Unrequited

by Tia Sirrah

  "He said his father wasn't involved."

  "And you believe him? And even if he wasn't involved. He let this happen to Faye. He knew the kind of man his father was."

  "Dad, if you knew or suspected foul play, why didn't you do anything? She was your wife. My mother. Why let him get away with it?"

  "There was no evidence. They made sure of it. And unfortunately, your mother made her bed by getting involved with that family in the first place."

  "Are you serious right now!" I shot up from my bed. "So it's her fault?"

  "Babygirl, here me out. It killed me to have to bury Faye and for you to have to grow up without a mother. But your mother—my wife—chose to leave us for another man, and by doing that, she put her life in danger."

  "Unbelievable." I began to pace my room.

  "Let me tell you what's unbelievable. The fact that you broke things off with Tremaine to get back with this man is unbelievable. What makes you think you won't end up like Faye? Quentin did the right thing by letting you go. I'm glad he heeded my advice."

  "What! You told him to break up with me?" For the first time in my life, I saw the flaws in my father. Don't get me wrong. I loved him beyond measure for choosing me when my mother selfishly left me behind. But I also pitied him for the bitterness that still ate away at his soul like a cancer. Unfortunately, my dad was still unable to forgive my mother for her betrayal, and his lack of remorse for her untimely death proved as much. "Dad, I can't do this with you right now."

  "Babygirl, wait. I'm sorry. You shouldn't be alone right now. I'm in Atlanta for the next four weeks. Why don't you call Helena or let me schedule you a flight to Atlanta? We can talk all this through in person."

  "You know what, dad? I'm good. I gotta go." I hung up the phone and turned it off.

  ∞∞∞

  THAT WAS FOUR DAYS ago. All calls from my dad, Aunt Helena, and Quentin went unanswered. They all kept me in the dark for years, and I owed them nothing. I needed time to heal and process everything I learned only days ago, that they had had years to work through.

  I spent my days at the salon. I kept my head down and focused on my clients, while barely uttering a word to anyone, except what was socially necessary to not seem like a total bitch. I spent my nights staring up at the ceiling while listening to Billie Holiday records or watching reruns of the Real Housewives. I managed to keep my tears at bay during business hours, but once I stepped over the threshold of my front door, crying spells left me ragged.

  I survived on canned peaches, animal crackers, and protein shakes before my appetite came back in full force on Sunday afternoon. I woke up at 7 am but stayed in bed until noon before taking a long hot shower and grooming myself with the bare minimum essentials. After slipping on an oversized sweatshirt, I rummaged through my refrigerator for something substantial to eat. Two old take-out boxes, a carton of milk, and a withered salad stared back at me. Not left with many options, I pulled out a container of chicken chow mein. After smelling the contents and deeming it safe to eat, I nuked it in the microwave and turned on some music from my Bluetooth stereo.

  Sitting cross-legged on my white quartz countertop, I picked through the five-day-old chow mein with chopsticks. The chicken tasted a bit rubbery, so I ate around it, only picking at the noodles. When my doorbell rang, I assumed it was a delivery of some sort, due to my obsession with online shopping. I hopped off the counter and dumped the rest of my food in the trash bin before heading to the front door. I peered through my peephole. Quentin stood on my porch, looking anxious as ever. His hair was messy like he'd been pulling it and constantly running his fingers through it, and his usual smooth jaw was peppered with days-old stubble. My heart swelled at the sight of him, which only made me want to cry.

  After releasing the breath I'd been holding, I plastered on a brave face and opened the door. "Hey."

  "Hi. Can I come in?" Quentin was dressed down in a white henley and jogger pants. The henley was bunched up to the elbows, exposing his tan forearms.

  "What are you doing here?" My question came out crasser than I intended it to.

  "You haven't been answering any of my calls. I was worried."

  I stepped aside to let him in. We needed to talk. It was time to confess my own secret so that we could end this, once and for all. Now I understood why Quentin left me all those years ago. It was now my turn to do what needed to be done, no matter how much it killed me. Our lives had been intertwined since we were kids. Even when we were hundreds of miles away from each other, and living our own separate lives, I still felt connected to him by invisible strings. It was now time to cut those strings, and the thought of letting him go seemed unbearable and impossible. Fate brought us together, and now fate was tearing us apart.

