14. Celia
Chapter 14
Celia
I don’t see the brothers for the next three days. At first, I think they’re avoiding me, but then I realize that they’re just good at hiding.
It’s on the third day that Rage’s patience wears out. A shadow falls across my desk at the boutique, and I look up from my sketch to find his massive frame blocking the light. Every muscle in his body is clenched tight. “Celia,” he rumbles, “you haven’t called.”
“I know.” I go back to my drawing, but my hand shakes. I barely scratch a single line before looking up again.
He’s still in my office. Waiting.
“You could text me.” He places his palms flat across my desk and leans closer. “Tell me about your day. Or night.” A thick vein in his forearm pulses in time with his heartbeat. His sleeves are rolled up, and I get a flashback to our last moments together.
This thing we have—fucking impossible to ignore.
I take a deep breath. “I don’t want to text you.”
He chews on his response for a minute. “Why not?”
Sighing, I set my colored pencil down and lean back in my chair. This is the same room where, less than a week ago, he’d pick me up, sit my ass on the edge of the desk, and eat me out until I couldn’t see straight. If I let my mind wander, I can still smell my desire and feel the rough pads of his fingers gripping my thighs.
But all that wandering will lead me right back into his grasp.
That’s not where I want to be.
I study Rage’s face. “Because you haven’t shown me someone worth my time.”
That pisses him off. He bares his teeth, looking every bit as menacing as I know he can be. I’ve witnessed the brutality of his fists—I know he could hurt me if he wanted to.
Our conversation from the other night echoes in my mind. I asked if he wanted to hurt me. Normal men would have said, “the last thing I want to do is hurt you.”
But Rage isn’t a normal man.
If that’s the only way I can touch you, then… yes.
I press my lips firmly together. I refuse to give in to his desires out of fear. If I let him touch me for any reason, he’ll interpret it as me giving in because I want to. He’ll think that I might actually want to be with him .
Something twinges inside my chest. I clench my teeth to block it out. I don’t want to be with him. Or any of them. Not when they’re only pretending to care about what I want.
This sudden “freedom of choice” they’ve given me? It’s an illusion.
But I’ll ride it out as long as I can.
My words are clipped. “Are we done, yet? You’re blocking the light.” I grip my pencil harder to hide my shaking hand. “I’m on a deadline. I can’t have any distractions.”
That part is true, at least.
“We are never done, krosotka. ” Rage reaches over the desk and pinches my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. “But I’ll let you pretend for a little longer. That’s how generous I am.”
“Great. Thanks for stopping by.”
As he’s leaving the boutique, my employee Sara walks in for the start of her shift. “Oh, hey!” She smiles, but Rage ignores her. What an asshole.
Sara laughs awkwardly, the bells over the door chiming along with her. They both dwindle out at the same time. Once she’s sure no one else is around, she joins me in the back. “Are you guys fighting?”
I swallow my sigh. I’m never going to finish any of my custom designs at this rate. The charity gala is in a few weeks, and I’ve agreed to designing not just one, but three elaborate evening gowns and fulfilling them with enough time for alterations. It was already a rush job when I accepted, but I took the job before three stubborn men decided that my life was more interesting with them in it. I am terribly behind schedule.
I drop my pencil, close my eyes, and rub my temples. Sara asked me a question. What was it again? Something about Rage? “I guess we’re fighting, yeah.”
“Aw, that’s too bad. I think he really likes you.”
I try not to roll my eyes. Despite how often she calls out lately, Sara has been a blessing ever since she joined my staff. She doesn’t deserve my shitty attitude. “What gave you that idea?”
“He used to visit you every day!”
Choking on my own saliva, I try not to spontaneously combust. Sara should have been nowhere near the vicinity when Rage came around in the mornings. If she knows he was here, then she might know what exactly he was doing while he was here… I clear my throat and glance over at the thermostat. It’s a breezy seventy degrees, exactly how I like it.
I’m not sweating from the temperature.
“My boyfriend really likes me,” Sara continues, turning the spotlight from me onto her. “He sends me flowers and asks me all kinds of questions!”
