by S. Ann Cole
Now Graham is fuming, and slightly revolted. “Dude, if you’re insinuating what I think you are, you’re sick.”
Kiera, thank heavens, is there in a flash, grabbing Graham by the arm and hauling him away.
What am I thinking? Telling Graham won’t help. Andrew is too much of a psycho. Has far too many informants and questionable muscles in Brooklyn. The last thing I want is to cause Graham hurt.
“Gray,” I say, aborting my foolish plan to tell him the truth. “It’s cool. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Have fun on your trip.”
Graham hesitates, glancing from me to Andrew, Andrew to me. “Are you su—”
“Just go, Gray. I’ll call you.”
He lingers for a beat, runs his hand over his mouth, firing one last glare at Andrew before promising, “I’m here for you, Lotty. I love you. Always remember that,” before turning and leaving us.
Kiera folds her lips and watches him leave. She, too, is aware of nothing. She thinks Andrew shits gold bricks.
As Andrew turns to face me, he has the nerve to look apologetic. “Sorry about that, baby. I’m just a little on edge.”
“Why? Your mother didn’t die. What are you on edge about?” As much as I’m afraid of him, I can’t hide the exasperation in my voice.
He shuffles on his feet. Again. “Something I…want to ask you.”
“What? What do you want to ask me?” I snap out, bravado in effect only because of Kiera’s presence. “What’s so important that you had to pick a fight with Gray?”
Andrew’s right hand disappears into his pocket, reemerging with an ominous little black box.
Oh no. This is not happening. This is not happening. This. Is. Not. Happening.
Please note, this chanting is not out of excitement, but of utter horror.
On one knee, he sinks down in front of me. Right at my mother’s graveside. “Charlotte Cooley, I love you. I know most times my actions might say otherwise…but you need to know there’s no one else for me. I mess up and I screw around sometimes, but you’re my home. You’re my anchor. You’re the one I want by my side ‘til death. You’re the one. Will you…”—he flips open the box—“...marry me?”
This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.
Is this really happening? Is he seriously proposing to me in a cemetery? Over my mother’s unburied casket? This has to be the most morbid proposal in history. I mean, seriously?
More so, is he truly proposing to me? If I’m ever stupid enough to marry this reprobate, this is exactly where I’d end up spending my honeymoon. In a cemetery. As a ghost.
My blown-wide eyes swing to Kiera and find her eyebrows are kissing her hairline. Horrified. I know she’s not shocked about the proposal itself, but the nature of it. Unlike Graham, Kiera likes Andrew. That’s because she doesn’t know the kind of man Andrew is. I haven’t told her. She’s so convinced he’s some kind of prince charming, and gushes over him because he has a perfect face and a mouthwatering body. But even she can’t deny that this proposal is ghastly.
I bring my gaze back to the ring sitting boastfully in its cushiony seat in the box, and I have to admit I’m taken aback by the size. How is he able to afford a diamond this size? Baguette cut, on a platinum band, with two smaller diamonds on either side. Andrew does well for himself financially, but he isn’t rich. At least, not enough to be able to afford something like this.
“I sold one of the cars,” he offers when he notices me gawking at the ring, reading the question right off my mind. Giving me an abashed smile, he angles his thumb to the inner side of the lid, bringing my attention to what I didn’t notice before: the intertwined H and W. Harry Winston. “I figured if we’re gonna do this, then you deserve the best of the best. So, will you?”
Andrew might be wearing a cutely shy expression on his face, and he might be “asking” me to marry him, but I know him well enough to know there’s only one answer I can give to his question. Considering, especially, that he went through the trouble of selling one of his cars.
I realize, now more than ever, that I need to find a way out of this relationship, and fast, before it’s too late.
I have no intention whatsoever of binding myself to this man, but, doing the safest thing for the moment, I smile and squeak, “Yes.”
THREE
MY LUNGS ARE BURNING. Calves sore from overexertion.
Arms pumping through the air in time with my breathing. I know I should stop. I’ve gone over two hours, still I keep going, the burn and soreness a welcome distraction.
