You Know I Love You: Book 1, You Know Me duet (You Are Mine 3)

by Willow Winters

  Sterile, but rich.

  “You were supposed to tell me when you landed.” I hear James’s voice before I see him, his heavy steps echoing in the expansive room.

  “I did,” I tell him flatly, not bothering to take out my phone and check. I’m positive I did, as I always do, and he ignored it. That seems to have been his preference for the last two weeks. The air about him has changed; ever since that night, things have been tense between us. As if we’re in a silent war, each waiting for the other to show weakness.

  I’m not interested in this shit. The only thing I give a damn about is my Kat, keeping her safe from the cross fire. So I’ll play nice. I’ll do what he says. But I’m not his bitch and I don’t play games.

  “I didn’t get it,” he says, stopping in front of me in the foyer. He has to tilt his head back slightly to look me in the eyes since he’s a few inches shorter.

  I shrug as if it doesn’t matter, not bothering to confirm or deny whether a text was sent. “Well, I’m here now,” I tell him as I slide off my jacket, soaked from the usual London rain, and hang it on the coatrack.

  “You look like shit,” he comments and an asymmetric grin tilts up my lips.

  “Thanks.” Running a hand over my damp hair and wiping it off on my jeans, I respond, “I’d say I feel better than I look, but that’d be a lie.”

  I’ve known James a long time, nearly a decade and I expect him to ask why, even though he already knows. I anticipate him starting the conversation, but instead he says nothing. Avoiding the obvious and walking down the hallway of the townhouse.

  That’s right, how could I forget? We’re at war.

  My feet move on their own, following him even though adrenaline courses faster in my blood. It makes me feel sick to not talk about it. To not clear the air.

  “Whiskey?” he asks me as he pours himself a glass in the converted dining room. It’s more of a bar now with a long plank of cedar serving as a makeshift counter in the back of the room. The recessed lighting shines softly on the bottles of clear and amber liquids and creates an intimate feel in the room. The humidor full of Cuban cigars and pair of dark leather wingback chairs on either side of it must have been added after I was here last.

  “Kane Buchan,” he says, speaking the name and then hands me a manila folder. I’m sure it’s filled with the same shit that was emailed to me. I’ve got Kane’s profile memorized already. He was the lead singer in a rock band from the Bronx. They had one smash hit and then he split from the rest of them. He decided to go his own way thinking he was too good for the band. Most said it was his ego, but it turns out he was right. Three number one hits on the top record charts and now he’s a client.

  They all want the same. To flaunt their wealth, get drunk or high. Fuck whomever they want. Kane Buchan is no different.

  “He said something about going to Annabel’s tonight,” James tells me and I nod my head. I’ve been there more than a time or two. It’s exclusive and ridiculously overpriced, so of course an up-and-coming star wants to be seen there.

  I already know exactly how the night’s going to play out. I just have to keep it clean enough so there are no problems. Kane’s had enough of them from the fallout with his previous drummer.

  “Did you even hear what I said?” James asks in a raised voice laced with irritation.

  “Annabel’s,” I answer as I look him in the eyes and hope he was still going on about the club.

  “No, I said he’s married now so make sure there are no pictures if he does something stupid.”

  “I know.” That’s a given.

  “He’s staying a few days, maybe less depending on what his agent wants. Just keep an eye on him, show him a good time—” He’s pissing me off. Treating me like a new hire and nothing more.

  “I know what to do,” I say, cutting off James deliberately with my retort. “I’ve been here before.”

  I’ve had days to think of how to approach this, but I still hesitate to get everything off my chest.

  He huffs a response, sounding something like disbelief and then grabs the tumbler of whiskey from the table. The ice clinks as he takes a sip and holds it in front of him.

  “Buchan’s agent doesn’t need any more press other than what they’ve arranged.”

