Chapter Nine Lila
CHAPTER NINE
LILA
The sun slinked beneath thick gray clouds as Tiernan’s Mercedes weaved in and out of lanes on our way to Hunts Point. He was talking on the phone, and I was relieved not to be the center of his attention. His undivided focus was a very dangerous place to be. I didn’t plan to visit it often.
And there was something else.
Every time he looked at me, I had a feeling he was seeing past the charade. My lies. The pink puffy gowns and vacant stares.
The only edge I had over other people were my secrets. And his cold, assessing eyes told me he could pry every last one of them out of me without lifting a finger.
We hadn’t communicated since the morning in the honeymoon suite. I didn’t know whether our silence was a good or a bad thing. I just knew I didn’t regret devouring his blood. I wanted him to know I was no pushover, and I wanted proof he was mortal, after all.
He was. His blood was warm and thick and rich. It lingered in my mouth like warm toffee.
Despite my family owning most of the city, I’d only been to New York City a handful of times.
Even then, I only ventured into the upscale parts of Manhattan.
The Bronx was different. I crushed my nose to the window like a kid, watching the dense urban landscape flash by through a cloud of my own condensation.
The buildings, streets, and people deteriorated in shape and condition the farther we drove into the neighborhood, until all I could see were littered sidewalks, dilapidated buildings, and drug addicts.
The Mercedes stopped at a red light, and a woman slammed herself against my window, making me jerk back with a gasp. I snapped my head to Tiernan. He rolled down the automatic window, not sparing me a glance.
I looked back at the woman.
“Callaghan, tell McGee to hook me up. You know I’m good for it.” She slung a scabby arm along the windowsill. Her skin was heavily punctuated by purple marks.
I turned back to my husband, who sprawled his arm over my headrest, his forearm almost grazing my ear.
“You haven’t been good for it in two months, Stella. I’m not fucking JPMorgan. I don’t offer an overdraft plan.”
My gaze fluctuated between them.
“Who’s the princess?” She jerked her chin to me.
He didn’t answer. Just stared at her. Was he ashamed of me?
She puckered her lips in a whistle. “Looks classy.”
He threw me a detached look, like he forgot I was even there. His lips were flattened into a grim line. “Anything else?”
“Look, I’ll take shifts at The Pink Kitty again.” She bristled.
Tiernan smirked darkly. “Nobody wants to fuck you in your state.”
“There’s always a client for a warm pussy.”
“I only employ clean whores. Ones who pee into cups every week. That’s why the police let me run this neighborhood.”
“Then what do you suggest I do?” she sputtered.
“Drop dead,” he said crisply. “It’s the humane option.”
“Give me something to overdose on, and I will.”
“Flattered you’d think I have a shred of humanity.” He rolled the window back up. I didn’t understand their conversation. I pinned him with a questioning glare.
“A prostitute,” he explained.
My jaw slacked. I’d never met one before.
One of the most astonishing things about my husband was that he didn’t treat me like I was an idiot. An inconvenience, yes. A pain in the ass, certainly. But he looked me in the eye when he spoke to me and explained things unfiltered.
“She has sex with people for money,” he clarified. “Sometimes for drugs.”
I swallowed down a bitter lump of sympathy, turning my head back to the window. I felt his body quaking beside me with a quiet laugh.
We stopped in front of a tavern called Fermanagh’s.
An ancient castle spurted between decayed ruins, almost comically beautiful against the bleakness it was surrounded with.
It was obviously a cathedral turned into a pub.
Boasting French Gothic architecture, rib vaults, and stained-glass windows.
My heart picked up speed. This was where I’d live? The upstairs of a pub?
Though Fermanagh’s sparkled like a diamond in a pile of mud, everything around it still looked like it came from a horror film. Chain-link fences plagued with trash, graffiti everywhere, and faded shop signs.
Tiernan’s bone-chilling gaze met mine. “Not in Kansas anymore, are you, Dorothy?”
This was a far cry from the green pastures, country clubs, and mega-mansions I was used to.
I followed him out to the entrance of the pub, where two massive Irish soldiers stood on guard.
They bowed their heads at my husband, clearing the way for us.
A couple of errand boys jogged to the car to fetch our suitcases.
Mama had sent most of my stuff to the apartment before the wedding, so I didn’t pack a lot.
We stepped into the pub, which was warm and candlelit.
A huge Irish flag covered the domed ceiling.
The place was packed, the stench of alcohol, piss, and sweat assaulting my nostrils.
I swallowed back bile, clutching my belly.
Tiernan advanced to the bar, leaving me behind.
His brother manned the bar, wearing a suit and barking orders at the staff.
They exchanged a few words, after which Tiernan clapped his brother’s back and motioned for me to follow him.
We went up a side stairway near the kitchen, where two more soldiers waited.
The place seemed as guarded as my Long Island home.
Somehow, it did nothing to ease the knot doubling and tripling in the pit of my stomach.
I watched my husband’s muscular back, clad in a black dress shirt and charcoal slacks, as he took the stairs two at a time.
We arrived at a corridor with two doors facing one another.
He slid a key into the left-hand keyhole, pointing at the opposite door. Since he had his back to me, I couldn’t see what he was saying. I bit my lower lip and followed him inside. A thousand questions swam inside my head.
The apartment was scarcely refurnished, clean, and as cold as a freezer.
I guess that’s what Mama meant when she used the term bachelor’s pad.
Blacks and grays, modern fixtures, and a kitchen more virginal than Mother Mary.
His errand boys disposed of our suitcases and scurried away without a word.
Tiernan filed into the hallway, and I trailed behind him hesitantly, drinking in my new reality.
It was a short, stuffy corridor, with only two doors. The first one led to my room. He pushed the door open and stepped aside, expecting me to enter my new cage.
I peered inside. Mama’s servants must’ve prepared it beforehand.
It had my pink duvets, huge dollhouse, wood-carved chairs and table with my tea and china set which I loathed.
Her silent way of reminding me I needed to keep the charade alive.
I wondered if she sent me any books. My Kindle.
My sketchpad. My pencils. The things I loved and what kept my sanity intact.
My back was to Tiernan. When I turned to look at him, a scathing scowl was stamped on his face. He shook his head. He must’ve been talking to me, and I completely ignored him.
Oh, well. He better get used to it. That was my strategy for our entire sham of a marriage.
The more he believed he couldn’t communicate with me, the better the chances he’d leave me alone. I needed a way out of this place and back to my parents’ house. I had to speak to Mama.
Offering him an empty stare, I drifted to the dollhouse at the foot of my bed, crouched to my knees, and plucked two Barbies from their pink lounge chairs by the fake pool. I picked a smiling wax figure, taking a small brush and running the comb through her synthetic hair.
A few moments later, I threw a glance behind my shoulder.
Tiernan was gone.
But the knots in my stomach remained.