“That’s it, darlin’, come for me,” he hisses, thrusting twice more before hitting deep and stilling, his body shuddering so fiercely I feel it inside. He lets me go and drops to the bed, his face buried in the pillows as we pant for air.
I feel blissed out and achy in a good way, so ready to snuggle down into the pillows and take a nap. He rolls over and sighs before rising and grabbing his pants.
“I’ll go get you some water while you dress.”
My mind blanks for a second before mortification hits me. That is a dismissal if ever I’ve heard one — which, by the way I haven’t — and I realize that now that he’s had his fill, he expects to take me back home and…
I feel cheaper than the day my ex walked out of court crowing about alimony. Thank God he’d ‘fallen in love’ last year and remarried, or I would have had a mental breakdown from the payments.
But all that aside, I am being dismissed, cruelly and with no regard to my pride. Like a goddamned hooker. I’m speechless and don’t quite know how to respond as I lie there and take it in.
I hear a sound somewhere in the house and jump to my feet, throwing my clothes on and ducking into the bathroom. By the time Gregory returns with the water I am back to rights and sitting on the bed — which I’ve remade — as composed as I can be right now.
If I feel like crying and running away in shame and mortification, I hide it and force myself not to react the way another woman probably would.
Screw Gregory Lucas. Oh right, I’ve already done that.
Bastard.
“Here you go, darlin’,” he says, handing me a glass of icy water.
“Thank you.”
I am proud that my voice doesn’t so much as waver, and I drink the water quickly before handing the glass back and rising.
“I just need to find my purse and shoes,” I say over my shoulder as I make my way to the stairs and down to the kitchen.
I find my purse on the counter where I left it and crawl beneath the table to retrieve my shoes, slipping them on and rising gracelessly to my feet.
When I turn he’s standing in the doorway, a strange expression on his handsome face.
“What?”
“You’re taking this really well,” he says slowly, and I resist the urge to slap his smug face.
Well? He thinks I’m taking this well? I have never been this insulted in my entire life, and that’s saying something, considering my divorce fiasco. But what the hell else does he expect? I will not give him a show and start sobbing, or even revile him for this.
No, I don’t expect a goddamned relationship, but being treated like a hooker…I want to laugh when I realize I’m worse off. All I got for his pleasure was dinner and a five second stay at his house.
“Look, Greg.” I stress his name with relish and cock my head. “If you don’t mind, I can still make it home on time to go on a girls' night with Chrissie.”
His face hardens, and I smile cheerily, ignoring the deep wound of shame that’s tearing at my insides.
Well, let this be a lesson, Hannah Newman. When your mind tells you to run, fucking run.
Chapter Eleven
“You’re kidding!” Chrissie yells, slamming a fist into the sofa cushion as I try to inhale a gallon of vanilla ice cream.
“Nope. We ate, we fucked, he threw me out. End of story,” I say, throwing my head back to squeeze chocolate syrup into my mouth.
I am not proud of being this hurt by his treatment. I’m even ashamed that my go-to at times like these is so much junk food my up till now sugar-free body will probably go into shock.
I need it, okay? I feel worse than bubble gum under a fat person’s shoe. And Chrissie isn’t helping.
“That piece of shit!” she yells, springing to her feet to pace.
“Yup.”
“That piece of sewer-processed rat shit!”
“Yup.”
“And you didn’t kick him in the balls?” she asks for the millionth time.
I can understand her frustration, but seriously, he hasn’t just sex dumped her.
“I told you what I said and did, Chris. There’s nothing more, nothing less,” I say around another spoon of chocolate-covered ice cream.
“Well, this is just pathetic! Get up and go put on the dress I gave you. Now!”
Whoa.
“Why? I just want to sit here and stew a little bit before going into a sugar coma,” I say glumly.
“I said, get your ass up and get dressed. There are a lot of other guys you could be doing right now who wouldn’t treat you like a venereal disease. We’re going out,” she says decisively.
