Stranger

by Robin Lovett

  “That’s not what you said before.”

  “I know. You were right.”

  “I was?” His smile turns gloating.

  “I spent so much time convincing myself he was normal. That the whacked-out things he did were what all upper-crust Southern fathers did for their daughters.”

  “He didn’t . . . to you . . .” A look of pure horror erupts across his face. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No. Thank God. But I was basically his property. I did what he said, when he said, however he said it.” I charge a wave and kick my foot in the water. “When I was nine, he shipped me off to boarding school and never let me back in the house for more than a week at a time.”

  “That’s a good thing.”

  “He let my brother stay.”

  “He was protecting you. From himself.”

  “Maybe. Probably.” It disturbs me to think it, but it makes everything fit. “He would call me back to show me off. Like my only purpose was to present to the public and make him look like a normal father. I once flew to Nashville for a one-hour cocktail party even though I had a final exam here in California the next morning. Because he ‘needed his precious baby girl.’”

  “Why have you defended him?”

  “He was the only parent I had. I convinced myself he loved me the best way he could. I couldn’t handle the possibility . . . that . . . he . . .” Does it count, does the love of a man so violent rank anywhere as real love?

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “What?”

  “Whether he loved you, it doesn’t matter. You are the same.” His face is too muted for me to tell whether he’s being mean or kind. But it makes me feel better. It eases a little of the ache. The one in my chest, anyway.

  “You’re really smart.”

  His eyebrows draw together. “And you’re really obvious.”

  “What did you go to school for?”

  “I graduated high school, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You didn’t go to college?”

  He crosses his arms. “I went to school for revenge. The school of learning everything Vandershall.”

  “Is that how you learned all the stuff you know? You stalked him? My . . . Malcolm.” It’s harder to say it than it was.

  “And his lawyers. And his financial advisers.”

  “You’re a professional at this.” I smile. “No wonder you’re so scary.”

  He steps closer, forcing me to look up. “I’m much scarier to you.”

  My voice lodges in my throat. The fear, the fear I always feel when he gets near, returns blissfully, erasing my agitation. Even after talking with him it’s still there. “Why?”

  He strokes my arm, raising goose bumps. “Because I’m not here to bribe you for information. I’m here to spoil your perfect life.”

  I lean into him. “You are. Changing everything. With the truth.” I don’t know when that turned into a good thing, but there’s a thrill when I say it. I didn’t know how much was wrong with my world until he poked holes in it.

  He runs a teasing finger over my cheek, so light it’s barely touching. It makes me shiver. “Go back inside.”

  Heat chases the goose bumps away from my skin. He wants to go back to before Layla interrupted us, to him hunting me and fucking me. Heat thumps through my veins from my heart to my toes.

  A familiar darkness narrows his eyes. “Run if you have to.”

  I leap away from him. “I think we should do something else with my day off.”

  “Like what?” He’s confused. He wants to have sex. He has no idea how to do anything else with me.

  I like unsettling him. “We should go paddleboarding. I haven’t been to the bay in ages.”

  “Paddleboarding?” He wrinkles his nose. “What the hell is that?”

  “You’ll see.” I skip past him. “I’ll get my purse and keys and meet you at the car.”

  I’m going to make him do a normal fun-loving twentysomething activity. He’s spent too much of his life stalking.

  He’s wrecked my life. It’s my turn to unsettle his.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The surfboard under my feet wobbles, and I almost dive headfirst into the water. The smile on Penny’s face watching me struggle—I want to tear it off.

  “You’re going to pay for this later,” I say.

  She laughs. “I told you to kneel first. Standing is advanced.” She strokes her paddle through the water. She’s having no wobbling troubles.

  “You’re standing.”

  “I’ve done this a dozen times. And I’ve gone surfing.”

  I try to pull the paddle through the water the same as her and nearly faceplant on the board. “Fuck this shit.” I’m ready to jump off and swim back to the dock.

  “Come on. Don’t give up. Try it this way.” She kneels on the board like she’s been telling me to do. The sun glows like a halo around her head, and her skin reflects pink under its bright rays. She has my T-shirt on still, but I worry about her skin.

  I kneel on the board. “Aren’t you going to burn?” My skin’s been building up a tan each day since I got here, but her—she lives at the beach and still doesn’t tan.

  Her smile softens with a little surprise. “I put on sunscreen, but thanks for asking.”

  “I hope it’s strong.”

  “It’s one hundred plus.”

  “Good.”

  I manage a few paddle strokes without falling off the board and catch up to her. “The water here is too blue.”

  “How can water be too blue?”

  “It’s lighter than the sky. Like a lagoon or something. You can practically see the bottom.”

  “We should go snorkeling sometime.”

  We. She said we. I don’t know how I feel about that. There is no we in this plan of mine. “You’d have to wear a wetsuit, the water is so cold. My knees are freezing.” The water sloshing onto the board is numbing my shins.

  She paddles next to me. “You wouldn’t really release it to the media, would you?”

  My balance falters. I know what she means, but for some reason, I don’t want to upset her. She’s been through enough since last night. She doesn’t need more misery knocking around her brain.