It’s not long before I break, run clean out of steam, almost collapsing by a maple tree in the park. Palms pressed to my knees, I double over and hustle for air, throat parched.
This is the first time running since Mom died. With the stress being laid on thick, fitness had been the last thing on my mind. But ever since Andrew’s proposal two weeks ago, my anxiety attacks have returned with a vengeance.
Last night he asked me—translate demanded me—to move in with him. Arguing that now that Mom’s “out of the picture,” he doesn’t see the need for us to be living apart and my struggling to pay rent.
I had an intense panic attack after that conversation.
Less than two weeks. I have less than two weeks left in my apartment before I have to move in with him, and at the rate my heart and mind has been going since that conversation, I just might end up in a mental institution before the week is over.
I need to get out. I need to get out. I need to get out. Out of my head. Out of my body. Out of my life.
I can’t move in with him. There’ll be no going back from that. I’ll be stuck. There’s no time to save up cash for an escape to Brazil. If I’m going to run, I have to do it now. Until I get enough squirreled away for that big escape to my mother’s homeland, I need somewhere to hide.
Before, I couldn’t run because of Mom. Now it’s just me. Maybe I could hide in a shelter for abused women or something.
‘Or, Graham!’ Rational Lotty inputs.
I think about this. Graham is probably back from his trip by now. Would he let me hide out at his pad until I’m able to make a better move? Or maybe swallow my pride and borrow some cash from Sarah to start me off in Brazil. Sarah, being from a prestigious family of old, old money, had her own greens when she met Dad. She’s actually the one who loaned him half of his very first investment. So although Dad divorced her, she’s much better off now than before. Even remarried to George Weston, a wine tycoon in San Francisco, and now she and Graham are living it up in ever-sunny California. It would be a great hideout from Andrew. Sarah’s kind and forgiving and she’s always liked me regardless of me being the “affair child.” She’ll help me. Of course, she will.
‘She will,’ Rational Lotty assures me.
Just as it has been since last night, rendering me sleepless and restless, my mind is racing with a million thoughts at once. I’m literally on the verge of tipping over. I’m freaking out. I’m desperate. So desperate right now. I’ve been up running since 5am, thinking it would help me ease the tension, but instead my thoughts are wilder, heavier than before. I just want to grab someone, anyone, and beg them to take me home with them. To hide me. To protect me.
Irrational, I know, but I can’t help how helpless I feel.
Straightening, I lean back against the coarse bark of the tree, focusing on every inhale and exhale, as I watch early morning fitness junkies jog by me, earphones in, breaths labored, sweat dripping from their skins.
Joggers are content. Never in a haste. No worries. No pain. We jog when life is good. Because jogging gives us that time to appreciate the world around us. We see, know, and even love our fellow joggers; smiling and nodding as we jog along our gay paths.
But when life gets stressful, haunting, tragic, we sprint. We bolt. We race. We endeavor to outrun those problems. We try to make it all a blur, wanting that phase to be gone, over, done. We don’t care to see, know, or love our fellow sprinters. Perhaps they’re the ones
we’re running from. We attempt to sprint from our nightmares. Our difficulties. The things that haunt or hurt us. Clinging tight to the hope that we’ll again be joggers one day.
I push off from the tree, turning to leave the park, when an unexpected sight gives me pause. A man running in my direction. He’s not sprinting, not jogging, but moving at his own custom pace. A pace I decided, in that split second, to call the “holy hot pace.” Because, well, he’s hot.
Well over six feet tall, shirtless, in just black running shorts and sneakers.
I’ve only ever seen a body that mind-numbingly perfect once. Ever. The sweat-coated ‘holy hot pace’ runner is Sexy Demon. The penthouse-living Upper East Sider who’d dived into the back of my cab a few weeks ago.
He’s running a straight path, yet his eyes are everywhere, unfocused, a light frown between his brows. Like he’s searching for something and frustrated at the same time.
