by Lee, Nadia
Sanity or madness?
What does it say about me that both options look equally attractive? Every time I think I’ve reached bottom, I find a way to sink lower into the abyss.
I reluctantly release her hand and tuck it under the cover. I remember the cut on her lip, and stand up. I have unfinished business.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Iris
I jerk awake with a strangled scream and see a man’s dress jacket draped over a chair near my bed. I stare, confused, then remember it’s Tony’s—the one he put around my shoulders last night. The sight gives me an odd sense of comfort and safety.
“Tony?” I call out, then try again louder. I hear nothing except the soft hum of the air conditioner.
Did he leave? Maybe not. He would’ve taken his jacket, wouldn’t he?
He was such a gentleman last night, making me feel safe. I think of the protective way he put the jacket around me, then deflected Marty’s attempt to keep me at the reception and brought me home. Such a contrast from the violence he showed when he pummeled Jamie like a punching bag. Normally I’m not a big fan of fighting, but I shudder—half angry, half grateful—thinking of what could’ve happened if he hadn’t been there. Jamie would have…
Nope. Not going there.
Hating the sweat clinging to my skin, I kick the covers off and sit up. The air is chilly, congealing the sweat into a sticky layer. Placing a hand over my chest, I breathe in and out slowly to calm my galloping heart.
The nightmare I just had replayed Jamie Thornton’s attack…except it didn’t happen in the garden. It happened in a bright bedroom I don’t remember. Large, faceless young men surrounded me, while Jamie pushed me against a wall. He forced a kiss, smelling like beer and some kind of hard liquor, while groping my breast. The other men watched and hollered encouragement. Tony rescued me again, but in the dream, he killed Jamie with a single punch to the face. The pieces of shattered skull and brains fell on me, and Jamie’s headless body and I plunged into a murky swamp as the floor vanished underneath our feet. I couldn’t breathe as water filled my nose, mouth, lungs…
I shiver again. It’s just a dream. I’ve had dreams that didn’t make any sense before, although nothing this horrible and violating. My doctors said the dreams don’t necessarily mean anything. But I can’t shake the feeling that it’s not something my subconscious conjured up entirely out of thin air. It felt so…real.
I press the heels of my hands against my temples. Of course it felt real. Half of it happened—the attack and the rescue. My mind just embellished some details. It’s a normal way for a brain to process traumatic or memorable events.
I need to pull myself together. Dreams can’t hurt me. Jamie’s probably hiding somewhere, since showing the face that Tony used as a punching bag last night would be embarrassing. Then it strikes me that he’s an important investor for Sam. Is he going to try to pull his money?
I shake my head. I have no clue what Jamie Thornton’s going to do, but Sam doesn’t need money from that kind of scum. If his business ideas are good, surely he can find others who’ll be happy to invest.
It’s only six thirty in the morning, but I know I won’t be able to go back to sleep. I get up, splash some water on my face and brush my teeth. Blue bruises have blossomed over my wrists, forearms, right shoulder—where he broke my dress strap—and thighs. All of them hurt to varying degrees. The cut on my lip throbs when toothpaste gets on it, but I ignore the pain. There isn’t much I can do about it, and a couple of Advil should tide me over until my body heals.
I put on black tights and a gray long-sleeve top that reaches almost to mid-thigh, then swipe my mouth with red lipstick. The key to feeling as normal as possible—in my experience—is to try to maintain as normal a routine as possible. And do one thing to make myself feel pretty.
I learned the trick from a sweet, patient nurse who took care of me when I was in the hospital after waking up. She came one day with a pink lipstick from a drugstore and offered it to me. Told me that if I made myself look pretty, I’d feel better. I resisted it at first, since nothing—absolutely nothing!—could make up for what I’d lost. She gently persisted for a week and finally put the lipstick on me, then placed a hand mirror before my face so I could see her handiwork. She was right. I still looked like pale death, but at least my lips had some color. And staring at the improved reflection, I started to feel better. A tiny bit more like my old self than a broken shell.
