by Tia Sirrah
If ever there two words in the English language that could crush me to pieces, it was the words that Quentin just spoke. I immediately broke our contact, pulling back from his touch. "I'm sorry….what?"
Quentin's eyes were pools of nothingness. His expression slowly transformed from pained to glazed, like he didn't have a care in the world. Like he hadn't just cracked my ribs and broken my heart. "You're father is right. This was a bad idea." His words were mechanical and measured. My eyes widened in disbelief, staring at the boy across from me like a stranger. "I can't do this anymore. This is too hard."
His pupils dilated to a muddy brown as they bore into me. His throat bobbed on a swallow as he waited for a reaction or a response from me. But what could I say? This wasn't real. He wasn't my Q. The boy sitting across from me was an imposter. A fraud. A liar. Quentin scrubbed a relaxed hand across the morning stubble on his jaw. His other hand gripped the side of his thigh as if he were willing his hand not to reach out and touch me.
"You're lying," I said.
A wince threatened his impassive stare. "I've decided to go to D.C. I leave tomorrow."
I fought the urge to massage my aching chest. "Where the fuck is this coming from? You love me. You asked me to be your girlfriend less than twenty hours ago. This is me. This is us. What happened—"
"I don't want this! I don't want you!" The boom in his voice caused me to flinch.
"Fuck you!" I cried as I scrambled off the table, accidentally knocking over my glass of orange juice.
I almost made it to the stairway before Quentin grabbed me by the arm. "Fatima, wait." I snatched out of his grasp. His arms banded around me from behind, threatening to break the little reserve I had left before I crumbled. "I'm so fucking sorry. I never meant to hurt you."
My resolve weakened with every second he touched me. This was it. This was the last time he would ever hold me like this again. I hated myself for relishing in his touch, if even for a second, as he was dumping my ass.
"You're full of shit, Q." I broke away from him. I refused to let him see me cry. He had humiliated me enough for a lifetime. I turned around and faced off with him, shoving his chest. "What are you sorry for? Huh? For fucking me all night, knowing that you were going to dump my ass first thing in the morning?" He winced. His jaw was hard as granite. "Well, I hope you enjoyed it. Because you will never touch me again, you fucking coward." I shoved him again, harder this time, but he still didn't move. Just stood there like an icy statue.
"I hope one day you can forgive me."
"I hope one day you can forgive yourself." I shoved my finger against the center of his chest. "You know what we have is real, but you're too chicken shit to fight for it." And with that, I turned on my heels and bolted up the stairs.
Quentin didn’t follow me to the bedroom. Thank God. As soon as I slammed the door shut, I leaned my back against it and slid down to the floor. Drawing my knees up to my chest, I buried my head in my lap and cried until my head felt like it was going to explode. I knew I had to peel myself off the floor somehow, pack my bag, and get the hell out of here. But I couldn't move.
With my back pressed against the door, I closed my eyes and emotionally folded into myself. I felt the weight of the door shift from the other side, before hearing a body slide down against it. I squeezed my eyelids together even tighter and imagined that I could feel the heat from Quentin's back through the door. I heard the flicker of his lighter and soon smelled the odor of a cigarette.
Time passed. A minute? Ten minutes? Maybe twenty? I don’t know. All I remember was finally getting up from the ground with dry eyes and an ounce of strength. I threw my clothes in a bag, flung it over my shoulder and opened the bedroom door. Quentin was no longer in sight, but a stump of an extinguished cigarette was on the floor in his stead. I held my head high as I made my way towards the front door. From the corner of my eye, I saw Quentin on the sofa, leaning forward and massaging the back of his neck with an unlit cigarette wedged between his fingers.
"The spare key is on the nightstand." I squeezed the doorknob for dear life and massaged the center of my chest, in a hopeless attempt to ease the ache. I refused to look back at him as I opened the front door. "Goodbye, Quentin. Have a nice life."
I slipped on my sunglasses and squared my shoulders. I felt Quentin's eyes burning into my back like lasers. Taking a big shaky breath, I walked out of his house, not bothering the close the door behind me.