Oh crap.
***
“Is this great or what!”
I turn away from Joe…Something, I can’t quite remember, and smile brightly at where Chrissie is rubbing up against a conquest down the bar.
Yup, this is pretty great, I think, downing my seventh tequila shooter as Joe eggs me on. I can’t believe I wanted to stay home and mope. I also can’t believe I’ve spent the last three years trying to turn myself into a robot when there’s so much more to life than asshole husbands. And recent sex partners who treat you like crap.
No, there are genuinely nice guys like Joe, who want nothing more than a few good dates and some sex. I mean, I can do that. So what if Joe doesn’t have golden blonde locks that curl ever so sexily, or eyes the colour of smoky whisky.
I like Joe. He makes me feel desirable and wanted, not cheap and degraded.
“I mean, can you believe that, Joe?” I ask again, taking a slug of lukewarm beer.
“No, baby, the guy’s an idiot. You stick with Joe and you’ll get the five star treatment,” he assures me, sliding a fresh beer my way.
My stomach chooses that moment to heave precariously, and I swallow and wave as I dodge and weave my way to the bathroom. I am not used to drinking this much, and it’s showing as I fall into a stall and puke till my liver tickles my throat.
“Oh, Gooooood.”
“You okay, Han?”
My moan of suffering makes her giggle, and I raise my head enough to shoot a mascara-smeared glare at her.
“I think…need go…” I swallow convulsively and puke again. “Home.”
“Well, come on then, lightweight, let’s get you home.” She laughs, and I allow her to sling my arm over her shoulder and walk me out into the fresh summer air.
“You like Joe?”
“Eh. He’s okay I guess,” I slur, falling into the cab.
By the time we reach our building and pay the cabbie, I’m almost unconscious.
“You okay, Han?” Chrissie asks when we hit the elevator, and I turn green from the swift upward motion.
“M’great! I just need a few minu’s till my stomach settles. Screw him!” I yell suddenly, feeling the need to vent.
We’re giggling while singing the chorus to Scrubs as we stumble off and wobble our way to my door. Chrissie stop abruptly, and I teeter on my heels so violently we fall against the wall.
It’s only when she doesn’t help me up that I realize something’s wrong, and I look up to see Gregory leaning against my door.
“Aagh! You!”
“What the hell is wrong with her?” he growls at a mutinous Chrissie, grabbing at my arms to keep me steady as I rise.
“We went out to celebrate her first sex since her divorce three years ago,” she snarls through thin lips and narrowed eyes. “We thought she should at least earn her hooker badge, since she got treated like one.”
I giggle, unaccountably amused by the way she’s phrasing everything, until I realize she’s telling him exactly what I strove so hard to deny at his house.
“Sshh,” I hiss into her ear.
“No! If he’s got the balls to do it he can most certainly cop to it. So what are you doing here, Mr Big Shot? Decided one round of whorehouse wasn’t enough for the night?”
Gregory narrows his eyes at her and snarls.
“She’s falling down drunk!�
�
“Better than her crying while she eats a gallon of ice cream!”
I watch as they glare at each other, their stances so aggressive it’s like watching two lions circling a carcass. I’m the carcass, apparently, and while I am drunk, I am most certainly not too drunk to put them straight.
“Chrissie, thanks for a great night. Go home,” I say softly, shaking my head when she tries to argue. When her door slams shut I turn to Gregory and give him a scornful onceover from head to toe and back again. “You can go home too, thank you.”
At least I’m stone cold sober now. Being confronted by him like this is like cold water to the face. Not invigorating, just painfully sobering.
“Go home,'” I hiss, adding a ‘go screw yourself’ under my breath.
With that I march to my door, determined to have the last word if it kills me. Look, I may not be from the Upper sides, and I may not wear designer labels — except for that one time with Margery’s dress, but I’ve prayed on it and asked forgiveness — but I am most certainly not deserving of his treatment.