  "Can I get you something to drink?" I strolled back to the kitchen, feeling his eyes on my exposed legs, as the hem of my sweatshirt brushed against my thighs.

  "No thanks. Are you okay?"

  I opened my refrigerator door and ignored his question. "I'm glad you're here." I grabbed a water bottle and stared into the refrigerator for longer than I needed to.

  "I've missed you."

  I couldn't guarantee that I wouldn't fall apart when I turned around to face him. Taking a swallow from my water bottle, I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer for strength.

  Quentin was closer now. I could feel his presence behind me. After taking a deep breath, I sat my water bottle back on the rack, closed the refrigerator door, and turned around to face my fears. "I want you to know that I don't blame you for what your grandfather did. It was his sin. Not yours."

  He let out a heavy, relieved sigh. "I hope he's burning in hell for what he did to her."

  I folded my arms across my chest and stared down at my bare feet. "I told my dad."

  "Okay," he said carefully.

  "He already knew there was foul play. But you knew that. Didn't you?" I chuckled humorlessly.

  "It wasn't my place to tell you about your father."

  "You all kept this awful secret from me—you, my dad, Aunt Helena. I should have known."

  "I know." Quentin sighed defeatedly.

  "As much as this hurts, thank you for telling me."

  "I told you, no more secrets."

  I bit into my bottom lip to keep it from quivering. "My dad thinks I'm not safe with you. He thinks your family is dangerous."

  "I would never let anything happened to you."

  "I wonder if your dad said the very same thing to my mom."

  "My father would never hurt you. He loved Faye. And you’re her daughter."

  I blinked back tears and took a shaky breath. "How can you be so sure?"

  "I'm sure." Quentin hesitated as if mulling over his next words carefully. "He avenged your mother's death by killing his own father."

  "What?"

  "Like your father, he suspected foul play. So he had Robert Manchester looked into it, and all the evidence pointed to my grandfather." The look of pain on Quentin's face made it evident that he was telling the truth. "My dad confronted my grandfather about it, and he actually admitted to arranging the hit. He showed zero remorse when he told my dad that he made sure she went…quick."

  I closed my eyes and took a deep break. I will not cry. I will not cry. I wanted to scream or break something. But somehow, I kept it together. "How did he do it?" I found myself asking.

  "My dad loved my grandfather very much. He was his only son, and the two of them were thick as thieves. But at that moment, my dad said he saw red. He strangled him to death, right there in his study. Robert helped him cover it up. And everyone thought he died of cardiac arrest."

  "This is all so messed up." I massaged my temples with my fingertips. "I keep thinking about the what-ifs, you know? Like what if my mom and your dad had never fallen in love. She would still be here with us. And you and I could still be together."

  Quentin ate up the distance between us and cradled my face in his hands. "Don't do this to us. Please."

>   Tears slid down my face, and Quentin wiped them away with the pads of his thumbs. "Don't give up on us, Princess." He leaned his forehead against mine, and I wrapped my hands around his biceps. I focused on his soothing voice, allowing it to anchor me before I crumbled into tiny pieces and floated away.

  "We need to end this," I managed to say through tears.

  "I've loved you for half of my life. Don't tell me to stop."

  "I love you, too. But we can't—."

  "Shhh. Don't say it." His damp, long lashes brushed against mine. "I'll give you space. I'll give you time. How ever long it takes. But don't…don't leave me."

  "I'm not the one for you, Q."

  "You're the only one for me." Quentin pressed his lips to mine in a desperate kiss.

  I broke away from his kiss. I needed him to understand. "We're all wrong for each other. You want lots of kids someday, and I can't have kids," I blurted out. "Not naturally, anyway."

  "I don't care. I don't need kids. All I need is you."

  This was killing me, literally slicing me in two. I searched Quentin's eyes for truth and knew he meant every word. But as I looked into his eyes, I also saw the eyes of his grandfather and his father staring back at me. He was a carbon copy of them both. What would my mother think if she could see me now? Would she be disappointed? Or would she understand that my heart belonged to Quentin, like hers belonged to his father?

