Christian Locke is the police chief of Scarsdale, and hopeful soon-to-be Mayor. I've seen how buff the guy is. He'd put Arnold Schwarzenegger to shame.
"How the fuck could you possibly know about that?"
"Carla got drunk one night and admitted it to me. She said she felt jealous of me since she knows how well you can please a woman in bed. I must admit, it pissed me off a little knowing she’d had a taste of you, but even more than that, it made me intrigued. Now I want what's rightfully mine."
"Jesus, Sarah, it was one time—one stupid, weak moment where she wouldn't take no for an answer and I hadn't had any in seven weeks. That's all it was."
"I doubt her husband would see it that way."
All goes silent, but my heart's beating so bad, I'm afraid they'll hear it. I close my eyes, trying to calm myself, but all I can see is my mom and Owen having sex. That same nausea erupts in my stomach. How is he possibly going to get out of this?
"I don't do blackmail," he growls back.
"You handled it pretty well before." There’s a pause before she speaks again. "Oh, come on, Owen. You've done everything I've asked so far, why is this such a big deal?"
"I don't think you really want to have sex with me. This is all just a game to you, isn't it? A big, fucking game where you think you can dangle me on a piece of string. Well, fuck you."
Footsteps pound the floor, so I start to move.
"Okay, I'll just give Christian a call then."
"You do that and I'll deny everything. I’ll tell him I have a very vindictive wife."
She chuckles, making my hair stand on end. "I'll give you ’til tomorrow to think about it," she purrs.
The clicking of her heels thump against the floorboards, so I quickly hide inside the small broom cupboard, leaving it slightly ajar so I can watch as she passes. The flicker of her golden hair brushes past as she disappears toward the kitchen. It's only when she disappears out of sight that I open the door…to find Owen standing there staring right at me.
A slight gasp leaves my lips at the knowledge I've been caught, but all Owen does is stare at me. He looks at me with such a blank expression, I know for sure he must be desperately trying to hide his emotion.
He has to feel something. Whether it be anger, frustration, rage…all of the above. But he's showing nothing.
I open my mouth to say something, but the moment I do, Owen storms off, ending whatever it is I wished to convey. I was going to ask if he's okay, but I know in my heart he can't be. He feels trapped, but not only that, he's also embarrassed. Embarrassed at the thought of my mother ruling the roost in this house. Embarrassed he's being made to do things—disgusting things he seems to have no control or say over. Frustration and confusion consume me, leaving me pondering.
What has Owen done that's so bad, he's letting my mother win? But even more than that: is he going to give in to her insalubrious demands?
Piece by Piece
Kelly Clarkson
Present
"You're a pig-headed, stubborn little shit."
We're in the car on the way to the lake house and I'm still fuming at his indifference toward me. I don't deserve this, and he's more than aware of that fact, but he's still determined to treat me like the woman on the side. Quite frankly, I’m sick and tired of it.
Owen flits his gaze toward Brandon, his jaw ticking in anger. "Not here, Savannah," he whisper-growls in my direction.
I want to scream and shout at him, blast to the world how fucking unfair this whole situation is, but instead, I grit my teeth, deciding to remain silent. Besides, who do I have to blame but myself?
At the lake house, Brandon waits in the car while Owen lets me in and drops my bag for me. When he hands me the keys, he says, "Brandon made sure the heat was on for when you got here. There's food in the fridge to last a while. If you need anything else, give Brandon or Frank a call."
He goes to turn, so I say, "Not you?"
He freezes. "I have a few things I need to take care of."
Implying my mother, I imagine. I understand there's been this huge shitstorm, and he's angry about it all, but the one person he's taking it out on is the one who deserves it the least.
"Listen, Owen. I get it. We were just sex, nothing more, nothing less. I knew my place and I fucking tried…" A sob catches in my throat, causing me to stop for a moment. I glance at Owen, his stare hard, his body even more so. "I tried so fucking hard not to fall for you…but I did."
