Imperfect Strangers copy edit

by Mary

  “Don’t feel bad. I don’t. That was amazing. To watch you fall apart because of me? That’s the next best thing.”

  “Well. When your surgery thing is all done, I’m going to rock your world about fourteen million times to make up for it.”

  “Fourteen million? Not Fifteen?”

  “Fine, fifteen million. Sheesh you’re needy.”

  Her laugh is low and soft and sends tingles through my body. I want to make her laugh every day.

  ~*~

  We lay in silence for a few minutes, absorbing the feel of each other’s bodies, memorizing scents and listening to gentle breaths.

  After a time, she pulls her head up to meet my eyes. “There’s something I need to tell you. Part of the real reason I freaked and ran. You know how I told you my mom is a level ten clinger? She wasn’t always that way. Remember when I told you my dad died from poisoning?”

  “Yes.” It strikes me now how vague she was about it before. How she always changed the subject. Is she going to open up now? Does this mean she trusts me?

  “Unintentional poisoning is a formal way to describe an accidental overdose. It’s what I use because I don’t want to deal with the truth.”

  I hold her a little tighter. “I’m so sorry.”

  She shakes her head at my apology. “That’s not even the worst part. After he died, Mom kind of lost her shit. I mean, she really couldn’t handle it. I think she felt guilty about how he died, like she should have been able to fix him or something. She started drinking to escape her guilt and then it got progressively worse. She lost her job. I had to pay for everything. She would get mean sometimes, call me names.”

  I wince and rub her arm. She recites the words like they don’t matter, but it has to hurt. No one wants to feel unloved by a parent. I understand that pain. “Like what?”

  “You know, a dirty whore, useless daughter. Things like that.”

  “It’s not true.”

  “Oh, I know that.” Her words are light, but her eyes dart away from mine. “She didn’t mean it. It was the booze talking. She never remembered saying it the next day. But it made it hard to be around her. Which is why I would go out and then stay the night with other people.”

  “Like friends?”

  “Not really.” She sighs. “So the truth is that I let all my friends think I was stuck in the old college glory days, partying all the time and hooking up with randoms. I would rather they think I was sleeping around than tell them the truth—that I didn’t want to go home. Although, admittedly, sometimes it was because I was horny. Just not as much as I let my friends believe. Do you think I’m a weirdo?” She tilts her head away, hiding her eyes from view.

  I cup her face, tilting her back to meet my eyes. “B, no. No way. You’re human. You were coping with a lot of shit. I would never hold any of that against you. You’re allowed to do what you want with your life. Whatever makes you happy. You were in a bad situation and you got away and never stopped helping your mom. A lot of people wouldn’t have the strength to cope and grow like you have.” I tug her closer.

  “There’s more.”

  I wait while she pulls her thoughts together.

  “Last week she completely cleared out my bank accounts.”

  My hand stops moving on her arm. “Holy shit. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It’s not your responsibility.”

  “I know, but I can help you. How did she manage that?”

  She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “It’s my fault. I should have known better. I had her name on my accounts for emergencies. Apparently needing vodka is now an emergency.”

  “If you need money, I can—”

  She meets my gaze and puts a stalling hand on my arm. “No. No, Brent, I don’t need money. I got her name removed and I cut her off. This all happened last week. Then she called me the other morning and she said she’s going to rehab. It’s a good thing. It’s making her face her demons. Hopefully it will stick.”

  I don’t push the issue. I want to, but I know she won’t take it. It’s one of the things I love about her. “I hope so, too. You’re a strong, smart woman.” Who will hopefully come to me for help if she needs it.

  “Thanks.” Her answering smile is subdued. I want to make her laugh.

  “Also you have a nice ass.”

  That startles a chuckle from her. “I like to think so. You’re not too shabby yourself.” She squeezes one of my biceps.

  “Oh yeah? Not too shabby, huh?” I run a finger down her ribs, making her squirm and giggle and I have to kiss her, capture the sound with my lips.

  There’s a creaking noise and a muffled thunk, and she tenses in my arms.

  “It sounds like it’s out in the hall. Maybe the neighbor.” I kiss her shoulder. “Let me check.” I get up to peek out the front door.

  “Huh. Nobody out here after all.”

  “Really? You sure? It sounded awfully close.”

  I chuckle and slide back under the covers to wrap around her. “Maybe it was just a rat. You know we grow them extra big here.”

  She shudders in my arms. “Ugh. I guess that’s better than a vengeful ghost, but still, I’m glad you’re here.”

  My arms tighten around her and I breathe in deeply, absorbing her wildflower scent. “I’m glad I’m here, too.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  It doesn’t matter what your background is and where you come from, if you have dreams and goals, that’s all that matters.

  –Serena Williams

  Bethany

  Sunlight wakes me. I blink my eyes open to find Brent lying on his side, facing me.

  “Are you watching me sleep?” My voice is thick and drowsy.

  “Maybe.”

  “Creep.” I yawn.

  “Yep.”

  “I bet I can be creepier.”