Since then, lipstick has become my cheer-me-up.
I go to the kitchen and munch on a granola bar, wash it down with a cup of coffee, and walk slowly toward the Yamaha. Finger exercises might help me regain some equilibrium. It’s what I do when I need to forget everything and relax.
I begin with Hanon’s Virtuoso Pianist. The repetitiveness is soothing—almost meditative. After a few arpeggio exercises, I stop, my hands still resting on the keyboard. Then, almost out of impulse, I start Chopin’s “Waterfall” étude.
My fingers play lightly, quickly over the keys. The movements feel effortless. I repeat it ten times—which doesn’t take more than twenty minutes, tops—then stop, exhaling softly. The restlessness inside me hasn’t subsided with music. It’s still there, lingering…making my scalp throb.
The intercom buzzes. I check the time. It’s only eight thirty. “This is the concierge. Delivery for you. Special courier.”
Must be Byron or Julie. If it’s Byron, he’s probably sending me a box of dark chocolate because he knows chocolate is the one thing I can’t resist. But with Julie, it could be anything from thoughtful to crazy. She once sent me a box of wool winter socks from Switzerland because she said the patterns on them were just too cute…even though I was in Ecuador at the time.
A young man arrives, hands me a small box and a bouquet of tiger lilies—my favorite—then pushes his small tablet in my way. “Sign here.”
I scrawl my name with my index finger. Shoving the tablet into his shirt pocket, he vanishes before I can thank him.
I take everything to the kitchen. Who sent them? The box is too small to contain more than a couple of truffles. Not Byron’s style. Julie has never sent me flowers before. Besides, if she were behind the delivery, it would’ve been a bottle of premium vodka, since she’s in Russia right now.
I open the box first and see an elegant pink, gold and white jar. I sniff the clear, gel-like substance inside, but there’s no scent. There is, however, a note.
Put it on your cut. It’ll help with the pain and swelling. You may also want to consider taking something stronger than Advil. You’re going to feel worse today.
–Tony
He also put his phone number in a postscript, explaining that if I need anything else, I should call. I stare at the unexpected gifts for a moment, then dab a bit of the ointment over my lip. Within a few seconds, the cut no longer hurts.
Smiling at his thoughtfulness, I put the tiger lilies in a vase. Their vibrant color cheers me up, and I start to feel sunny. It’s hard to be depressed in the presence of such gorgeous blossoms. I wonder how he knew what my favorite flower is. Most guys I know—even Byron—would send roses. Not that I’d mind, but tiger lilies… They’re special. Bright. Tall. Fragrant. Functional, too, since the bulb and flowers are edible. Everything about them is perfect.
I put the vase on a stand near the piano and start playing again, my mind no longer in turmoil. A call about ninety minutes later interrupts my practice. It’s Marty. I don’t want to talk to him so early in the morning, but when I ignore it, he texts me.
I know you’re there. Pick up the fucking phone.
That is usually a warning that he’ll make a scene the next time we meet unless I talk to him. If I were traveling, I’d ignore him, but we’re in the same city now, and he knows where I live. Might as well gird my loins and deal with it now in private.
He calls again. I snatch the phone from the top of the piano. “You should say please if you want me to do you a favor.”
“Favor?” He sounds like he’s choking on the word. “Like how you fucked Jamie Thornton up?”
“What are you talking about? Did he say I beat him up?” I ask, incredulous. What kind of guy says he got beaten up by a girl?
“Dad and I had a brunch scheduled with him today. He canceled. Actually, his secretary did.”
“And what does that have to do with me?” It isn’t my fault he’s a creepy rapist wannabe is on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say it yet, since I want to know what lies he told Sam and Marty first. “What did he say?”
“He disappeared right after you did last night, and now he’s stuck at a hospital for cracked ribs, smashed knees, a broken pelvis and a fractured right wrist!”
What the heck? The rib part makes sense because Tony kicked him pretty hard, but the rest? Jamie crawled away just fine.
