Damaged Love

by Riann C. Miller

  “Thank God you weren’t.”

  Kole is in a great place in her life—a place I desperately want for myself. I just can’t find the right person to share my life with. Women—or the women I keep picking—seem to act one way, trying to impress me. Then weeks, sometimes months later, their real colors bleed through. I don’t want a fake girlfriend. I don’t want a woman to change who they are to make me happy. I just want a woman who can look past the money and love me for myself while being herself, but I’ve yet to find that.

  Two years ago, the father of Kole’s son came back into her life, and against my advice, they rekindled their relationship. I loathe Adam, the guy who broke her heart, and if I’m being honest, I still don’t like him, but Kole and Connor love him. Therefore, I keep my mouth shut.

  James buzzes in and tells me the freelance photographer NY Business hired is here. “I’ve gotta go, sis. Tell Connor I’ll see him this weekend.”

  “I will and make sure you smile pretty,” she adds with a laugh.

  James opens the door, and a group of people walk in. Robert is back, and he’s arguing with another man.

  “Where the fuck is she, Steven?” Robert asks in a tone he never uses with me.

  “I told you already. She sent me to handle the shoot,” the other man replies in a mocking tone.

  “I requested her myself, not you!” Robert screams loud enough that everyone stops and looks at the two of them.

  “Okay, everyone, shut the hell up,” an attractive brunette firmly says. “Robert, Steven could take these pictures with his eyes closed and everything would turn out great, so why are you bitching?”

  “Because I personally requested R.A. Photography, not Steven Olsen,” he screeches. The brunette immediately replies, “I know what you requested, and Steven Olsen is one of R.A.’s photographers.”

  “That might be the case, but I spoke to Rach, and she said she’d personally be here, so what gives?”

  The man with the camera sets it down and pulls out his cell then dials someone while using his speakerphone. “There’s no way you guys are already done.”

  My back goes straight as the hair on my arm rises. That voice...that’s the voice I hear in my head when I allow myself to get lost in my thoughts.

  “Robert is blowing his load because you sent me.”

  “Tell him I’m sorry. I can’t. Not this time. I didn’t know who he was interviewing when I agreed.” Everyone in the room looks over at me.

  “Rachel?” I ask, even though I know in my heart that’s her on the phone.

  “You have me on speaker phone?” she hollers, causing everyone to look back at the man holding the phone.

  The brunette’s eyes go wide, and her mouth drops open as if she’s connecting the dots as to why Rachel would be upset.

  “Yes?” the man with the phone softly squeaks, making his answer sound more like a question.

  “I can’t believe you. Robert, Steven is a pro. He’ll take great pictures, and I’ll personally oversee the prints before I send you the final ones. I had a sudden appointment come up that I couldn’t get out of. I’m sorry.” With that, she disconnects the call, leaving the entire room in a heavy silence.

  Robert speaks first. “Fine, but make sure Rach looks them over before you send me the final proofs.”

  “Whatever,” the other man says before rolling his eyes.

  “Well, let’s get this over with, and we’ll be out of your way,” the brunette adds without looking at me.

  I sit behind my desk with my leg draped on the corner, standing in front of the floor to ceiling windows, smiling, not smiling, until, finally, the photographer says he’s done.

  The whole time my picture was being taken, I was thinking about Rachel, the only woman in my thirty-three years that I’ve had romantic feelings for.

  A year after I moved to New York, I paid a private investigator in California to look around and tell me what happened to Rachel, but he had very little to give me. After the death of Charlotte and Russell Scott, Dennis Scott was found guilty of internet trespassing. However, he served less than six months in jail before being released. Dennis Scott’s crappy media company was actually doing fairly well under the management of his oldest son, Calvin, who somehow managed to avoid jail time for his role in attempting to steal from Kenner. But where Rachel was concerned, it was like she up and disappeared. The P.I. even went as far as running a credit report and found nothing, nada; it was almost as if she vanished into thin air. However she was paying her way through life, she wasn’t doing it with the name Scott or Ashmore, for that matter. I was told for the right amount of money he could find her if I really wanted him to, but I let it go. Rachel and I were history—even if it didn’t feel like it.

