seat again. “This is the best day ever.” She pauses. “Well, no, best day ever included Nate taking my virginity. But this is a close second.”
“Wait,” I protest. “Just—”
It’s no use. Phoebe is on a roll.
“This is great. Parker’s finally in love.” She sighs happily. “Do you realize what this means?”
“Phoebe, just—”
She cuts me off. “Parker will finally settle down and stay here! He’ll actually be around! Permanently!”
“That would be pretty awesome,” Gemma chimes in.
“So, Tinkerbell lands the man-child.” Lila shakes her head. “Impressive. I didn’t think it was possible, after the nonstop bimbo parade we’ve had to watch for the past two decades.”
My throat feels like it’s closing.
What is wrong with this family?
Why do they insist on doing everything at hyper-speed?
“It almost won’t be the same, without the Victoria’s Secret models to mock on a regular basis,” Chrissy murmurs. “Who will make us feel bad about ourselves, without Parker’s stream of skanks?”
“Should we send out a memo?” Shelby wrinkles her nose. “ATTENTION, slutty Instagram girls everywhere: Parker West is officially off the market.”
I can’t breathe.
“This is just so exciting!” Phoebe claps. “Parker is in love. All is right in the world.”
“It’s a Christmas miracle,” Lila drawls.
“Do you think—”
My hands slam down on the tabletop, cutting off Gemma’s statement.
“STOP!” I yell, heart pounding too fast. Everyone looks at me with alarm, including the two couples at other tables across the cafe.
“Sorry,” I say much more softly. “But please… just stop. You don’t understand.” I swallow hard. “Parker and I haven’t even talked about this. For all I know, he’s leaving tomorrow.”
Phoebe’s face contorts into a concerned mask. “Oh, Zoe, I’m sure—”
“I’m sorry.” I push back my seat and rise to my feet. “You all seem very nice. But don’t pin all your hopes and dreams on me for keeping your brother around. As far as I know, him dating me, seeing how fucked up I am? That could be the thing that makes him leave here for good.”
With that, I turn and walk out — away from the women who’ve offered me their friendship, away from the first real shot I’ve ever had at a female support system, away from something that, for all intents and purposes, would be a good thing. A great thing, even.
The saddest part is, as I let the cafe door click closed at my back, I know it’s fucked up.
I know I’m fucked up.
But recognizing a problem and actually changing it are two entirely different beasts.
I wander down the street, ignoring the buzzing of my phone and feeling more alone than I have in a very long time.
See, a tiny voice whispers at the back of my mind. This is what happens when you let people in. It gives them power over you.
You’re better off without them.
A lone wolf.
Retracting your claws and playing nice for a day doesn’t make you one of the dogs. You’re just as dangerous as you’ve always been.
They don’t need someone like you in their lives.
No one does.
As hard as I try to drown out that voice, I can’t seem to muffle it as I walk through the park toward my apartment, eyes unseeing and feet on auto-pilot.
Maybe that voice is right.
Maybe I’m better off alone.
15
The Flashback
Sometime during my walk home, the skies open up.
It’s just a drizzle, at first, but it quickly turns to a downpour and before I know it, I’m soaked through from the Toms on my feet to the heavy mane of my hair, dripping steadily down my back.
Boston isn’t a big city — that’s one of the things I love about it. No matter where you are or where you need to go, for the most part you can get around on foot in less than an hour.
Somehow, I turn what should be a twenty-five-minute walk through downtown into a four-hour trek.
I wander alone through the streets — cold, wet, shivering — until I’ve walked from the North End down through Back Bay, over the foot bridge to Seaport. By the time I finally circle back to my neighborhood, the temperature has dropped with the sunset, turning rain to sleet and sleet to snow.
I trudge through a slushy puddle, barely feeling the icy water through my thin shoes. Rounding a corner, my building comes into view, its sagging profile dimly illuminated by snow-covered street lamps.
There’s an edge of panic in my thoughts.
Maybe it’s the timing, maybe it’s the lonely feeling inside my gut, maybe it’s the damn snow falling on a street the day before the anniversary of my parents’ murder. I don’t know, exactly. But paranoia settles over me as flurries coat the shoulders of my jacket. Whispers from the back of my mind say I’m being followed, stalked by some unseen predator.
The thoughts are absurd — every time I glance back, I’m alone on the desolate streets. No one is out in this weather. Especially in my neighborhood.
Pull yourself together.
When I finally reach my door, I’m shaking from more than just the cold. My mind feels as numb as my frozen body. I’m reaching for the entry panel to punch in the security code, willing my blue fingers to cooperate, when something slams into me from behind.
Hard.