He desperately shakes his head, his expression vicious and callous. "Don't fucking say that, Savannah. Don't…"
"Why is it so hard for you to hear? It doesn't affect you other than inflate your own ego. It's me who has to deal with this shit. It's me who has to cope with the knowledge that I've fallen in love with you."
"Stop it!" he growls, banging his fist against the kitchen counter. It makes me jump so bad, my own saliva gets caught in my throat. I stumble back, stupefied at his reaction. My response only seems to make him angrier. "Don't you think I have enough on my plate as it is without dealing with a pubescent young girl who thinks she's in love with me!"
That's when it happens. The moment my heart is ripped out of my chest and thrown to the floor like a piece of garbage. Every square inch of me wants to break down and cry, but I refuse to let him see me like that.
I refuse.
"Get out!" I shout, shaking my finger toward the door. When he doesn't move, I shout again. "Get out!" This time, louder. He turns, heading out the door as quickly as he can move himself.
I fall down into a heap, sobs wracking my body as I curl into a ball. I always knew Owen could be cruel when he wanted to be, but not with me. Never with me.
I don't know how long I'm on the floor, but as darkness soon falls upon the lake house, I have no alternative but to get up, wipe my tears, and try to put one foot in front of the other.
Despite my nausea, I have to eat. I know once I do, I need to figure out what in the hell I'm going to do with my life. It pains me to think that whatever it is doesn't involve Owen, but I have no one to blame but myself. My heart wants what it wants, and what it wants is Owen. I was just too stupid to realize his feelings never even came close to running as deep as mine.
Looking through the fridge, I find some homemade potato and leek soup. It makes me smile. Frank knows this is my favorite. He makes amazing soup.
Pouring some of its contents in a bowl, I place it in the microwave and pour myself O.J. I sit silently, and despite the soup being delicious, every spoonful is like gravel stinging the back of my throat.
I wash my dishes and decide to grab a blanket and watch some TV. I flick through for a few seconds, not really finding anything appealing. I finally land on Owen's favorite, The Godfather. Vito Corleone is walking around 1917s Hell's Kitchen, all suited up after killing the Don. Many a night, I've walked past Owen's little den where I've caught him sitting in his plush, brown leather chair, nursing a bourbon and watching this movie.
My heart hurts, but I can't bring myself to change the channel. So, I lie there, remote in hand, and watch the whole movie.
It's halfway through the third movie when I end up falling asleep on the couch, wrapped up in the blanket, comfortable and warm. I don't know how long I'm asleep when music coming from the T.V. startles me until I’m fully awake. I open one eye, noticing the credits are rolling, so I switch it off using the remote still clutched in my hand. It's when I lean forward to place it on the coffee table the distinct shape of him catches the corner of my eye.
"It calms me…watching you sleep."
Sitting up, I wrap the blanket around me like it will somehow protect me from this tyrant of a man. But nothing can protect my heart. A jolt of pain shoots through my chest, making me angry.
"What are you doing here?"
I glance up to find Owen sliding across the couch until he's right next to me. I want so desperately to move, but my body has other ideas. No matter how much I hate it, I relish the feel of his body nex
t to mine, the way he smells—all musky with sweet cedar wood.
"I couldn't leave things the way I did. I couldn't leave you alone knowing what you had been through and I abandoned you."
I inhale a deep breath through my nose, willing myself to be brave. "I'm a big girl, Owen. I can take care of myself."
"I know you are. I didn't mean all that shit… Fuck, this is hard." He leans forward, placing his head in his hands.
"Are you trying to apologize?" He’s certainly not big on them, that much is true. When he doesn't move or say anything, I sigh aloud. "I'm sick and tired of all this, Owen. I'm sick and tired of your ping-pong fucking games, one minute wanting me, then the next treating me like shit. I'm tired of you telling me in one breath you wish you could be the man I deserve, while rejecting me in the next. I'm so fucking done."