  The photographer and the brunette start packing up their stuff when I walk over to them. “Would you give her this?” I extend my arm with my business card that includes my personal cell number.

  She stares at the card as if it might jump out and bite her. “Umm, I don’t know...” She trails off, turning toward the photographer with a nasty look on her face.

  “I knew Rachel when she lived in California. I often think about her. Please, would you give her this and tell her I’d like to hear from her?

  The photographer watches us when it appears a light bulb goes off. “Shit,” he mumbles. “She’s going to kill me.”

  “I’ll make sure she gets it,” the woman adds as she grabs the card out of my hand. Once everyone is gone, I sit down at my desk as memories of a woman I’ve tried to forget annihilate my frame of mind.

  * * * *

  Two weeks pass before I hire another private investigator to find information on Rachel. I convinced myself that she was going to call me. At first, I thought she was just busy, but then another thought hit me. Maybe she’s married. A thousand maybes traveled through my head before I decided I wanted, possibly even needed, answers.

  “Is this Rachel Scott?” Wes Cronister, the man I hired, asks as he pushes a picture across my desk. I look down, and my chest tightens when my eyes land on Rachel. She’s grown up, and she looks more beautiful now than she did fourteen years ago.

  “Yes,” I finally answer. “She was a tough nut to crack. Practically everyone in New York has heard of her, but hardly anyone actually knows what she looks like. She goes by R.A. Stein now, and she’s the owner of R.A. Photography. Her business started in Miami, Florida, but she moved here to New York about five years ago when she had national exposure after a picture she took went viral. She has two employees, and for the most part, she works completely freelance. I dug around in her personal life a little, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted that information.” He pauses, waiting for me to answer.

  Do I want to know about her personal life? Yes...I fucking do, and I didn’t realize how badly I wanted to know until this exact moment, but I don’t want Wes Cronister to be the one to tell me.

  “No, that’s okay. Do you have an address?” I ask.

  “Of course.” He pushes a paper toward me. “Here’s her work and home address along with her work and personal phone numbers.”

  “Just tell me this...” I pause to take a deep breath, preparing myself for his answer. “Is she married?”

  “No,” he quickly states, putting me out of my misery. I haven’t thought about Rachel every day but thoughts of her creep into my mind from time to time, and I’ve always felt like I was missing some kind of closure.

  I never had the chance to tell her I was sorry to hear about Russ and her mother or ask her what really happened when we were together. For the most part, I let it go, chalked her up to being one of the many women who put on a show for me, convincing me she was someone she wasn’t, but I could never dismiss the thought that always followed...the one that said the only thing wrong with Rachel was the fact that she was born a Scott.

  “Thanks, Wes. You did great. Send me a bill, and I’ll have James take care of it.”

  “You bet. If anything else comes up
, let me know.” Wes hops to his feet and leaves me sitting alone, wondering if I should make a pit stop on my way home.

  * * * *

  Instead of driving to Rachel’s apartment, I went straight home and poured myself a drink. For hours, I stared at her number, debating if I should call her. Finally, after three drinks, I decide it’s now or never. My heart starts racing as I hear the phone ring in my ear.

  “Hello?”

  God, her voice, just like the other day, sends chills down my spine. “Hey, Rachel, it’s me, Jet.” My words are met with utter silence. I glance down at my phone to ensure I haven’t lost the call when I hear her voice again.

  “Were you not happy with the pictures? I thought Steven said Robert was thrilled with the final prints.”

  Shit. She thinks I’m calling about the fucking magazine article. “No, they were great. Well, actually, I don’t know that. I’ve never seen the pictures.” I nervously laugh. “I was calling to talk to you. See how you’re doing these days,” I lamely add.

  “You wanted to see how I was doing?” I can hear the distrust in her voice.