I’m not a big woman. Most people would call me petite, and they’d be right. It doesn’t take much force to lift me or send me flying. So I know it’s intentional when a palm lodges between my shoulder blades and shoves me up against the brick wall of my building like a bug against a windshield.
The impact forces all the air from my lungs. My scream comes out as a rasp, barely echoing in the snow-dampened air. Hauling in a breath, I try again but a giant hand clamps over my mouth and muffles my cries before any sound escapes.
“Shut up,” a deep, unfamiliar voice growls by my ear.
I feel my eyes moving frantically inside their sockets, whites flashing with fear as his body presses into my back. I’m flattened so tight I can barely draw a breath through my nose. His grip has constricted all air flow and I feel myself starting to get light-headed, the longer I go without a proper breath.
I struggle against his hold, but it’s no use. My thrashing limbs are no match for the strength in his. He’s too strong.
My struggles cease completely when I feel the razor-sharp edge of a knife press into the hollow point at my throat. The blade cuts into the thin skin at my jugular, precariously close to my carotid. The slightest slip and I’ll bleed out into the snow.
Just like my parents.
The pressure increases fractionally, slicing into my flesh, and I feel a stream of warmth against my chilled skin as a rivulet of blood starts to drip down my neck, into the collar of my jacket.
If I could speak, I’d tell him to take anything. Everything.
Money.
Phone.
Purse.
Laptop.
Anything.
But there’s no way to tell him that with his hand over my mouth. There’s no way to form words or even coherent thoughts as panic overrides my system, blending reality with memory. Flashes of another night are seeping into my consciousness — fragments of another time, almost twenty years to the day, when blood ran red into the snow.
I can’t block them out. Can’t separate then from now.
The man shifts closer, knife tightening against my skin.
I’m five again, clutching my bouquet as though the petals can protect me from the stranger in the dark.
Blood drips faster. My lungs are scream for breath.
Or is that a woman screaming?
The man at my back shifts closer. “Don’t fight me.”
“Run, Zoe!” My mother’s hands, pushing me to safety. “Run, honey, run!”
His mouth scrapes my earlobe. His breath is hot against my frigid skin. “Listen. You listening, bitch?”
“Run, baby!”
His knife shifts.
Or is it a gun? A black, blunt weapon, firing in the dark. One, two, three, four, five, six shots. First Dad, then Mom as I duck between two parked cars.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” The growling voice is back. “But I will.”
People rush outside, drawn by the sounds of gunfire. The man stops chasing me before they spot him. Vanishes into the dark.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop digging.”
A stranger in a uniform pulls me from between the cars. Picks me up, puts a hand over my eyes.
“You’re messing with the wrong people. Powerful people.
”
He tries to block my view, so I don’t see them there, butchered in the snow. But between cracks in fingers, over shoulders, under flashing ambulance lights… I see the blood and I know. They’re gone.
“You want to make it through this Christmas, don’t go back to the fucking factory. Don’t send any more of your boyfriends there. You hear me, bitch?” The knife presses in again. “Nod so I know you hear me.”
Mommy. Daddy. Gone.
“I said nod if you hear me, bitch!”
I try to nod, but the world is going black around the edges. I can’t breathe. Can’t move. Can’t see.
They’re gone.
“Good.” The knife pressure lessens slightly. “You tell your damn boyfriend to stay away. Stay out of it. Make sure he knows, he tries anything, you’ll pay the fucking price.”
Gone.
Then, before I can turn to get a look at him, the weight at my back vanishes and he disappears. I fall to the ground, gasping for air, my eyes pressed tight closed as I curl into a ball in the snow.
Weeping.
Bleeding.
Remembering.
A voice in my head is telling me to get up, to call for help, to go inside so I don’t die here from frostbite and exposure… but it’s faint. And it’s getting farther away by the second, replaced by much darker thoughts that whisper maybe I should’ve died with them, all those years ago.
They’re gone.
Maybe you should be, too.
I curl in on myself a little tighter.
Feel the shadows close in a little darker.
And for the first time since I was five years old… I stop fighting.
* * *
“No, no, no, no, no. Zoe! Goddammit, Zoe, open your eyes!” Arms are sliding around me. Lifting me from the snow. Cradling me tight against a chest. “Honey, look at me! Are you still with me? Fuck!”
The voice sounds desperate. Almost shattered. There’s something about hearing that voice breaking on words, filled with worry and panic, that makes me sad.
His voice was made for laughter and light. He shouldn’t ever sound sad.
I can’t focus on much of anything as I shiver and shake in a set of strong hands, hands that feel like fire against my cold skin. There are more words, but I’m slipping in and out of consciousness, barely able to hear over the rush of blood inside my aching skull.
One Good Reason (A Boston Love Story Book 3) Page 19