He reacts to that, taking his hands away from his head. He eyes me with sharp, panicking eyes. "Don't fucking say that." I make a move to scoot away from him, but he grabs my arm, yanking me onto his lap. He snuggles his head in the crook of my neck, inhaling my scent. "Don't ever fucking say that. You're never done with me. Do you want to know why?"
He squeezes his arms around me tightly, almost as if he's afraid I'll move if he doesn't hold on. I close my eyes, frustrated with my body for loving this so much. A lone tear falls down my cheek—a tear I never felt coming.
"Why?" I ask, almost a silent whisper on my lips.
"Because I can never be done with you." My heart leaps in my chest. I don't know if this is a declaration of love, but it sure feels like it.
"I've tried, Savannah. I've tried so fucking hard to convince myself all you are is a great fuck, but I'm kidding myself. I'm lying to myself, and all I'm doing is hurting you. You deserve so much more than me, and even though I try to push you away so you can find someone else, I also know I will kill anyone who tries to take your heart. It belongs to me. Every part of you—your body, heart, and soul—it's all mine. All. Fucking. Mine."
"Oh, Owen," I say through my tears. I glance up, seeing the pain in his eyes. He wipes my tears, capturing my face in his hands, gripping me with his intense stare.
"I want to give you everything. I want to be the man you truly deserve, and it fucking kills me I can't."
I take his face in my hands, imploring him with my eyes. "Then tell me why. Please, Owen. If you want to be with me this much, but can't, then tell me." When he tries to pull away, I shock him, holding him still. "Remember that fucking awful day in the restaurant when you told me to trust you?" His eyes downcast, he nods his head. "This is me, asking you for the same."
He searches my eyes for an answer I don't know I can give him. The moment he relents, he sighs, closing his eyes.
"It was the night your mother and I met."
Confident he's going to tell me the story, I take my hands away from his face, resting them against my lap. Owen runs a hand over his face, stress lines creasing his forehead.
"We met at a charity gala." My heart kicks up a notch. This was one of the dates I told Patricia about. "That morning, I got into an argument with one of my big clients. You know Richard Fareham?"
"Yes." He's a multi-millionaire who lives in NYC and Scarsdale. He likes to collect cars and most of the time he's nice, but he has this dark side to him everyone wants to steer clear of.
"He was in one of his fucking moods and asked me the impossible on a deadline with a shipment of a particular Aston Martin he wanted. I mean, no fucking dealer would have been able to meet the deadline he was expecting. He was being unreasonable and he knew it. It still didn't stop him from being a dickhead. I called him that to his face, and that's when he told me he was done. I mean, long story short, he called the very next day and apologized, but the entire day, I was buzzing with anger. It already set me in a bad mood. I shouldn't have gone to the gala that night, but my stupid conscience got the better of me. It was a charity event, after all." I smile, knowing all along he had a very kind heart underneath all that bravado.
"It all started close to midnight when I was sitting at the bar, drunk out of my fucking skull. You mother approached me and struck up a conversation, asking what was eating at me. I was so drunk, I can't even tell you what my response was." He rolls his eyes in anger. "Anyway, I think I must have been rude to her, but she stayed with me and after a while of talking with her, I started to relax. We talked about normal stuff—families, places we've been, things we liked to do in our spare time. I told her I went shooting at a range every Saturday, and she mentioned she did too."
I frown, knowing my mother has never used a gun. I have also never heard of Owen going to the range he speaks of. Owen, sensing my disbelief, laughs a little, but not in the funny sense. "Don't worry. I'm getting to that part." I nod, determined not to say anything to interrupt him.
"It was obvious what she wanted from me, and it made me feel good after a long, shitty day." Shaking his head, he sighs. I know the bad part's coming from the tensing of his shoulders and ticking of his jaw.