  “Yeah, sure. Why not?” I slap my hand on my forehead. Why not? Fuck, could I act any more like a damn teenager calling a girl for the first time?

  “I could think of a lot of reasons why you wouldn’t want to call me, the first being you must hate me.” My eyes slowly close after hearing her soft, sad voice.

  “I don’t hate you. I thought I did that day in your apartment, but when my anger faded, I realized I could never actually hate you.” Neither of us says anything for the longest time. I can hear her take soft breaths but nothing else. “I’ve always wanted to tell you how sorry I was to hear about Russ and your mother.” My leg starts bouncing.

  “I was sorry to hear about your father as well.” I draw in a sharp breath. She’s been living here in New York for five years, and she thought of me when she heard that my dad died. She didn’t reach out to me, hoping to catch me while I was at my lowest. Instead, she felt sorry for me from a distance.

  “Thank you. I had no idea you were living here.” I frown, wondering how our paths haven’t crossed until now.

  “Your name pops up a lot throughout New York.” She chuckles. She’s talking about those rag magazines that snap pictures of jackasses going in and out of restaurants. I’ve posed for my share of red carpet shit, but I never understood why anyone gave a damn what a CEO or the son of a CEO does in his personal life. Until I moved to New York, I thought only celebrities were followed around.

  “You can’t believe everything you hear,” I state.

  “Good to know. So, is it safe to say that you’re not in fact gay now?”

  “No, I’m not gay.” I grit my teeth from hearing that question come from her of all people.

  “The Jet McKenzie I remember was far from gay, but people do change.”

  “I didn’t, at least I didn’t change my sexual preference.” God, I hate that bitch, Jackie. I paid for a limo to take us to and from a gala, and when I refused to fuck her on the ride back to her apartment, she told her friend who writes for some rag that I was gay. I don’t think anyone really believes the rumor, but it still floats around, pissing me off.

  “I guess that’s good,” Rachel softly answers.

  I have no idea what to say, which is why I end up blurting, “Would you like to grab some coffee sometime?”

  Lame. I’m fucking lame. “Oh. Um, I’m not sure.” Go fucking figure. I’m constantly turning down date offers and when I ask someone—a person that has piqued my interest for years—she’s not jumping at the chance to go out with me.

  “I mean...” She trails off on a sigh. “Did you get my letter?” she finally asks after a long pause.

  “Yes. But I have to admit, I didn’t read it until months later.”

  That letter meant the world to me. I didn’t know how much it meant to me the first few times I read it, but as the years passed, I would get it out from time to time and read it again, treasuring every word she wrote.

  “I’m sorry for lying to you about how we met. My dad was a real asshole. I told you that, even though I’m sure you didn’t believe me. But I never told him anything about you. Well, that’s not true. I used to make up crap just to send him on a wild goose chase.” Rachel laughs again. “I guess in the end...it doesn’t really matter. I lied. The end.”

  She made up shit about me to distract her father from our launch? Knots start to form in my stomach. She tried to explain herself that day, but I wouldn’t listen.

  “Nothing worth having in life is simple, but the answer is yes. That night at the restaurant when you found me in the alley—that was a setup but—”

  “I don’t fucking care. You played me. You fucking played me. Everything out of your damn mouth was nothing but lies.”

  I was hurt, and I refused to listen. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I want to know Rachel’s side of the story, even now, fourteen years later. However, it seems Rachel has put our past to rest and moved forward with her life, and based off the tone in her voice, this isn’t a topic she wants to rehash.

  “Maybe it does matter. Maybe nothing worth having in life is simple.” I throw her words back at her, and I can tell by the hitch in her voice that she picked up on what I said.

  “You’re right. Nothing worth having in life is simple. Every relationship I have takes work, takes effort, takes trust.” She overstates the word trust.

  “Coffee. Let’s meet and talk and then we can either agree to more coffee or agree that we’d rather get our coffee from other places.” My innuendo wasn’t lost on Rachel. My emotions spike while I silently wait for her answer.