Anyway, we’ve had sex, I know what that’s like — wonderful — and I’ve promised myself I won’t go looking for anything more. He’s done me a favor by being such an ass, really he has, because if he weren’t I may have started liking him more than is wise.
“Hannah. I need to—”
“Get your ass off my doorstep,” I finish, swinging my door open and turning back.
He stays where he is, staring at me with a look I cannot define, and that makes me angrier than I already am.
“Please just listen. I need to explain,” he says softly.
“Nope. You had your chance to act like a human being, and you blew it. I wasn’t looking for anything more than what you were offering anyway, so we can call it done and move on. I don’t want to see you again.”
I close the door and collapse back, waiting for his footsteps to recede. A moment later I hear him stalk away, and then the elevator doors closing with a ding.
Good riddance. If I never see that man’s too-handsome face again, it’ll be way too soon.
Chapter Twelve
Saturday morning I wake to sewer breath and jack hammers in my skull, feeling more miserable than I’ve ever felt. This is all Gregory’s fault, and I’d tell him so if not for the fact that I never intend to see him again.
I mean, who does that to people?
When the jack hammer doesn’t stop, I sit up with a groan. Someone’s at the door, and the thought of getting vertical and answering it makes my stomach turn.
“Hannah! Open the damn door! I know you’re in there, and I’m not leaving.
Freaking Amber. I should have known she wouldn’t crack it for long, but I’d expected more from her than one night.
“What?” I whisper after throwing on a robe and opening the door.
She glares at me and shoves a suitcase my way, stepping aside to reveal Nana behind her, a huge grin on her wrinkled face.
“She’s soft, this one, Hannah girl, and I wouldn’t leave her to care for a rattlesnake. She hasn’t even given me breakfast. I have low blood sugar. I need my breakfast.”
I tilt my head back and groan before grabbing the suitcase and waving Nana in.
“Come on, Nana, let’s leave Amber to get back to her super important life,” I say, glaring at my sister as Nana shuffles in and makes a beeline for the kitchen. “You’re such an idiot. Jesus, you can’t look after a defenseless old lady for a few days without trying to starve her?”
“I found her in the kitchen smearing peanut butter on her face! She poured vinegar in my petunias, and she stays up until two in the goddamned morning singing Sinatra!”
“Oh, poor baby.”
“The peanut butter is for my wrinkles, and your petunias were already dead. I was trying to get rid of the decaying plant smell. And if you don’t like Sinatra, there’s something wrong with you!” Nana yells from the kitchen, making me smile despite the pounding headache in my eyeballs.
“Just go home, Amber. Oh, and I want my fucking money back,” I say, slamming the door in her shocked face.
“That girl is a menace, I tell ya,” Nana says, bustling around in the kitchen as I slump over the tiny kitchenette and pray for death. “Here, Hannah darling, have some water, and then Nana will make you a nice hangover cure,” she croons, stroking my hair softly.
I down the water with a smile and watch her cook breakfast and join me.
“I’m sorry, Nana, I should never have left you with Amber,” I say ten minutes later, when the grease has started sucking up some of the booze and the Godawful concoction she’s poured down my throat starts working.
“That’s all right, baby, I understand. You’ve got a lot on your mind right now.”
It’s a feeble excuse and I know it, but I appreciate it anyway.
“Sooo, want to tell me why you were smearing peanut butter all over your beautiful face?”
She chuckles and her eyes dance merrily, confirming my belief that she’s not so senile she’ll believe a dose of nutty goodness will cure her wrinkles. I say Nana is probably senile, but she’s still alert enough to run circles around the likes of Amber.
“She brought a man home last night, and I had to listen to them making the beast with two backs,” she says disgustedly. “No one should have to hear that, dear.”
I snort, remembering what I’d seen at the home. Double standard, Nana, total double standard.
“So you sang Sinatra at the top of your lungs and smeared yourself with good old peanut butter?” I laugh, seeing the humor in it even if Amber can’t. “What’s the big deal?”
