“I think we will keep our clothes on, but you can help me in the kitchen,” she commented.
“Can’t blame me for trying,” Xan muttered following her. “How about this day of yours? We can skip the morning since we both know how that went.”
“Nothing after that. I updated my portfolio and basically that was it. But I expected fireworks and that might have put me on the edge,” Catalina admitted.
“’Expectation is the root of all heartache’,” Xan said and shifted uncomfortably when she sent him a long look. “What? Even I’ve heard about Shakespeare.”
“I would be worried if you hadn’t.” She made a face making him smirk but he relaxed.
“So what were you doing here?” He wanted to know.
“Potato-crusted salmon, and I thought it would go well with wilted spinach salad.”
“Sounds very… upscale.”
“It’s basically a spinach salad but pine nuts and olive oil gives it a little spin adding a shot of sophistication to it. Of course it is supposed to look complicated so your guests will think you put an extra effort.” Her voice was full of mockery and he wondered who was she taunting more: him for his ‘upscale’ comment or the affluent class she was a part of.
“What can I do to help?”
“You can chop dried tomatoes,” Catalina said without looking at him.
They both seemed to be on the edge and it didn’t bode well for the evening to go smoothly, Xan thought. For some reason they felt ill-at-ease and he wondered if it was due to the events of the morning.
Catalina took his side but perhaps after all was said and done, she came to regret it. His superficial calm threatened to crack and fray on the edges.
“How about I make you a nice drink and you sit outside while I finish in here?” He offered, thinking she had no idea he had never uttered similar words in his entire life.
Now she turned around to look up at him and a speculative gleam entered her eyes.
“You would do that,” she agreed and put aside a bowl she was mixing something in.
He watched her warily when she stepped closer and cupped his face with her hands.
“There is a good guy under the devil-may-care attitude and tough-as-nails reputation who can quote The Bard. I want to know more about him,” she said quietly and he wanted to take a step back, to break this connection, the moment of a strange recognition, but she let her hands slide lower onto his chest and before he knew it, his arms were wrapped around her waist, bringing her closer until their lips connected.
It was sweet and gentle, something he had no experience with, same as her brand of innocence that had nothing to do with her virginity. Cat was good in a way he had never encountered before and he felt like he was stealing this purity away every time she allowed him to touch her.
He was the one who ended the kiss because his gut tightened with something akin to guilt.
“Don’t try to give me qualities I don’t have,” he protested. “What you see is what you get.”
“No, nothing is as simple as that. I know all about pretenses. There is always much more under the surface.”
“You don’t want to know what is underneath it all, trust me.”
“But I do; why don’t you trust me back? Tell me who Alexander Thorpe was before he became Xan,” she asked, not taking her eyes off him and he was lost.
He knew she was going to ask about it eventually. He was aware he would have to give her something when that moment came, but now when he actually had to face it he couldn’t find words.
“Why don’t you tell me about Catalina Bennett first?” He was stalling and they both knew it, but Cat being Cat just smiled at him and returned to whatever she was doing before.
She should have looked out of place moving around the kitchen but instead she seemed so damn fine he found his eyes glued to her every move.
She was a witch, Xan decided, feeling utterly spellbound.
“Her life is not as exciting as Alex’s is,” she said lightly and he liked the distance she put between them by talking in third person, as if their stories had nothing to do with them personally.
He thought it might allow him to go through with his own tale after all.
“Let me be the judge of it.”
“Okay. Well, Catalina was a very happy child that probably didn’t realize it at the time. She had loving parents who were trying to give her as much freedom as possible and teach her to be her own person… What about those tomatoes Xan?” She looked at him and he obediently picked up a knife and started chopping them.
“What she didn’t fully comprehend at the time was that her father wanted for her what he had forgone himself, because the Bennett name came with responsibilities and obligations. He wanted to be a photographer and wanted to explore this passion of his but his mother wanted him engaged in politics instead. He was the only child and didn’t want to disappoint his mother, I suppose, or maybe it wasn’t as simple as that and there were other reasons involved. Like this or like that, photography remained forever nothing but his hobby. One his child apparently inherited and he was reliving it through her… That is how I see it, anyway,” she added after a little pause.
Catalina glanced at him from the corner of her eye, wondering what his expression would show so far. She was surprised to find him looking back at her, focused on her words while she half expected him to be bored already.
The chopped tomatoes were put aside in a small glass bowl.
“This is Catalina’s story; I don’t care about any other version but yours,” he said and she coughed delicately because her throat felt tight for some reason.
“I can’t really look at it objectively, but I guess some people would say she had been spoiled by her parents; her grandmother definitely thinks so even today. She was barely ten years old when her happy childhood ended brutally. One summer night, somebody broke into Catalina’s home and slaughtered her parents…” Her voice broke but she cleared her throat and continued. “She was the sole survivor only because her mother urged her to hide and she did so. But she remembers every detail of it… After that night, she was placed under the care of her grandmother and her life has never been the same since then. End of story,” she said, and the next instant Xan’s strong arms embraced her, offering her shelter–something nobody had really provided since the day she lost her parents.