Present Day…
Chapter 18
QUENTIN
THERE ARE SOME MISTAKES you make in life that will take years to overcome. And some mistakes, you pay for, for the rest of your life. Nine years ago, I broke Fatima's heart, not realizing that I was breaking my heart in the process.
Without Fatima, I have no soul. No passion. No conscience. No purpose. I kept my head down and distracted myself with my career, politics, and the occasional faceless pussy. Over the years, I made zero attempts to contact Fatima, though I may have stumbled across her YouTube page once or twice. The years had been kind to her, and she was more stunning than ever. After graduating from UCLA, she decided to remain in Los Angeles for a few years before ending up in New York. Our New York. Based on her social media accounts, she traveled and partied regularly. Her career was flourishing. And as a threat to my sanity, she even had the occasional boyfriend.
To say I was surprised to see Fatima at my wedding was the understatement of the fucking century. I lost all train of thought when our eyes met, and I contemplated calling the wedding off. There was a fleeting desire to shove Amy towards my groomsman, Conner. If only he'd take her off my hands and pretend not to be repulsed by her, my life would be a lot simpler. But knowing my best friend, he would have shoved her ass back to me, and that would have been awkward as fuck.
I drove past a florist shop after leaving the office, and without giving it much thought, I circled the block and parked in front. When the florist noticed my wedding band, she mumbled under her breath, "Lucky girl," before handing me the bouquet. Of course, she thought the flowers were for my wife. What type of man did that make me—buying flowers for another woman? I hated myself at that moment. I hated that I was so much like him. Like my father, I was a married man who was in love with another woman.
Upon exiting the florist shop, I halted at a trash bin. What the hell did I plan to do, exactly? Show up at Fatima's house unannounced and give her flowers? Real smooth, asshole. Instead of throwing away the two hundred dollar arrangement, I shoved the bouquet at the first woman I passed without even stealing her a glance. "Have a nice day," I mumbled, continuing my stride towards my S.U.V.
"Oh, my goodness. Thank you." The woman caught up to me by the time I opened my car door. "Are you sure you don't want to give these to the woman in your life? These are much too beautiful to give to me."
I offered her a genuine smile. She was a mature woman in her fifties. "No, ma'am. These are perfect for you."
A blush crept up her ivory cheeks. "Aww. Bless your heart. Are you single? I have a daughter about your age."
I held up my ring finger, showing her my wedding band.
She gave a little pout before offering me a wide smile. "Of course you are. I bet your wife would positively adore these flowers. You should give them to her."
Fuck no. "After I bought them, I remembered we wouldn't be around to enjoy them. We're heading out of the country tomorrow."
Her eyes narrowed as she studied me. "Hey, I know you. You're the Senator's boy. Quentin James V. Your family is famous!"
I chuckled. "Hardly ma'am."
"Hardly, my foot. Your great-granddaddy was President Wescott Belcourt. And your granddaddy, Quentin James III, was President Billings's Chief of Staff. And your daddy is Senator James IV." She beamed and covered her mouth like she was about to share a secret. "All the news reporters say you’re running for office." She winked. "You've got my vote."
My campaign was still in its infancy phase. She knew nothing about me. She had no i
dea what platforms I would build my campaign on. But like everyone else, she prejudged me based on who my family was. If she knew the real story, she'd run the other way. "I appreciate that, ma'am. I would love your support, and I can't wait to earn it."
She blushed again. "My my. You're much taller in person and just as handsome as you look on the t.v. and in the papers. And your new bride is beautiful."
"She is. I'm a very lucky man."
She pressed her hand to her heart and sighed.
"Enjoy the flowers, ma'am. I better get going before the missus puts out an APB because she has to do all the packing herself."
She chuckled. "Dear me, I didn't mean to hold you up. Yes, go."
"You have a great day."
"You too. And thank you for the flowers," she called out as I closed my car door.
∞∞∞
AGAINST ALL LOGIC AND common sense, my finger hovered over Fatima's doorbell. I had no plan. I only knew that I needed to see her, up close in the flesh. Then, I would let her go. From my dreams. From my heart. From my soul.