  “I want you to know,” I start to say as I stare him in the eyes, forcing him to listen to what I’m telling him. “I think it was a setup.” Maybe I’m paranoid, but I don’t give a fuck. I have to tell someone. And I’m sure as shit not going to Samantha. “It was an accident, but it just doesn’t seem right. Something’s off.”

  He shrugs and says, “It was handled.” He takes a sip of his whiskey before adding, “So I don’t give a shit if it was.”

  “I do.” My words come out hard and bitter, but James is already walking away from me. I know if I move an inch, if I even breathe, I’ll beat the piss out of him for leaving this all on me. And risk losing everything.

  Kat

  My bloodshot eyes hate me. They burn from the onslaught of cool air as I finally sit back down in my office. I’m always here. I never leave this room unless I have to.

  When I do decide to perch on the sofa or go to bed, I always bring my laptop with me.

  Workaholic is a word for it. I’m not sure even that does it justice. I gave up everything for this. For sitting in this damn office, making deal after deal.

  It’s why I came to New York.

  It’s why I spent years in the publishing industry, collecting contacts and building a brand that’s recognizable. I do it on my own and it’s always been rewarding. Up until recently, this was my dream.

  While Evan stayed the same and carried on with a life that was a fun distraction, I buried myself in work. Growing farther and farther apart from my husband. Knowingly creating distance between us. I thought it was worth it and that they’d all understand.

  Ignored friends … at least I didn’t have family to ignore. Other than Evan.

  I rub my eyes again and try to soothe them, but the darkness is all I can see. It begs me to sleep.

  I desperately need it. I can’t even read an email right, partly from how tired my eyes are and partly from my inability to focus on anything at all. I’ve reread this pending message about a dozen times and I couldn’t tell a soul what the content is to save my life. My meeting with Jacob is next week. I spent an entire hour on my own sitting mindlessly in the coffee shop before I bothered to check the time and date.

  The errors are piling up and so is my anxiousness.

  At least the coffee in the shop was comforting and the little biscuits delicious. But the rain was coming down in sheets, and any sense of ease was gone by the time I dragged my ass back home to an empty townhouse with soaking wet jeans slick around my ankles.

  My shoulders rise and fall as I take another glance at the screen. The contrast of the black and white is too harsh and I almost shut the laptop down and give in to sleep, but my phone goes off, scaring the shit out of me.

  Evan.

  It’s my first thought and I hate how disappointed I am when I see it’s not him. It’s his father. My heart sinks and I pretend it doesn’t hurt.

  In my contact list, it still says “Evan’s parents’ house.” It’s tied to the number for the landline at the house where he grew up. He said he had the number memorized when he was only six years old.

  Marie gave the number to me the night I first saw her, so she could call me about next Sunday’s dinner, all those years ago. Every time I see the words Evan’s parents’ house, I’m reminded that only Henry remains.

  It brings a number of memories I don’t welcome. Just the same as the reminder of my own parents’ sudden death in a car crash. Tragedy brought us together. It wasn’t love. It was a need for love and that’s something else entirely.

  That’s something Evan and I had in common, both of us losing our loved ones so quickly. He still has his father at least, but I’ve had no one for most of my life.

  The phone ri
ngs and rings as I attempt to gather my composure. We’d only been seeing each other for a few months when I got the first call from this number. I was expecting it to be Marie, but it wasn’t his mother making the call, it was Evan because his cell phone had died.

  He told me he couldn’t make it to our date and the first thought I had was that he was breaking up with me, simply because of the tone of his voice. It wasn’t until he apologized that I realized it was something else.

  He couldn’t hold it together on the phone. His voice shook and his sentences were short. I’ll never forget that feeling in my chest, like I knew something horrible had happened and there was nothing I could do about it.

  There was something in his voice that I recognized. It’s how I sound when I’m trying to convince someone else I’m okay, but I’m not. I knew it well.

  After my parents died, I got tired of having to convince people there was more to me than tragedy. People who didn’t bother to get to know me, because I was just the sad girl at the end of the block. The poor child everyone talked about.