  “I always sleep better with you for some reason.”

  “Okay, you win, creeper.”

  He laughs. “That’s not creepy. It’s true. You’re like a drug.”

  I smile into my pillow, suddenly shy, then turn my face back to watch him.

  “Okay creep-face. Staring contest. Go.”

  We lay side by side, eyes locked. This will be the easiest bet ever. I could stare at him all day since I’m shocked into stillness by the fact that this gorgeous hunk of a man chose me. His eyes are bright and happy this morning. I trail my gaze over his chiseled jaw and high cheekbones tempered by thin laugh lines and a sensual curve at his lips.

  Old remnants of insecurities flare.

  He can’t mean to stick around. It’s all a fluke, brought on by his own self-doubt.

  And even if he does, what if something happens to him before surgery? Or during?

  What if Mr. Crawford finds out and fires me?

  I shove the thoughts down, not wanting them to ruin the moment.

  The staring gets cut off when he tilts forward and kisses me. Sweet, gentle pecks and sips.

  The night was for ghosts and dreams; the morning is for gentle touches and memorizing everything about each other with soft fingertips.

  I trail fingers over the piece of his hair that puffs up at the same spot in the back, the ticklish inside of his elbow, the curve of his bicep. And he explores my landscape, kissing the freckle on my side, tracing the shape of my knee with a finger. All while talking about any odd thing that pops into our heads and laughing for no reason, just for the joy of the moment.

  “You’re the only person I’ve slept with more than once,” I say when he pulls back slightly.

  His smile is everything. “Did we just become best friends?”

  “Yup. Will you sing with me at the Catalina Wine Mixer?”

  He laughs. “Anytime. Go out with me tonight.”

  “What are we doing?”

  “I want to take you somewhere nice.”

  “Erm. Somewhere paparazzi won’t see us?”

  He shrugs. �
��Can’t guarantee anything but I’ll do my best. I want to spend time with you. I want everyone to know you’re mine.”

  I scoff. “You’re such a romantic.”

  “With you, yeah.”

  My stomach flips, like giant butterfly bats flying around and wreaking havoc with my soul.

  It would be so easy to fall in love with him.

  “So if we go on a really real date . . . does this mean we aren’t friends anymore?”

  His finger traces my collarbone. “I hope you don’t think this is super pathetic since we’ve only known each other for like a month, but you’re my best friend. And I don’t see that changing.”

  “Best friends who make out sometimes.”

  He grins, his blue eyes bright and happy. “Is there something wrong with that?”

  “No.” I try to push down the cowlick in the back of his head again and it pops right back up, making me smile. “Are we friends who shower together, too?”

  “I think that can be arranged.”

  ~*~

  Work sucks. More than usual. Mr. Crawford isn’t even here yet and it’s a madhouse of people trying to get their lists and to-do items onto my desk so they don’t have to deal with him.

  Not that I want to deal with him, either. Things are still strained between us since our last blowout.

  It gets worse when Charlie emails me a link to an article that hit less than an hour ago.

  “Shit.”

  It’s another photo of me with Brent.

  It could be worse. We’re not making out this time, just eating burritos in his car.

  And of course, they caught me with my mouth completely full, chewing, foodstuffs visible in my teeth and Brent has his mouth closed, angled toward me, looking like the model he is.

  The universe seriously hates me.

  At least there’s no reference to Angela in this one, just a note about how we were spotted together eating in his car.

  I close the web page and send a fervent prayer to the universe that Mr. Crawford doesn’t see it.

  There are still a few people at my desk when Mr. Crawford breezes in. Some of them scatter but not quickly enough to avoid overhearing his words.

  He slams a paper down on my desk. “You’re fired.”

  Behind him, Stan the security man shuffles his feet, not meeting my eyes.

  Blood drains from my face. Dizziness threatens to overwhelm me. This isn’t a cute, jokey firing. This is real.

  Mr. Crawford’s eyes, blue like Brent’s, are hard. Cold and calculating.

  It’s amazing how two people with the same eyes view the world so differently.

  My eyes flick to the paper. It’s a different article from the one Charlie sent me. This one has pictures of me and Brent arriving at my apartment and an update about him leaving the next morning.

  The rest is inferred.

  “Security will make sure you pack only your personal belongings and escort you from the building.” Without another word he disappears into his office.

  As soon as Mr. Crawford’s door slams shut, people exit the area—slowly, mind you—totally watching the train wreck the entire time. I don’t move.

  I can’t lose my job.

  What about Mom? There’s no way I could get her financing now that I’m not gainfully employed.

  Finally, everyone has pitter-pattered away and I meet Stan’s kind eyes.

  His face is a study in regret, brows furrowed, lips tilted down.

  “It’s okay. I don’t have much stuff.”

  “I’m real sorry about this.”

  “I’ll be okay.” But the words don’t make the ache in my stomach go away.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m outside on the sidewalk with a box full of personal items.

  At the top of the box, flickering in the crisp breeze, is one last sticky note from Marc.

  Never let anyone treat you like a yellow Starburst. You are a pink Starburst.