"I think it must have been close to two and the gala was winding down. Your mom mentioned she wanted to show me something she knew could alleviate my stress." He lets out a deep breath before continuing. "Anyway, she led me out into a field not far from the gala and showed me this clay pigeon thrower. There were several targets hiding in the grass and she told me it would be fun if we did some shooting. I mentioned I didn't have a gun, but then she lifted her dress, showing me one she had strapped to her leg. My world was spinning at this point. She was offering me a release and mentioned how much she was turned on by seeing a big man with a gun. She was very good at making me feel like I was on top of the world, I’ll give her that. I was still revved up from earlier and figured it was three in the morning, and no one was around, I could get away with shooting a few rounds. My male ego got the fucking better of me that night."
Still frowning, I'm trying to figure out why my mother had a gun on her. I've never seen her carry a gun in all my life. It's like Owen's talking about a different person.
"She handed me the gun and set up the shooter," he says, interrupting my thoughts. "I think it was around five or six clays in, she suddenly stopped and shouted at me. I asked her what, and she pointed to an area ahead surrounded by trees. She mentioned she swore she saw an animal or something move, so we went to investigate." He stops a moment, wringing his hands together. "Fuck."
Realization dawns on me. "It wasn't an animal."
Owen snaps his head to me, his eyes filled with unshed tears. "No, it wasn't an animal. I had shot and killed a guy. I don't know who he was or why he was in the field, but judging by how dirty his clothes were, I'm guessing he was homeless and on his way to the gala to find all the dumped food in the garbage from that night. Whoever the fuck he was, I shot him. He was dead, and your mother knew."
My eyes widen at the information. No wonder Owen's been putting up with my mom's shit all these months.
"But, surely if you just told the police it was an accident—"
"Savannah, I was inebriated in charge of a gun I'm not even sure was registered. I fucking panicked, and your mother was there like an angel from Heaven, ready to take care of everything for me."
"What do you mean?"
He grits his teeth. "We pulled his body into the forest, covering him with as much undergrowth as we could. She drove me home and told me she would take care of the rest. I was to sleep it off and she would come over in the morning to see if I was okay." He shakes his head again. "That's when the fucking bitch blackmailed me."
Unable to process what I'm hearing, I remain silent for a moment. When I know I have to say something, I snap myself out of my stupor. "It was an accident."
"I'm quite aware it was, your mother too, and maybe the police will see it that way as well, but it doesn't change the fact that I shot a guy while drunk and tried to bury the evidence."
"I…I don't understand any of it. My mom…never carries a gun."
Owen flits his eyes to
me, a confused frown on his face. "She told me she loved shooting."
I shrug one shoulder, suspicion crawling up my spine. "This is the first I've heard."
Owen's frown deepens into sorrow as he stares at me. "Why haven't you left yet?"
I stare into his eyes. They hold so much emotion. His fear is palpable, his unyielding pain and guilt for what he's done evident. He shouldn’t have shot that gun, and he shouldn’t have done it while drunk, but he was out in a field in the middle of nowhere. How would he have known some homeless guy was going to pop up?
"If you think telling me this is going to make me feel any less for you, you're mistaken."
His lips form a thin line as he shakes his head. "I have demons, Savannah. That's why I keep telling you I'm not a good man and you deserve so much better than me. I want so fucking desperately to give you all the things in life you're so worthy of, but I can't."
I place my hand over his, searching his eyes with mine. "Don't you realize you already are?" He tries to pull away from me for a second time, but again, I hold him firm. "You're a kind man who got dealt a shitty hand when you met my mother. You may feel you deserve her, but you're wrong. Despite what you think, you are a good man, and I know this is because I never would have fallen in love with someone who was bad. You push me away, not because you're bad, but because you're trying to protect me. Someone who’s bad would never do that. This is why I fell in love with you, Owen. This is why I refuse to give up on us."
He claims my mouth with his, the force of our kiss like nothing I have ever experienced. I have kissed Owen thousands of times, but never one so raw, so intense, so…real.
Our breaths quicken, and he lays me down on the couch, uncovering my blanket like an unopened present. He's on top of me soon after, his hand through my hair, his lips firmly pressed against mine.
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