  It was why I moved to New York. Living in the small town where my family died wasn’t a healthy place for someone who just wanted to feel like there’s something else in this world other than the past.

  For Evan it wasn’t a sudden car crash, it was the phrase “two weeks to live” that brought him to his weakest moment.

  I insisted on seeing him and meeting him at his parents’ place and even though I thought he’d object, he didn’t. He’d never been so passive toward anything like he was that night.

  Evan’s only cried twice since I’ve known him.

  That night after his mother had finally gone to bed and we went back to his childhood bedroom. And nineteen days later, when she was put in the ground.

  My hand itches to hold his right now. Instead I hold a ringing cell phone in an empty home.

  “Henry,” I say, answering the phone as if nothing’s wrong although I’m very aware my voice sounds nearly breathless. Clearing my throat, I repeat his name. My voice is peppy and full of life, even though it’s nearly 10:00 p.m. and I feel nothing but dead inside.

  I squint at the clock on the computer and wonder why he’s calling so late. “Is everything all right?” I ask, rushing out the words, my heart beating slower and a deep fear of loss settling in.

  “My favorite daughter-in-law,” Henry says and his greeting makes a soft smile lift up my lips. I even feel the warmth from it.

  “Your only daughter-in-law,” I correct him, picking at a bit of fuzz on the sleeve of my shirt.

  “Still my favorite,” he replies and I give him the laugh that he’s after, even if it is a little short and quiet.

  “What are you calling for?” I ask him and rest my elbow on the desk, chin in my hand. I absently minimize the document on my screen and clear out all my tabs, checking my email yet again as Henry talks.

  “I just wanted to check on you, make sure everything’s going well.”

  Again, I get the sense that something’s off. “That’s sweet of you,” I tell him but before I can say everything’s fine, he gets right to the real reason he called.

  “You two all right?”

  “Yeah,” I say and instantly feel like shit. The single word is a vicious lie on my lips. I question what I should tell him: I don’t know if my marriage to his son will last? That I’m falling apart and I have no idea how to make this better? That his son is a liar and I hate him for the pain he’s putting me through?

  “I spoke to Evan and he said he’s not sure about the holidays coming up,” Henry tells me and his tone reflects that he’s baiting me. Henry’s kind, polite, keeps to himself and doesn’t want to be a bother, but he has a way of getting the truth out of people. Evan certainly inherited his charm from his father.

  The screen of my laptop dims, ridding the room of any light so I hit the space bar and bring it back to life.

  “It’s a bit away, but,” I say then pause and swallow, not knowing how to articulate the onslaught of thoughts. They all crowd themselves into a jam at the back of my throat, refusing to come out. I don’t have family, so it’s not as if I can use them as an excuse. “Work may be a little much.” I finally say the words and breathe out slowly, giving him a lie I’m sure he knows is exactly that.

  “He said you’re going through something.” There’s no bullshit in his voice as he adds, “That you two aren’t doing the best.”

  A pricking numbness dances across my hands as I ask weakly, “Did he?” Staring blankly ahead, the rhetorical question is like a knife in my back. It’s a betrayal. That’s how I feel hearing that Evan’s told his father what we’re going through. It makes the crack in my heart that much wider.

  We aren’t doing the best. I hear it over and over and each time the knife stabs deeper.

  It’s not fair that he invites so much attention. I don’t need the judgment, because I don’t want their opinions. I don’t want them to know we’re flawed. I just want us whole again. I wish no one knew so I could silently be the weak wife I am. The one willing to turn a blind eye for the unfaithful man she loves more than herself.

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Henry,” I say bluntly as my eyes close at the confession. I can tell the computer has gone into sleep mode again and this time I don’t hit the keys to bring it back to life. The darkness is too comforting.

  “I just want you to know I’m here for you,” Henry says clearly into the phone. “You’re my daughter,” he adds and it breaks my composure.