  I don’t even smile. I think I’m in shock. Men and women dressed in smart suits with backpacks and briefcases churn around me. They all have somewhere to go. Something important to do.

  Three mindless subway stops later, I book it past the bodega to my apartment building.

  Everything is numb, like I’ve been sitting on a block of ice for an hour instead of where I actually am, on the time-worn futon.

  Brent left his watch behind on accident and I watch it tick the time. It’s a black sports watch with exposed cogs and wheels. TAG Heuer. It probably costs more than a car.

  My phone rings and when I pick it up, I realize I have three missed calls.

  One is Mom.

  One is Brent.

  One is Sam.

  And Sam’s calling again right now.

  “Hello?”

  “Dude. There might be shit in your walls.”

  “What? Shit? I don’t think I can deal with more bad news right now.”

  “Not like actual shit, but some kind of treasure!” He’s way too excited, the sound a contrast to my own inner turmoil. “Traaay-suurrre!” he yells.

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Nope. What were you saying about bad news?”

  “Nothing. So what’s in my walls?”

  “Get this. In the 1950s there was this old mob boss dude who was on the run for embezzlement or whatever mob guys run away from, and he hid in your building. While he was on the run. Except it’s the apartment next to yours he actually lived in.”

  He pauses for effect but it goes on way too long. “And?”

  “And there are some who think he may have hidden something of serious value in the walls for safekeeping so he could retrieve it when he got out.”

  “Like what? Drugs?”

  “Not drugs, cash money, baby! Or jewels. Or whatever it is Mafia dudes use. Gold bars! Silver coins! Doubloons!”

  “This isn’t The Goonies.”

  “How do you know?” His tone is offended.

  “And you think that’s why there have been weird noises and intruders in my apartment? The mob guy’s out of prison and seeking his hidden wealth?”

  “No, he’s dead. But there’s this whole website of people who have all these conspiracy theories. With a little digging, anyone could have figured it out. I did. Now I bet there’s a bunch of ex-cons teaming up to break in using elaborate methods to steal the goods back.”

  I snort. “That’s ridiculous.”

  Pause. “Are you okay? You’re not being yourself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You love ridiculous notions. You’re supposed to expand on my heist theory, not knock it down.”

  “I’m fine.” I really don’t want to talk about it. “Thanks for the intel, Sam. I’ll call you later, okay? Give Gemma my love.”

  “I will.”

  I hang up and flop over on the couch. It would be nice if there were riches in my walls. Maybe I could use them for Mom’s rehab. And bills. But it’s all a pipe dream. If I can’t find another job . . . I’m not going to think that way.

  Brent will make me feel better. I may have lost my job, but I have him. Even though I don’t want to unload my problems all over him. He has enough going on, and I don’t want him to feel like he has to help me—in a monetary sense—but maybe he can help me look for a new job.

  I try to call him but it goes to voicemail.

  I’m sure he’s busy.

  But a niggling of anxiety won’t leave me alone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I can fuck up real good.

  –Georgia Hardstark

  My Favorite Murder episode 124

  Brent

  I’m doing chores to avoid the inevitable. I pick up a shirt from the floor—the one from yesterday—and smell it. Wildflowers and mint. Bethany is all over it. The scent gives me strength to do what needs to be done.

  It takes a bit of deep breathing and tossing my old football around while pacing a hol
e in the floor, but I finally call the surgeon and schedule the date.

  Three weeks.

  I have three weeks to tell the world the truth. Well, Dad and Roger, and while they aren’t exactly the entire world, they might as well be.

  Then the team will have to be informed. Contract rejected.

  It’s not the money. I have money. It’s the dream.

  Bethany calls while I’m on the phone and before I can call her back, the phone rings in my hand. It’s the front desk.

  “There’s an Angela Sinclair here to see you, sir,” the guard says. “Can we send her up?”

  Ever since the last incident with Marissa, they never send anyone up without asking. Unless I’ve cleared it with them first, like I did with Bethany.

  Why is Angela here?

  “I’ll come down.” Not that I think she’ll shoot me or anything, but better safe than sorry.

  I meet her in the lounge by the guard desk.

  “Hey.”

  She leans in and kisses me on the cheek, grabbing my hands in hers. “Can we talk?”

  “Sure.” I nod to a couple of chairs and gently extricate my fingers from her grasp. She’s being oddly handsy.

  She’s wearing big dark sunglasses and a beige pea coat over slim white pants and high heels.

  “I’ve been trying to call you,” she says once we’re sitting.

  “Sorry. I’ve been really busy.”

  “I understand you want to sow your wild oats now, as they say,” she chuckles and removes her glasses, pushing them on top of her blonde head. “But I just want to let you know I’m not going to stand for it when we’re married.” Her voice is loud, carrying through the lobby.

  Even so, the words don’t register at first.

  Wait. What? Married?

  I glance around. Is she delusional?

  I search her eyes but her gaze is steady and clear. “Angela, I’m never going to marry you. And you don’t want to marry me.”