  "I slept with Hunter!" I blurted out as Quentin's lips were about to meet mine again.

  Time stood still. Quentin's lips hovered over mine for a moment before he stepped backward and dropped his hands from my body. "You what?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically calm. His jaw ticked, and his muscles tightened and flexed as he gripped the counter behind him.

  I forced myself not to look away. "It was the night before your wedding. I ran into Hunter at a bar. I was alone, nursing a beer, and trying to forget about your upcoming wedding. Hunter had stopped by the bar for a bite to eat before heading to your bachelor party. And when he saw me sitting all alone, he decided to join me. A couple of beers and a few shots later, we ended up in bed together."

  "He took advantage of you while you were drunk?" Quentin looked murderous. "I'm going to fucking kill him."

  I frantically shook my head. "No. He didn't take advantage of me."

  Quentin raked a hand through his hair. "So, what? You asked for it? You wanted him to touch you—to fuck you?" It looked as if the wind had been knocked out of him.

  "He was still hurting over Jemma, and I was hurting over you," I said through my cries. "I wanted to forget you. Because after nine fucking years, you still owned me." I quickly swiped away my tears. "I hated that I still loved you and still wanted you. So I asked Hunter to make me forget you."

  "Goddamn it," he breathed, as his head lolled back, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

  "I'm so sorry," I cried. "It was a mistake. A big fucking mistake."

  When Quentin looked at me again, his expression was suddenly void of all emotion. Like he had flipped a switch. "Did it work?" he asked, his voice lifeless and dry.

  "Huh?"

  He cocked his head to the side. "Did fucking him make you forget about me?"

  I winced at his vulgarity and slowly shook my head. "No."

  "How many times has he fucked you?" His tone was even. I lifted my chin and straightened my back as he slowly stalked towards me. "Have you been fucking him this whole time?"

  "Are you serious right now?" Quentin arched a wicked brow. "No. We haven't been together since that night."

  Quentin stalked closer towards me until my back was against the wall. "How many times did he fuck you that night?" He curled a single loc of my hair around his finger, and I swatted his hand away.

  "You don't get to ask me that," I gritted out. "Just like I don't get to ask you how many times you fucked Amy."

  "That many times, huh?"

  I slapped him hard across the face. He didn’t react. Didn't even flinch. He was the tin man.

  I lifted my hands to shove him, and he grabbed both my wrists. "Get your fucking hands off me," I seethed. "Let. Me. Go."

  "I can't." His voice was softer this time, and somber, as his icy exterior began to thaw right in front of me.

  "You have to." My voice cracked. "We can't keep doing this. It hurts too fucking bad."

  "I need you, Princess. I breathe for you. I bleed for you." His hard body pressed against mine, with his hands still clasping my wrists.

  JoJo's Mad Love began to play from my stereo. Yes, I was mad. Mad, crazy in love. Fuck. My. Life. "This shit is toxic, Q. They won. We lost. It's over."

  "Bullshit." His lips hovered over mine again, and this time, I didn't fight it.

  This was it. I was going to fall off the cliff with Quentin. One last time. I was going to enjoy it before I hit the ground—also known as reality—with a fatal crash. I crushed my mouth against his in a needy kiss. Quentin had always been a good kisser. But as a grown man, his tongue seemed more skillful and patient than when he was a boy. The connection we shared as our tongues stroked was undefinable. The English language was not vast enough to even begin to explain the fire between us.

  Quentin released my wrists and pressed a hand to the base of my throat, like a collar, and drank me in with addictive kisses. I stroked the length of his cock through his joggers, causing him to growl inside my mouth. He was hard as steel, and I was wet as the ocean, which he soon found out when he cupped his hand against my damp panty-clad pussy and groaned. Releasing my throat, he lifted me off my feet by the backs of my thighs and pressed me against the wall.

  My legs banded tightly around his narrow waist, and I wrapped my arms around his neck. "One last time," I whispered in his ear, causing him to shutter and still for a moment. "Please, Q. One more—agh!" I cried out in pleasure and pain as he tore my panties from my body with one sharp tug, and thrust his cock inside of me, burying himself to the hilt. I gasped in surprise at the sudden intrusion, and my eyes burned with tears.