  “You don’t want that stuff Louisa went through made public.”

  A growl starts in my chest. “Of course I want ‘that stuff’ made public! You think I’m ashamed of it? I’m damn proud she survived it. She deserves to have the world know what was done to her.” And I’ll get to do that if her brother doesn’t get me the money by the end of the week.

  I shouldn’t still feel a spiteful pleasure at the thought, but I do.

  She rests her paddle on her knees. “Isn’t it a private thing?”

  “It shouldn’t be some sort of secret. It should be as exposed, the same as any violent crime. It’s the secrecy that let your father walk away free from what he did.” I turn my surfboard away from her. “God knows how many other women he managed to harm in the years since she died.”

  “Oh my God.” She gasps and covers her mouth, her paddle floating away on the water.

  I retrieve it and return it, but her eyes are clenched shut. “Don’t cry.”

  She opens her eyes. “But those women . . . how many do you think he hurt? He could’ve . . . there could be . . .”

  “Crying can’t help them.”

  “It’s so h-horrible.”

  “It is. But do something about it rather than be upset. My wallowing in misery for years over what happened to my sister didn’t help her.”

  “I guess not.”

  “Don’t mourn. Live.”

  “Look who’s talking Mr. Devote-My-Life-to-Stalking-People. You call yours a life?”

  “At least I’ve done something.”

  “Something horrible. Manipulating people to—”

  “And what else was I supposed to do?”

  “You could take legal action and—”

  “Both the victim and the assa
ilant are dead.”

  “But my father only died four months ago. What were you doing before?”

  I go quiet. This part I’m not telling her about.

  She grabs onto my board and pulls next to me. “Why did you wait until he was dead to come after me? And why did you come after me? Why not my brother?”

  “Because you were more vulnerable.”

  “But why did you wait so long?”

  I can’t answer that. I’m never telling her the answer to that. “You’re saying you wish I’d enacted revenge on your father before he died?”

  “I—well—”

  “You know what he’s guilty of now. What kind of punishment would be worthy of his crime?” That was always the hard part—conceiving of something bad enough.

  She stares down into the depths of the water. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t have wanted him go to jail. But.” She looks up at me. “That hardly seems adequate punishment.” Her eyes—the tears have dried, and they shine like gemstones.

  I nod and can’t repress my smile. “Exactly.”

  * * *

  I’m driving us back to my condo, and my hands are sweaty against the steering wheel. He’s going to want to have more sex. I’m going to want to have more sex.

  I don’t know if I can.

  I mean, my body can, but me . . . I’m still shaken, overwhelmed with trying not to think of the other people my father likely hurt. I feel like I’ve had my heart ripped apart enough for one day. If Logan does it to me again, I’m not sure I’ll survive it.

  Sex with him is so intense, it’s like surviving a tornado. I’m swept up in the whirlwind that is him, and it’s euphoric while I’m in it. But I don’t know where I’ll land when it’s over. I don’t think I can take my world being rocked any more today. No matter how sinfully perfect his body is in that swimsuit, chest glazed by the sun.

  Besides, he’s still the man who blackmailed me into marrying him for my money. What am I doing having sex with a man whose number one goal is to get revenge on me?

  I’m falling for him in a twisted way. Blake knows he’s bad. And he’s right. Logan is terrible for me. I don’t know if I can quit him, though.

  I should try.

  I make a turn in the opposite direction from my condo.

  “Where are we going?” he asks.

  “We need to pick up your truck. You left it at the bar last night.”

  “It’s only a couple miles. I can run there tomorrow.”

  “We shouldn’t leave it there another night. They might tow it.”

  He gives me a skeptical glare and says nothing.

  I drop him off but don’t stop my car.

  His hand is on the door latch. “You’re coming home, right?” It’s a warning. He expects me to.

  “I have some things I need to do.”

  “What things?”

  “Just things. I have a life outside you, you know.”

  “You mean shopping. You’re going to spend money on shit you don’t need.”

  “It’s my money. I can do with it what I want.”

  He grumbles under his breath. “I’ll be waiting for you at home.” There’s nothing cheery about the statement. It’s a threat.

  I can’t. If I come home and he’s waiting for me, as in waiting to seduce me with his fear tactics and his dirty talk, I won’t be able to resist him. And I don’t know what will happen to me. “No.”

  “No?”

  “Yes, ‘no.’”

  “Is that yes or no?” He grits his teeth.

  I slap the steering wheel. “‘No,’ as in, ‘don’t you dare be waiting to fuck me when I get home.’”

  “Why? You like it. I know you want me to.”

  “No, I don’t!” I scream it. It echoes, then the only sound left is his breathing. And I’m scared. If he touches me, will I be able to say no? Or will I let him fuck me in my car in this parking lot?

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Look at me.”

  I fix my eyes forward and shake my head.

  He leans closer. “Don’t avoid it. The truth will be waiting for you whether you come home or not.”

  “This isn’t about the truth.” The things I want to block out and forget I ever learned.