Fatima deserved all the things that I could never give her. She deserved an honest man. A man who would put her first, above all others. She deserved a man who was worthy of her. Not the offspring of the man who ruined her life. I didn't deserve her. I married the woman I deserved. My lot in life had been cast. I was going to ride this shit out til' its bitter end, with a politician's smile on my face and a hole in my heart.
Judging by the restored 1967 Shelby GT500 in the driveway and the music that drifted out of the open windows, someone was home. The possibility that it was a boyfriend's car didn't cross my mind because it was purple—Fatima's favorite color. Not that a boyfriend would deter me from ringing her doorbell. If there was a guy in there and he had a problem with me being here, we could deal with that. But only after I saw her.
A few long moments passed after I rang her doorbell. Still no answer. Fuck. Maybe she wasn't alone. Or worst, maybe she was alone and still didn't want to see me. Just as I turned to go, the door opened.
"Quentin?"
I closed my eyes and savored her voice before turning to face her. "Fatima. I—"
"What are you doing here?" Her brows pulled together. She didn't look pissed. Just confused.
One would have never guessed I was an attorney by trade who loved to shred my opponents to pieces in the courtroom. My words were now stuck somewhere between my head and my throat. Fatima wore a short black dress that clung to her body like a second skin. Her bare legs and arms glistened with some sort of oil, making her brown skin look like melted chocolate. Her feet were bare and perfect. I wanted to put every one of her red-polished toes in my mouth. Her face was smooth and makeup-free, and her soft lips looked so damn kissable. My heart squeezed in my chest, and my dick twitched in my pants.
This was a bad idea.
Chapter 19
FATIMA
QUENTIN LOOKED AT ME with those expressive, blazing hazel eyes. As they bore into me, the green undertones overpowered the brown and gold hues. I felt the heat of his gaze as his eyes traveled down my body. It was as if he were logging every inch of me into his memory. I did the same to him, taking him all in. It had been a long time since we stood this close to one another. An expensive and tailored black suit encased Quentin's trim body, which now had an added fifteen pounds or so of muscle since high school.
My eyes danced along his square jaw, full mouth, and his exposed throat, from the unfastened top button of his dress shirt. Quentin looked impeccable. Pristine. Flawless. Gorgeous. I itched to touch him. To lean into him and smell the remnants of his cologne. Maybe in another life. Because in this lifetime, this man was no longer mine to ogle or touch. He belonged to Amy. He belonged to his father. He belonged to the great state of Texas. Not to me.
Quentin visibly swallowed before speaking. "I saw you. At my…my…"
"At your wedding?" No point tiptoeing around the facts now.
"I didn't know you were back in town."
"I had to do Novalee's hair and makeup." I felt the need to explain why I was there.
Understanding shone in his eyes, and he gave a curt nod. "You look beautiful. Happy birthday."
"Thank you."
He hesitated for a moment. "Hot date tonight?"
I shrugged. That was no longer any of his business. Hadn't been for almost a decade now. "Don't you have a plane to catch?" I knew about his romantic honeymoon getaway in Lake Como, Italy. Novalee told me all about it, not knowing that it nearly sliced my heart in two.
"I do." He cleared his throat.
"Cool." I cradled my phone in my hand. Quentin had arrived just as I was going to call Novalee to tell her I was running late for my birthday dinner. Work had run over, and I still had to do my makeup. And now with Quentin here, for God knows what, I knew I would never make it in time. Curiosity had me by the throat, and before I turned him away and told him never to contact me again, I was dying to hear what he had to say.
I closed the door behind me on Melanie Fiona's Wrong Side of a Love Song playing in my home. The emotional melodic cords floated through my open windows, torturing me. "Why are you here, Quentin?" I didn't bother to ask him how he knew where I lived. Quentin, a well-known defense attorney, political legacy, and soon to be Congressman, was a very resourceful man.