As he runs by the maple tree, his gaze flicks over me, pauses on me for a beat, and I hold my breath, wondering if he’ll remember me, but those unfocused eyes skip to something else, and he keeps on running, right past me.
Shrugging, I make to leave the park again, but then an image of his bare throat, arched back, the same image that’s been taunting me for weeks, flashes before my eyes and my heart skips a beat.
‘Oh Lord, we’re in trouble,’ Rational Lotty sighs.
Indeed. Sucking in a deep breath, I make a U-turn and run after him.
“Hey, Abercrombie,” I greet as I catch up, running by his side, trying to match his holy hot pace. “Don’t tell me that ninja’s knife-throwing skills didn’t instill enough fear in you to stay out of his wife’s ass.”
Head swiveling to the side, his gaze falls, finds me by his side. He squints at me. A beat after, as if bored, he sweeps his gaze off me and directs it straight ahead. “For your information, I had no idea she was married.”
“But you do now, don’t you?” I rally back. “So what’s your excuse?”
“What does that mean?”
“Your penthouse practically overlooks Central Park. Why would you come all the way to Brooklyn to run?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, Lotty—” He frowns. “It’s Lotty, right?”
“The fake name,” I confirm.
He nods. “Right. No business of yours, but I haven’t seen that woman since. I don’t do married women. And I never encourage infidelity.” With that, he sprints off.
For some reason that totally eludes me, I sprint after him.
“Well,” I start when I catch up again, “what’s your reason for getting your sweat on all the way across the bridge, then?”
“Why do you think I owe you an answer?”
“You don’t,” I huff out, as my breathing grows ragged. “It’s just a question. You can choose to answer, or not. I’ll just ask you another one. And if you sprint, I’ll chase you…and ask you another.”
He keeps his attention straight ahead, and if I don’t get a handle on things and stop ogling his side profile, I just might crash into a post. Or maybe I can pretend to crash into a post just to get him to crouch down close to me, pick me up with those brawny, sweaty arms, brush wisps of hair from my face, and bring his mouth so close I can feel his breath as he asks me if I’m alright.
I’m hauled from my daydream when Sexy Demon shoots off even faster this time. I shoot off, chasing him. He makes a quick, sharp turn around a wrought iron bench, going the opposite direction. I follow. Keeping up with ease.
A few paces out, he slows and brings his gaze to me, breathing heavily. Something I can’t identify flits across his eyes before he turns them from me again. “I’ve been running here for the past couple of weeks.”
“Still doesn’t say why,” I press.
He huffs, irritated. “Are you always like this?”
“Like what?”
“Nosy. Pushy.”
Only when I’m insanely attracted to someone. “Only when it pleases.”
“And it pleases you to annoy me?”
“Your nostrils, they do this cute little thing when you’re exasperated.”
Head turning to me, his pace slows. “What…thing?”
Using my index fingers, I poke my nostrils up and out in a fashion that I’m quite positive makes me resemble Miss Piggy. “This thing.”
He blinks at me. And then he barks out a laugh.
I drop my hands, smiling. “Just kidding. You’re hot, but when your nostrils flare, damn, takes it to a whole ‘nother level.”
His lips twitch. “You think I’m hot?”
“Abercrombieeeeeee,” I drag out, “we went over this already. And I see you’ve got an aversion to clothes.”
He glances down at himself. “I like to feel free when I run.”
“I can see that,” I mumble, gazing at his trail that disappears down the waistband of his shorts. “So, you were telling me why you’ve begun running in Brooklyn?”
“I wasn’t,” he replies through a laugh. “But if you must know, I was searching for…something.”
That explains his scanning, unfocused eyes earlier. “Good luck with that. Things lost across the bridge are lost forever.”
Abruptly, he stops running altogether, grabbing my upper arms to stop me, and then instantly let’s go.
Liquid heat shoots through me from that brief, simple touch. I ignore it. I have to.