Marty continues, “If it has nothing to do with you, I’ll eat my shoes.”
“Well, I hope you enjoy the taste of leather. Oh, by the way, it’d be better if you and your dad didn’t get involved with a creep like that. He tried to rape me last night!”
“Please. You aren’t hot enough to rape.”
I explode off the piano bench. If I were a volcano, I would be shooting fiery lava a thousand feet into the sky. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Shut up! There’s nothing wrong with me. You’re the one messed up in the head.”
What a cheap shot. Suddenly my rage quits running hot. It’s now icy cold.
“He wouldn’t need to force a girl like you,” Marty continues. “So what if he touched your shoulder or whatever?”
“You think I left last night because he felt up my shoulder?” I say between clenched teeth. “Or is that what he’s claiming?”
“He didn’t say shit, but isn’t it obvious? His girlfriend is hot.”
“He has a girlfriend?” I feel sorry for the woman. “Does she know what kind of creep he is?”
“Obviously he’s not a creep, which is why he has a girlfriend!”
If Marty were here now, I’d bash the vase over his head.
“If you had any idea what Dad has done for you, you wouldn’t have fucked the deal up! He saved your fucking life, Iris! You didn’t have to sic Anthony on one of his investors.”
I laugh. “Marty, seriously. Are you trying to show off how little talent you have for fiction? Because what you’re suggesting is so idiotic, I have no words. Tony brought me home and spent last night here to make sure I was okay because, unlike you, he’s a decent human being who actually gives a damn when a creep assaults a woman. I doubt he had the time to go beat Jamie Thornton up even if he wanted to.”
Except he didn’t stay the entire night. He could’ve left any time after I fell asleep. On the other hand, why would he go for Round Two? He did enough damage the first time. And he and I don’t know each other well enough for him to react to that extreme a degree. Right?
“Oh, so it’s Tony? And you guys spent the night together last night?”
“Stop making it sound dirty, Marty. It wasn’t like that.”
He explodes. “You are such a moron!”
“Me?” What the hell? “You’re the moron who can’t see beyond money! Listen, a guy who will sexually assault a potential business partner’s niece won’t think anything of screwing his partner over. Tony is a gentleman, a far better man than Jamie Thornton—or you—for sure.”
“Your Tony is an asshole and a sociopath. His family disowned him seven years ago after putting up with his shit for so long. His parents won’t even acknowledge his existence now. He’s dead to them. Dead. So do yourself a favor and stay the hell away from him. And stop calling him Tony. It makes you look stupid.”
“No and no,” I say.
“I mean it, Iris. It’s for your own good.”
Is there a tinge of panic in his voice? I remember how desperately Marty tried to stop me from leaving with Tony, with his ridiculous claim that I promised him a dance. What’s really going on between the two? “If you don’t like the guy, why did you invite him?”
“We didn’t. He invited himself.”
“Can he do that?” Don’t Sam and Marty screen the guests to make sure nobody can just waltz in and eat their caviar?
“A long story, but he did. Don’t know why because he’s never, ever associated with us before.”
How strange. It’s a coincidence that Tony and I not only ran into each other at Hammers and Strings, but he just happened to be at the garden when Jamie attacked me? That seems more than a coincidence. Was he following me? But why?
Argh. What am I even thinking? I’m not important enough for Tony to attend a party just to meet me. I can’t let Marty’s paranoia make me crazy.
“Maybe he’s going to invest in the venture Jamie Thornton was going to put money in,” I say.
“No fucking way. And that’s not funny,” Marty hisses furiously. I’ve never heard him speak this tautly or urgently. “Just forget about him before you get your hopes up and get hurt. You aren’t his type. He doesn’t like blondes. He only likes brunettes with big tits and a tight ass, which is the opposite of you.”
Marty’s warning stokes my temper. When did he start caring about me being hurt or who I spend time with? “Thanks for the tip, Marty. I was just thinking of changing my hair color, and a chestnut-brown dye job will look great. Don’t you?”