“I happened to be singing in her bedroom without my bloomers on, dear. That caught their attention very quickly.”
I’m still laughing an hour later when we approach the park. I stop for a newspaper and water, and by the time we get there my arm's almost dead from the pound of bread crumbs she’s forced me to carry along.
I sit beside her and try not to notice when we’re swarmed by pigeons. Nana loves them, and after the morning she’s had I am not about to give her grief, even if I am afraid the birds will peck out our eyes and carry us away.
“So,” I say, waiting until she’s scattered half the bag. “If I find another home…”
I hear her sigh and hide the grin the sound elicits.
“Hannah, dear, is it too much to ask that I don’t have to die in an old person’s prison?”
Oh, she’s such a drama queen.
“You’ll outlive Satan, and you know it, you old crone,” I laugh, scanning the paper. “But I’ll make you a deal. If I can find an affordable caregiver, you can stay. If I can’t…you have to understand that there’s no way I can go to work and do my job while I worry about you. Last time it took me hours to find you when you went walkies.”
That had been terrifying. I’d come home to an empty apartment and no note or sign of her. To this day I will never forget what I felt as I’d roamed the streets searching for her. I’d eventually stumbled across her here in the park, but it had been so scary it still gives me the chills.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
I’d expected more of a fight.
“Yes, dear. Although, could you go for someone with personality? I need stimulating conversation.”
I rather think, with the way she’s been picking up lovers, she’s had enough stimulation for her old heart, but I nod and go on reading.
That’s when I see it, and boy, when you know you’ve messed up…I’ve messed up, big time, and I am so angry and mortified it takes a monumental effort not to react as Nana keeps babbling.
There, staring at me from the gossip section, is a photo of Gregory staring heatedly at a woman. Who happens to be me. Wearing a stolen dress.
Shit.
I flick the paper closed with a tremor, feeling like an ostrich as I drop it to the bench and try to pretend it doesn’t exist. Not smart, but I’m still feeling crappy, and anothe
r disaster is not something I can handle today.
But ignorance is definitely not bliss, and I worry about that photo all day till I’m ready to scream. When Jordan sees it…shit.
Chapter Thirteen
As I get off the elevator and do the death march towards my office, I feel so nervous I can hardly feel my legs. Not only do I have to face Jordan, knowing what I know, but if he or his wife has seen the paper, I know I’m in for a tongue lashing.
I get to my desk and drop my purse in the drawer, eyeing the sofa. It’s still there, that goddamned dress, laughing mockingly at me, and I want to shred it or hit it or something.
After a deep breath and a huge pep talk, I peep into Jordan’s office. Good, he’s not here. He will be soon, but at least I have enough time to grab some coffee before he gets in.
“Oh my Lord, Han! You look like crap,” Lucy gasps when I look up from my cup to see her barrelling into the kitchen.
“Gee, thanks.”
“Did you see yesterday’s—”
My stomach cramps.
“Lucy—”
“I can’t believe Taz didn’t tell us!” she continues, flopping down at my desk. “I knew something was up when they brought the account to such a small agency, but I never would have guessed this!”
What? I can’t really track her words. I am tired and sleep-deprived. Nana, bless her, is more than a handful, and unless she was just getting back at me for Amber, I would say her singing shows are the norm. I’d woken at exactly two this morning with her singing at the top of her lungs.
And I wasn’t lucky enough to get Sinatra. No, I’d gotten Streisand, performed a note too high for aural comfort. So yeah, no sleep.
“Lucy. What the heck are you talking about?” I ask, shooing her from my chair so that I can flop into it and attempt to start my day.
The funny part of this is that a week ago I was as spick and span as a Stepford wife. No hang overs from a horrible sex night, no sleepless nights from Nana’s Vegas tour, and no nervous stomach from seeing myself wearing a stolen dress. I’d been perfect.
Wyatt (Lane Brothers #1) Page 38