I walked over to the far end of my porch and rested my back against the white wood railing. Folding my arms over my chest, I looked up at him, waiting patiently for his response. He joined me against the railing and put his hands in his pockets. He hesitated before speaking as if he were thinking carefully over his next words. "I needed to see you."
"Okay," I drawled suspiciously.
"I owe you an apology. I hate how we left things."
Was he serious right now? "Quentin, that was a really long time ago. There's no reason to drudge up the past. We had a good run. It was fun while it lasted. I moved on. And you ended up with exactly the type of person I thought you would." Dig.
Quentin shoved a hand through his hair and sighed. "It should have been you. I fucked it all up."
I was shaking my head before he even finished speaking. "Don't do that. You don't get to come here spouting off shoulda, coulda, woulda nonsense."
"I don’t love her," he said matter of factly, looking down at me with dull eyes.
"Then why did you marry her? Why Amy?" I couldn't help but ask. I knew it was only a matter of time before he married someone. But the fact that it was Amy felt like a betrayal.
"I married Amy to secure votes. Her father is one of the most powerful men in D.C., behind the scenes. A lot of people owe him favors. Marrying his daughter will secure my future bid for President."
"Your father must be pleased." The words came out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Quentin winced.
My phone's calendar alarm resounded in my hand, reminding me of my birthday dinner reservations with Novalee. "Damn. One sec." I stepped away from Quentin and was finally able to breathe again.
Quentin answered his buzzing phone as I called Novalee. She was going to be pissed with me for me bailing on her. But what could I say? Hey girl. Sorry I won't be able to make it. Quentin stopped by. You know, your best friend's husband? There was no way I was going to put Novalee in the middle of that. So, I decided to lie. And I felt like shit.
Novalee answered on the first ring. "Hey, Fatima. I'm here. Where are you?"
"Okay, don't be mad." I glanced over at Quentin, who was speaking quietly on the phone, but not quiet enough for Novalee not to hear his voice. "I'm not going to be able to make it. My 6 o’clock was late, and I'm just now getting her under the dryer."
"Seriously?" I could hear the disappointment in her voice. Damn it.
"I know. I’m so sorry, cousin. You stay. Enjoy your meal."
Quentin was definitely talking to Amy, and it seemed to be a tense exchange between the newlyweds. Quentin mostly listened, getting a few words in, edgewise. Amy probably wonder
ed where the hell her husband was. And although Amy irked my soul, I had no desire to get in the middle of their marriage.
"I could order our food to go and bring it to the salon," Novalee offered.
"Nah, that's okay. The food will be cold by the time you get here."
"Goddamn it, Amy!" Quentin gritted out, his deep voice carrying across my porch.
"I better get back to my client. I’ll call you later." I hovered my hands over the phone.
"Is that your client?"
"Umm, yeah. She has a deep voice. She's a smoker," I whispered. She has a deep voice? Really? That's the best I could come up with? "I'll call you tomorrow."
"Okay. Talk to you soon."
I ended my call just as Quentin ended his.
"Who was that?" Quentin asked with a certain edge to his voice.
"None of your fucking business," I answered even-toned.
His long legs ate up the space between us in two seconds flat. We were now face to face and too close for my comfort.
"Quentin, go home to your trophy wife and don't come back."
"Not yet." Quentin pulled me to him, banding his arms tightly around my waist. "Not yet," he repeated as he leaned his forehead to mine.
"Damn you, Quentin," I croaked. I shouldn't have enjoyed his touch as much as I did. "I'm no one's side piece."
He shook his head against my forehead. "Nor should you ever be."
Why was this so hard? I used to love him, but that was ages ago. He was my ex. My very married ex. I was not this type of girl. I was not my mother.
Quentin cupped my face in his hands, and I didn't pull away. "It was real—every fucking part of it."
"But you said—"
"Fuck what I said. That was bullshit. You're it for me, Princess. I'll never love again." Quentin's voice slid through me like liquid lava, burning a path through my veins, and scorching my heart. I felt dizzy. Intoxicated. Confused. And…angry. Oh. My. God. I still loved him, despite it all. I hated that, with just one touch, the sutures in my heart burst wide open.