  Quentin let out an almost painful groan as he started brutally fucking me as if I were nothing but a hole. He was bigger and deeper than I remembered. It was incredible and exhilarating, just like it used to be, but maybe even more so, from years of experience and maturity. It was also cruel and angry like he was punishing me for fucking Hunter and for getting ready to leave him. It spurred me on, and it also broke my heart.

  Quentin held my pleasure in his hands—or perhaps in his cock. Purposefully torturing me, he slowed down or held back, every time I came close to orgasm. "Don't cum until I tell you to," he commanded, before withdrawing to the tip, causing me to desperately clenched around him. "Did he make you cum?" My eyes snapped open to look at him. His eyes were fire, their hazel orbs probing me with something akin to disgust. It broke me a little, so I wanted to break him.

  "Yes," I gritted out through my teeth.

  Mission accomplished, but it wasn't a victory. I felt him shudder, but it wasn't out of pleasure.

  I greedily milked the tip of his cock, trying to chase my looming orgasm, causing an animalistic and sexy groan to escape from his throat. And just when I thought I had the upper hand, Quentin rammed deep inside me with reckless abandonment. "I'm going mark you and fuck every memory of him out of you." His degrading words caused a new flood of slick arousal to coat my walls. "Now cum on my dick," he commanded, as he fucked me hard against the wall. And I did. Instantly.

  Tears rolled down my cheeks, and he licked them away. The savageness of our fucking contradicted the intimidate gesture. Quentin was close. I could feel it. And so was I, for the second time. His forehead met mine as our laborious breaths increased. And when his orgasm washed through him, a look of pleasure and pain contorted his face into the sexiest expression I'd ever seen, causing me to cum around his cock, as we jumped off the cliff together.

  I clung to Quentin like a vine. He was still thick inside of me, and his semen began to trickle between my legs and coat my inner thighs. He h
ugged me tight, painfully so, and I buried my face into the crook of his neck and cried. I cried for our broken hearts. And for the amazing, fulfilling future that we would never have together. For the vows we would never exchange. For the marriage we would never have. For the children that would never exist. For the happily ever after that we would never experience.

  Chapter 31

  FATIMA

  I ARRIVED AT CONNER and Novalee's mansion at a quarter past nine. After crying on the phone inconsolably, she insisted that I pack a bag and wait for her driver to pick me up. Novalee didn't ask any questions as I sobbed incoherently, and in between hiccups, I managed to tell her that I'd just broken up with Quentin. And when I arrived at the estate, she and Conner both stood outside on the grand porch, ready to greet me.

  Novalee, dressed in a long silk nightgown which stretched across her swollen belly, welcomed me with outstretched arms. All 5'1 of her hugged me tightly as my tears leaked into her hair. Conner gave me a curt nod before taking my suitcase from their driver, Colin, and heading back into the house.

  I offered her a small smile, already embarrassed about the emotional breakdown she witnessed over the phone. "Thank you, cousin."

  "We're family. It's what we do. It's my turn to be here for you like you were for me." Novalee smiled up at me affectionally and took my hand. "Come on. Let's get you settled." We stepped inside, and Novalee led me to the gigantic chef's kitchen. "Sorry, there's no booze," she said, as she opened the refrigerator and pulled out two fancy bottle waters.

  "It's okay. It's been a long week, and my liver appreciates the break," I said with a humorless chuckle.

  She offered a sympathetic smile. "Let me show you to your room."

  I followed up her the circular staircase and turned left down a long corridor. At the end of the hall, she opened double doors to a bedroom that was the size of my living room and kitchen combined. Conner had left my suitcase on the custom made king-size bed, which was draped in royal purple linens.

  Novalee flicked on the lights and opened the drapes, revealing French doors and a large private balcony. "I know purple is your favorite color, so I thought you might like this room." She gestured around at the purple décor, displayed in various pieces of artwork, the bed linens, an accent wall, lilacs on the bedside table, and a crystal chandelier with purple accents. "But if you want a bigger room, there's the all-white room down the hall."