He snarls, and I hang up, not interested in his bullshit. He calls again. I ignore him. He can text me or email me. I’m not listening to that whining, grating voice anymore.
And I don’t care if he makes a scene next time we run into each other. Let him. I’ll make it super embarrassing for him.
I return to the piano to continue practicing, but the intercom stops me. This time it’s the front desk reception.
“Ms. Smith, we have a Mr. Anthony Blackwood,” the man says after a short greeting. “He says he’d like to see you, but he’s not on the guest list.”
Anthony Blackwood…? Oh, Tony. “He’s fine. Let him up, please.” I hang up and glance at the clock. Almost eleven.
My nerves are still prickling from my argument with Marty. I take a deep, calming breath, tuck my hair behind my ears and smooth my shirt. I think I look okay. I turn on the front camera on my phone and check just in case. My cheeks are a little flushed, but that’s about it. As I adjust my shirt neckline to hide the bruises, I stop for a moment, struck by the fact that I’m fussing over my appearance. The most I ever do is run my fingers through my hair and maybe apply a fresh coat of lipstick. But with Tony, it feels different. More anticipatory. Almost nervous, like his opinion matters so, so much.
I don’t want him to notice I’m messed up in the head, like Marty said. I want Tony to think I’m normal. Maybe even pretty.
My God. Am I crushing on him? A guy I’ve only met twice?
My cheeks heat, but this time not with temper. I tap the floor with my toe, bouncing my foot over and over again. It’s such an unfamiliar sensation. A little uncomfortable, too. But it isn’t entirely unpleasant. It’s more like…the feeling I sometimes get when I sit in front of a piano, about to sight-read music I don’t remember having played before, full of excitement and wonder and discovery.
But unlike music, my excitement isn’t where this ends. I want Tony to like me, too. Or at least think I’m not too messed up. Even if I don’t have brown hair or huge breasts or whatever, like the women he usually prefers.
A few minutes later, Tony comes up, and I let him in.
Yesterday, Tony had his hair slicked back. Today, it’s slightly tousled. Dark stubble covers his strong jaw. He’s dressed casually in khaki shorts and a blue T-shirt that turns his eyes forest green. Somehow he makes them look glamorous enough to be on the cover of GQ, while I’m fairly ordinary and boring in my gray and black. To top it all off, I’m barefoot.
I gesture at the flowers. “You sent me those—and the cream—earlier, so I didn’t realize you were coming by. Thank you, by the
way. I love tiger lilies.”
“I’m glad. I wanted you to have that cream for your lip right when you woke up, so that’s why I had them delivered so early.”
“But you didn’t want to come by until now?” I’m curious about what he does. He obviously has money and influence if he can just crash a Peacher & Son party with Sam and Marty unable to stop him.
“I had an early meeting.”
“Ah.” Of course. He’s a busy man. I start to tuck my hair behind my ear, then stop as I realize it’s already tucked.
“Have you had breakfast?”
“A granola bar and coffee. Why? You want something to eat?” I ask, then wonder if there’s anything to offer in the fridge.
“How about brunch? French toast sound good? I know a great diner.”
Actually, food is the last thing on my mind, but when he asks with that faint smile on his lips, it does sound a little tempting…mainly for the company. I grab my purse and some slippers and follow him out. I owe him at least a brunch for his help last night.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Anthony
TJ doesn’t bother to express his disapproval and mild irritation anymore. He made himself clear last night when I came down from the penthouse.
When I hired him, I gave him a few specific instructions. One was never to let me be near a strawberry blonde, no matter what. He followed it to the letter, and no strawberry blonde, regardless of how hot or wily, could get past TJ to reach me.
But last night, I brought Iris with me. Shook my head when TJ wanted to pull her away. It’s not a good idea to break rules, make exceptions. Your employees don’t like it because it creates confusion and uncertainty. If Iris is okay, then what about other strawberry blondes? Are they okay too now?
If I told TJ why Iris is an exception…
Would he encourage me or drive me straight to his sister, who’s a shrink?