  “Sure. Coffee.” She stresses the word coffee as if she was making sure I understood it wasn’t a real date, something I have done countless times to women, and let me say, it sucks being on the receiving side.

  “I have a lot going on this week. Could we try for next Monday?” My heart sinks hearing her comment. It’s only Wednesday, and since I started talking to her, all I’ve wanted to do is ask if I could come and see her in person, and now she’s telling me I have to wait another five days.

  “Jet?”

  “Yes, Monday. Do you care where?” I rush to answer.

  “There’s a place at 86th and 3rd, Espresso. Can you meet me there, say seven o’clock?”

  “It’s a date,” I reply and again my innuendo wasn’t lost on Rachel.

  “Oh. O...kay. I’ll see you Monday.” She hangs up before I can say anything else, leaving me to wonder why my life has suddenly crossed paths with the only woman who’s managed to leave me broken.

  JET

  CLOSURE, CLOSURE, CLOSURE. THAT’S ALL I want, right?

  That’s the only reason I invaded her privacy, the only reason I called her, and the only reason I asked her to meet me. This woman lied to me. She tricked me into believing what we shared was real when it wasn’t. The problem is, real or not, my relationship with Rachel is the only one I’ve experienced where my heart was involved. Where I found myself wondering what life with her would be like, where I found myself wanting more.

  The need to see her and put this crazy feeling that’s consumed my every thought since I heard her voice again made the next five days feel like torture.

  I stayed busy with work; I spent the weekend in Boston with Connor and Kole. I also had the misfortune of spending more time with my brother-in-law—Connor’s father—than I would have preferred, but he’s a part of the package now, like it or not, which I do...not.

  Now I’m at Espresso, sitting at a table facing the door, watching for Rachel. Every time the door opens, my heart momentarily stops.

  About ten minutes after seven she walks in with her phone glued to her ear, animatedly talking to someone. She looks absolutely amazing. Her black hair is still long and gorgeous, and right now, she’s wearing it down around her face, making her blue eyes sparkle. She’s in a tight pencil skirt that accents her slim waist paired with a l
oose fitting silk top and five-inch heels. My mouth starts to water as a few naughty schoolteacher fantasies come to mind.

  I force myself to shake off my lustful thoughts as she puts her phone in her bag before making her way to me.

  “Sorry I’m late. Story of my life, actually.” She smiles as she slides into the booth across from me.

  “No problem.” Our eyes lock as an awkward silence settles between us. “Do you want anything?” I point toward the counter.

  “I don’t drink coffee this late in the day or I’ll never fall asleep, but I’ll take an ice tea.”

  I nod my head and jump to my feet, ready to order the two of us a drink.

  As a teenager, coffee helped me make it through my afternoons, but like Rachel, I rarely drink it this late in the day anymore.

  When I return to the table, Rachel is typing a text to someone, but once she spots me, she politely puts her phone away. I hand her a glass of tea.

  “Thanks,” she says with a shy, almost sweet smile.

  “How have you been? I can’t believe it’s been fourteen years.” I try to laugh off my anger—anger I’ve held on to for too many years. Right or wrong, since the day I decided to seek out Rachel and listen to her version of the truth, I’ve felt confused, troubled, and often angry about the situation. As the years passed, I started to discover that my anger was more aimed at myself and my reaction to Rachel’s lies. I often wondered if I had looked for her sooner what life would’ve been like for the two of us.

  Rachel clears her throat. “I’m good. I’ve been living my life like anyone else, I guess.” She nervously bites her lip, causing my eyes to lock on her mouth. I wait for her to say something more as her sweet smell intoxicates my senses. I close my eyes for a brief second as my mind travels to the past, where her scent aroused me in ways I’ve long forgotten about. I take a deep breath and force myself to remain here in the present. I open my eyes and look into her deep blue ones.

  “You’ve been in New York for five years? I can’t believe our paths haven’t crossed before.” There was an edge to my tone, or maybe it was desperation.