She turned to him because he seemed capable of holding off her ghosts.
“I’m so sorry, Kitten, but I think her story has just begun that night,” he murmured in her hair.
She closed her eyes and laid her head on his chest, close to tears, even more so when he pressed his lips to her forehead.
His body was hot but there was no sexual heat in the hold; it was comforting while it had been ravaging every previous time before.
“The camera I destroyed… it was your father’s, am I right?” He knew the answer before she even nodded.
A wave of self hatred flooded him, stronger than ever before.
It was unfathomable how she allowed him to hold her when his presence in her life had brought her nothing but misery so far. How she could rise above resentment and forgive him something he would have never forgiven anybody, no matter the circumstances, much less the vicious and pointless act of vandalism he had committed.
“Cat…” He started, but what could he say in his defense?
There was absolutely nothing that could justify his ill-dictated actions.
“It’s okay, Xan, I got over it,” she said and he wanted to rage at her which made even less sense.
She got over it? He repeated inwardly and just shook his head, promising himself that somehow, someway he was going to make things right by her.
He couldn’t decide what was worse: the fact her parents were murdered or that she had witnessed it.
“Have you ever learned who and why…?”
“No, they have never been caught.”
It didn’t make any difference in the big sc
heme of things, he supposed, but perhaps knowing would have given her some kind of closure and helped her to move on. It was obvious she was still reliving the past tragedy.
Nothing about her was the way he had imagined before, he decided.
“It was your grandmother at the exhibition?” He remembered an older woman, but all he could recall was her haughtiness.
“Yes, Florence Bennett; we don’t… get along.” She couldn’t come up with a better fitting description.
“Is it about your photography?”
“It’s about everything, really. I didn’t want to live in Connecticut any longer, continuing the family’s tradition of chairing committees. I refuse to be happy with playing the part of a pretty ornament and nothing more. She doesn’t like California but she felt forced to move as well if just to keep an eye on me… I’m sorry, it must sound ridiculous to you; a poor rich girl complaining about how tough her life is. Such a cliché.”
“No, Cat. This was my initial opinion about you based on nothing but those pretenses you’ve mentioned earlier. Private schools and country clubs don’t guarantee a carefree life.” He still couldn’t comprehend her lifestyle and he didn’t think he ever would, but he started to understand how wrong he was about her.
Perhaps Catalina could have grown into a spoiled princess living a privileged life, if the tragedy hadn’t robbed her at such an early age. Still, he didn’t think so. It simply didn’t seem like a part of her makeup. But the blow fate had delivered her definitely shaped her into who she was today.
“Yes, our lives couldn’t be any different, but I know how it is when people try to place you somewhere you don’t belong,” he said and understood there was no turning back.
This was exactly the point he thought about before. They either took each other as they were or… not at all.
CHAPTER 30
Catalina put the fish in the oven and set the timer, giving Xan a chance to collect his thoughts… or back down and withhold his story. She didn’t think he would, but forcing it out of him didn’t make any sense either.
She poured olive oil into the skillet and set it on medium heat, letting it simmer. She added spinach, garlic, salt and pepper, cooking it less than a minute with an occasional stirring.
Xan was watching her silently when she removed the skillet from heat and tossed the spinach with the dry tomatoes, chopped by him, along with pine nuts. She took out another bowl from the cabinet next to her right, dishing up the ready salad.
“We can eat on the terrace if it is fine with you.” She smiled at him and nothing in her behavior would suggest she just shared with him the most painful experience of her life.
No, Catalina looked as collected as ever if one didn’t look too closely into her blue eyes. The truth was buried deep down there where nothing and no one could threaten who she was on the innermost level.
Propriety was her second skin, but he doubted many understood it had become her shield as well. He was just beginning to fathom it himself, to recognize the smallest shifts in her behavior, tiniest signs spinning another story about her than what she tried to portray on the surface.
And the more he learned, the more he craved her, until wanting her had come to be as obvious and natural a part of him as breathing. He didn’t want it, surely didn’t need it, but between one moment and the next she imperceptibly started to matter to him.
Well fuck, he thought only.
“Yeah, it’s fine with me,” Xan said, while he just realized it wasn’t fine at all and by that he didn’t mean having dinner outside.
“I bet you love to sit here at the end of the day,” he commented as they carried everything outside and took their places.
“Yes, everything seems to fade away when you look at the ocean… if only temporarily. But it gives me perspective,” she agreed.
“I don’t have a view like that from my apartment.”
“So much for the grief you gave me about living in the club. For the record I didn’t believe you anyway.” She made a face at him.
“Why?” He tilted his head regarding her curiously.
“You don’t strike me as a man who would be satisfied with the lack of privacy for starters.”