  “Don’t try to escape from it, because it’ll be waiting right where you left it, and you’ll have to face it all over again. It’ll be no less painful than the first time.”

  “Because I don’t want sex, it doesn’t mean I’m escaping anything. I want to go shopping.” Though I have no idea for what.

  “Going back to your old habits will only make it worse.” He may be right, but it makes me want to get away from him more.

  I glare at him. “Get out of my car.”

  His face inches from mine, he doesn’t back down. His eyes stray to my lips and sweat beads on the back of my neck. Please let him not kiss me. If he does, it’ll prove me wrong. If his mouth meets mine, I won’t say no.

  Why does he do this to me? He makes the truth alluring, enticing, but it hurts so damn much.

  But he doesn’t kiss me.

  And I almost wish he would.

  I close my eyes, so I don’t have to look at him. “Get out.” I expect a retort from him, but he says nothing and opens the door.

  It hurts. I thought I would feel better, but it’s worse. My eyes burn with tears.

  “No crying,” he warns, then closes the door. He sounds so much like my brother it makes me want to hit him.

  “Fuck you.” I speed from the parking lot with my wheels squealing.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I never thought hearing “no” from a girl could affect me so much. Not just affect me, but create a frenzy inside me.

  She peels from the parking lot, gravel flying, tires screeching, and I want to scream at the world. I shouldn’t care. I don’t care. I’m out to avenge my sister and get Penny’s money. That is the only reason I’m here, the only reason I’m talking to her, living with her, fucking her.

  I don’t want her for anything else. It’s not because I’m addicted to her or because she’s giving me anything or because I feel a perverse need to help her.

  She has no idea how lucky she is. She only knows what it’s like to have money to burn. She doesn’t know what it means to scrounge for groceries or wear old clothes or not be able to afford new shoes.

  I’ve hated her for it, but now I feel sorry for her.

  Clinging to delusions that material things will make the painful truth better—it won’t help.

  I could.

  What I’m giving her will help.

  She can’t see that.

  I kick the tire of my truck and get in to drive to the hardware store. I have to fix the door to her bedroom.

  Why the hell do I care? Helping her is the last thing I want. Or should want.

  But things are blending in my brain. My thirst for revenge fading behind something else, something I can’t name. Something I don’t like feeling.

  Louisa deserves better. She needs this. I can’t let Penny derail me. I need to refocus on Blake Vandershall. I owe him a visit.

  He owes me money.

  * * *

  At the hospital, at work, I’m safe from him. From his dangerous hands and his even more dangerous mouth. I’ve resisted him for three days, but I don’t know how much longer that’ll last. It’s time for me to either go see my brother again or get a lawyer to sue him for the money.

  I don’t want to have to do it.

  At work, I focus on patients and forget all the things the man I call husband tempts me with daily.

  Except I can’t forget, can never forget how he’s changed my world.

  The rose-colored glasses once cemented to my face have not only been crushed, they’ve been replaced by gray-tinged lenses.

  I see it everywhere now, or I imagine it everywhere. Every person I see, I second-guess them. Who else do I think I know well and love that in their private life
is secretly cruel and inhuman? If it could be my father, a brilliant successful man with a university and hospital to his credit, how many others are there—hiding and lurking, or out in the open and pretending to serve the greater good?

  I stop at the nurse’s station and find a message for me from Nancy Toolen asking for another home visit. I can’t see her tomorrow, but I leave her a message with times I can come the day after.

  “Penny, how are you?” Dr. Alvarez interrupts me. I haven’t seen her since she transferred me off the NICU.

  “Better.” I’m surprised for a moment to realize that it’s true. The new things I’ve learned, as horrible as they are, have relieved some of the grief I carried around with me for months. I’m functioning, with more worries, yes, but without the debilitating grief. How do I mourn a man when it’s better for the world that he’s dead?

  Dr. Alvarez’s eyes smile over the top of her black-rimmed glasses. “You seem better. Stronger.”

  I straighten my shoulders. This might be my chance. She could be down here to invite me back to her unit. “I am. I have much more energy than I did.”

  “Amisha said something about a new man?” Her brow furrows, and I wonder if Amisha also mentioned I got married. I hope not. I leave my ring in my purse every day. It would look so impulsive and not stable to my boss.

  “Logan’s keeping me busy.” A smile comes more easily than I expect.

  She nods. “And how are you finding the maternity ward?”

  “It’s wonderful. Good to see new babies coming in and out of here as fast as healthy ones should.”

  “So, you’re happy here?”

  I bounce on my toes. “I mean, I miss the special cases in NICU. Those little ones need so much attention.” And the more attention they need, the more helpful I feel.

  “I could use you back in NICU if you’re up for it. We could work you into the new schedule next week.”

  A lightness enters my chest, an almost happy feeling. An emotion I haven’t felt in a long time. “Absolutely.” Something in me wonders if this is special treatment, if she wants me on her unit partly because of my ties to the hospital board, but I enjoy the work too much to dwell on it.

  “Great.” She checks her phone. “Oh, and they asked me to attend the hospital fundraiser this weekend. I assume you’ll be there?”