Shoving a hand through his jet-black hair, his stare fixed intensely on me, his chest expands as he takes a breath to say something. But then an inconveniently sudden return of my desperation from earlier crashes into me with a haze shattering force, reminding me of my dire situation, and thus, before he can get his word out, I beat him to it, blurting, “I need help.”
Brows furrowing, he appears taken aback, but with his stare remaining fixed on me, he motions for me to continue.
“Sorry, t-that didn’t c-come out right,” I stutter. “What I mean to say is…I need a job.”
His stoicism to this is the perfect reaction for me. Not pity, no softening of the eyes, thus making me braver in asking for what I want, instead of feeling the urge to shoot myself in the face. “What kind of skills do you have?”
“None,” I return. “I was thinking along the lines of housekeeping? Maybe your live-in maid? I mean, I’ve seen your place and you could definitely use a housemaid. I remember you saying things get messy with your maids, but I promise to make myself so insufferable you’ll feel revulsion rather than a compulsion to sleep with me.”
“That would assume I’m even attracted to you in the first place.”
Well, that doesn’t hurt at all. “Even better! You’re not attracted to me, I’m not attracted to—”
“Lie to me and the job isn’t yours.” He crosses his arms over his bare chest, daring me.
Sighing dramatically, I admit, “Okay, fine, I’m attracted to you. But I really, really need this job, so I won’t cross any lines. Besides, just like you don’t do married women, I don’t do married men, either.”
When a puzzled expression takes form on his face, I remind him, “Your valet? You said he had an ongoing affair with your wife?”
He blinks. “Oh, yes, my wife.” He scratches his jaw.
“You’re on a break or separated, I deduced that much. How else would you be screwing maids and getting Japanese ass-play?” I shift from one foot to the other, feeling a little anxious under his penetrating gaze. “But you’re still married. That’s a boundary I’d never cross.”
After staring me down for a few unnerving moments, he asks, “Aren’t you supposed to be in college or something? Why do you need a job as a live-in maid?”
Again, I shift on my feet, refusing to lower my head in shame. I have his attention, and there’s no pity behind it. I don’t want to lose it. “I am in college. Online. But right now, I’m flat broke, and I have those expenses. This is where the desperation for a job comes in.”
By my elbow, he moves me out of the way and t
o the side as a couple jogs by us. “What are you studying?”
“Law.”
His eyebrows kick up. “Surprising. You don’t look like a law girl.”
“I wasn’t. But some things have happened to me that—” I break off, forcing a smile. “Get this, growing up, I wanted to be a—”
“Spy?” he finishes with a grin, then promptly snaps his mouth shut.
I frown. “H-how do you know?”
Nonchalantly, he shrugs. “Lucky guess. You just look like you’d make a better spy than a lawyer.” He looks off and rubs the back of his neck. “Look, I’m not entirely comfortable with the idea of you being my live-in maid, but if you really need the cash, the job is yours.”
Jumping at this, I squeal and throw my hands around his neck, hugging him tight; his sweat soaking through my tank top.
My excitement is short-lived, however, when over his shoulder, I spot one of Andrew’s follow-arounds loitering in the distance, supposedly warming up for a run. As his eyes connect with mine, he gives me a small shake of his head.
My grin dies. Andrew has eyes everywhere. And if he hears about me hugging some shirtless man in the park, I’m dead. D-E-A-D.
Pulling away from Sexy Demon, I curl my hands into fists to hide the shaking.
Sexy Demon is frowning at me, his hands moving to rest lightly on my waist as he asks, “Hey, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” I whisper. “Just dehydrated.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, unconvinced. “Well, let me walk you to the cafe and get you a—”
“No,” I almost shout, panic pricking me with the intensified stings of a million needles. “Just…I kinda have to go now. When can I start? Tomorrow?”
Now his expression is one of sincere concern, his hands falling from my waist. I feel bereft at the regretted loss of his touch, but still somewhat relieved, knowing Andrew’s friend is watching.
“I’ll be leaving the island this evening for two days, so tomorrow won’t work. Tuesday. You know where I live. Be there at 7 PM sharp.”
“Okay,” I nod. “I’ll be there.”