“You are right… again, but I still could have been living there. In fact I was for many years and the room in the club is not so far away from the place I grew up in. Some might say it’s an upgrade really.” He looked at her and Catalina held his gaze.
No, talking about it wouldn’t be easy but it was like an elephant in the room; they could still pretend it wasn’t there but its presence was undeniable.
“Our dinner, Catalina,” Xan reminded.
“Give me five minutes.” She ran inside the house, silently cursing the timer that went off.
Timing was always the thing, wasn’t it?
It took her eight minutes to return to be precise and Xan counted only because it helped him to ground himself in the present. Same as with the smell of the light breeze coming from the ocean and aromas wafting to him from the kitchen… and Cat.
No matter what, all seemed to always return to her.
“I won’t be offended if you don’t like it.” She smiled when he lifted a fork to his mouth.
“Are you kidding me? It’s delicious.” He leaned in to kiss her on the lips because she was a constant temptation, beating like an additional pulse within him.
“I’m glad. So… tell me about the place Alex grew up in.” She picked up right where he stopped before.
Such an innocent request and yet it managed to change the taste of fish into sawdust in his mouth, Xan noticed, forcing himself to swallow a mouthful anyway.
He was used to women who wanted to fuck him or wanted him to fuck them. Some wanted to change him, others save him from whatever they deemed necessary.
But nobody had ever wanted to simply listen to him like she did.
“It was Hell’s Kitchen–a bad part of New York which was home to poor and working class Irish-Americans at the time. Even though it was already changing it wasn’t in the shape known today. Alexander didn’t have Irish roots… as far as he knew, but he was pretty sure his father had never tried an honest day’s work throughout his entire life. But they were most definitely poor,” Xan agreed.
He didn’t think he could paint a faithful picture of his reality back then. It wasn’t that his memories were not clear enough; if anything they were too vivid. It was just that a person had to see it to fully comprehend what he was talking about.
“The thing Alexander remembers from his childhood the best were screams. It seemed like the whole world was yelling: his neighbors and the constant echo of police sirens. His mother’s cries were nothing more but another element of the same music background of his childhood. Then he started to differentiate between them.
“His father was a guest at the house. Mostly an unwelcome one, and his presence always felt electrifying. His rare good moods were as dangerous as the broody ones because they all had one thing in common: they could change in the blink of an eye and result in brutality. Somehow it usually was Alexander who got punished for Robert’s Thorpe misfortunes and disappointments, although his mother wasn’t much luckier.” He glanced at Cat to gauge her reaction.
“Did she… try to protect her child?” Catalina asked.
“Hell no. Maybe once or twice when Alexander was younger, but he wouldn’t be able to recall one instance even if his life depended on it.” And he wanted it badly, Xan realized.
The child he was then needed at least one grown-up on his side. It had never happened and it was just one of the bitter lessons of life, he supposed.
“It didn’t take Alexander long to understand his days were numbered. He was a skinny little shit who couldn’t fight a fly, much less the big scary son of a bitch,” he snapped, and she caught herself before she could offer him comfort with touch.
She stopped her hand from laying it on him because right now he was in the past, talking about the warped ways a
touch could be turned into.
Cat thought that the need for fighting sprouted from his childhood, when all he wanted was to protect himself from someone whom he wasn’t supposed to be forced to.
But she knew life was not the fairy tale she once believed it to be and bad things happened to good people all the time.
Righteousness didn’t always prevail.
“What happened next?” She asked.
“Alexander was around ten years old when things got really bad. Broken nose, bones, you name it. He stopped going to school and a social worker came to his home, which equaled lies and harsher punishments as if that was his fault. Back then everything seemed to be. His father was never to be blamed for any misery he caused. The more obvious the fault was his, the more he kept denying it.” He was surprised to feel Cat’s delicate fingers on his nose.
Surprised and embarrassed both, but he didn’t push her away, craving all she could give him.
“The very first time we met… I thought the slight curve to your nose was due to your occupational hazard. Now I know,” she whispered.
Now she knew, he thought, and could already see pity written all over her aristocratic features. His gut tightened because it was the reaction he was sure of and he hated it almost as viciously as the man who gave him life.
“Don’t look at me like that, Catalina. I don’t need you to feel sorry for me. I am hardly the first and far from being the last kid who had shit rough. I survived.”
“There is more to life than surviving, Xan.” Of course her heart went to the little boy he was back then, but the man he was today inspired very different and very complicated emotions in her.
“I feel sorry for that child, Xan, and I admire who you became.”
Was she serious? He wondered.
“Don’t delude yourself, Cat; I am just like him. I am good at destroying things just like he was, or have you forgotten how we met?”
“I haven’t, but I am here Xan. I am with you now. We are not what happened to us but what we manage to make out of uneven cards. Ask Tristan if you don’t believe me,” she tried for a lighter tone and he chuckled, taken by surprise.
CUL-DE-SAC (On The Edge Book 1) Page 23