  I push away from the desk, the chair legs catching on the rug and nearly tipping over. With a heavy inhale, I walk slowly to the door and then to my bedroom, the phone still pressed to my ear. I’m just going through the motions and trying to be numb to it all.

  “Thank you,” I finally say as I lean against the bedroom door, closing it. I almost tell him he’s like a father to me.

  Almost, but when we do get a divorce, Henry won’t be there for me. It doesn’t matter what he says. It doesn’t matter that I’ll be alone, because that’s how I’ve been most of my life anyway.

  “I love you and I’m sorry you two are going through this.” I let Henry’s words echo in my head.

  He’s not the only one who’s sorry.

  Evan

  The music pounds away, the bass cranked up so high it vibrates my chest. The interior of the nightclub alternates between dark shadows and bright, colorful lights that flash in time with the beat. Vibrant reds and greens scatter across the slim bodies that come and go from sight with the sudden darkness in between the beats.

  “Another!” Kane’s friend Mikey yells on my left, a little too loud, a little too close to my ear for comfort. I give him a smile in return and pretend to take another swig of my beer. I’m used to guys like him.

  Another time in my life, I’d actually be drinking. The feel that I get on the right side of a heavy buzz is comforting. That light-headedness where you still have control, but not a damn thing matters. That’s the place I craved to be for so long, but not anymore.

  Not when so much is slipping through my fingers.

  It’s been a few hours since we got to Annabel’s and so far the job’s been easy. Kane and his friends are trashed and most importantly, the rock star is having the time of his life. His crew is saddled up to the bar with a few women pressing their bodies against the men who welcome it, letting their hands stray every so often. One in particular for Kane, which has me on edge and keeping an eye out for the telltale glow of a cell phone in the air, ready to capture a snapshot.

  She’s the woman closest to Kane, Christi is what she said her name was, and the loudest by far. The more she drinks, the louder she gets, and the closer to Kane. Not that Kane seems to notice any of that.

  According to his file, the tall, loudmouthed blonde is his type and it wouldn’t be the first time he’s strayed from his wife. Fame and fortune tend to do it. I’ve seen it too many times to keep track.

  Kat thinks this is the typ
e of shit I do. The thought makes me sick to my stomach, a scowl marring my face. I can’t change what my clients do; I learned that all too fast. You can’t change people. You accept it and work with what you’re given. A prick’s a prick. He’s never going to be anything but that. So I raise the beer to my lips and take a long swig, nearly draining the bottle.

  With the change of music bringing the group a little closer as the lights fade, I watch them each carefully, but all I can think about is Kat. What she’d think of this mess.

  She’s never questioned me before, but last night she let out shit I had no idea about. Insecurities and accusations that made me feel like less of a man.

  I can’t blame her, can I? Not when I have secrets. Not when I can’t look her in the eyes and tell her I haven’t fucked up.

  A strong grip on my arm rouses me from my thoughts.

  “Can you get me something?” Kane asks, sidling up next to me. The smell of whiskey is heavy on his breath. It takes great effort not to put immediate distance between us.

  Just like Mikey, he’s a little too close as he slurs his request to the point where I can’t tell what he’s saying.

  “What are you looking for?” I ask him to clarify and stare at the half-empty bottles of liquor lining the top shelf of the bar.

  “Something a little stronger,” he says as he tilts his head and tries to be subtle, but fails miserably, putting his hand to his nose and sniffing loudly. Cocaine.

  I hesitate and waver on my answer. Luckily, I don’t have to respond. Instead a loud, high-pitched voice on my right screams out, “We’ve got absinthe!” Apparently Christi was eavesdropping. Surprise, surprise. Her bright red talons are digging tight into Kane and I know she’s going to stay within hearing range until we’re out of here, just like she’s been doing since she recognized him from across the room. She’s leaning over a barstool, her breasts on full display and when I look back at Kane, the only thing he’s looking at is her chest.

  “Never had it,” Kane says too low and the blonde screams, practically in my ear, “What?”