Normally, I’d be annoyed at the incoming lovesick ramble, but today I’m grateful. I feed into her fantasy about her new lover. It’s the first one she’s had in a year. “That’s sweet of him.” Maybe Rage could take a page out of his book. “How long have you been together?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Sara laughs. “A week or two, I think? He just moved into town for work.”
I don’t warn her that men who travel for work don’t usually stick around or take their new girlfriends with them across the country once their current assignment ends. “You’re moving pretty fast,” is as close as I get to a warning.
She waves off what little concern I have. “Love should be like that, though, right? Fast and messy and—” she takes a quick breath, bright eyed with lovestruck wonder—“overwhelming, don’t you think?”
I grunt, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and she continues talking without me. My gaze wanders the room, from Sara’s blushing cheeks, to the thermostat stuck on seventy degrees, to the wide window separating my office from the shop floor. Across the building, I look even further out, past the front windows and onto the street. People wander in clusters of two or three, chatting with each other, staring at their phones, huddling together to ward off the winter chill in the air. I watch them for a while, wondering if any of them have obsessive not-boyfriends, too, and how they handle it.
Probably better than I do.
Once Sara’s ramble slides past the thirty minute mark, I glimpse a shadowed figure in the courtyard past the street. They’re standing beneath a huge oak tree, barely hidden from view.
A white mask covers their face. Their entire face.
He looks like Jason! You know, the murderer!
Shaking my head, I stand from my chair. The last thing I need is Ruin stalking me in broad daylight. Interrupting Sara feels shitty, but she doesn’t seem to mind, smiling broadly at me even as I pack up my things. “Can you lock up on your own? I’m gonna head home.” I leave out the back door, avoiding Ruin completely.
I half expect Rebel to be waiting for me at home, but he’s good at hiding, too. Sort of. The only evidence he was here at all is the half-empty bottle of vodka on my kitchen counter, the china cabinet drawer that’s askew, and the hint of cigarette smoke hanging in the air.
I try not to miss him, but the house echoes without his laughter filling the empty spaces. My bed feels like a vast ocean without Ruin standing over it, my body a ship lost at sea.
And my chest—too hot, too tight.
Almost like a magnet missing its mate.
“Why didn’t you tell me you have a boyfriend? I have to hear from Mikhail that you’re dating again?” My mom tsks across the line. “You should tell your mother these things, Celia. After everything I’ve done for you, honey, the least you can do is keep me informed.” She takes a breath, her chair creaking as she shifts her weight. “Really, Celia. Think of your poor mother. It’s dreadful to learn these things secondhand.”
“I’m not dating anyone.” My nose twitches. Fucking Mikhail , meddling where he doesn’t belong. He’s still pissed that I’m avoiding his calls. I have nothing to say to him—other than a big, fat fuck you.
My blood boils, but not toward my mother. I rein it in, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Mikhail’s the one you should be worrying about.”
Humming to herself, my mother tactfully avoids the subject. Like always. Heaven forbid that the favorite twin do something wrong.
Like murdering dozens of people at his own fucking wedding.
My head throbs. I don’t know that I’ll ever forgive him. The longer I hold onto my disgust, the harder it is to remember anything else about that day. About him. The brother I used to know fades in the memory of blood on the chapel walls and screams reverberating in the rafters.
My mother conveniently forgets that part of the day’s events.
“At least he’s married,” she says with a sniff.
Here we go.
“Maybe this one will stick, honey. The boyfriend. Have you talked about marriage at all?”
“I’m not dating anyone,” I reiterate, grinding my teeth. “I already told you that, Mom.”
“Mikhail says you’re dating again. He wouldn’t lie to me. He knows how important it is for you to settle down. You’re almost thirty, Celia.” The chastisement stings a little less than it did the last time she reminded me of my status as a single—no, divorced —woman.
In my mother’s eyes, I may as well have had the affair myself and ended my marriage. She blames me for it more than she blames Ted.
“What are you doing for your birthday? You should throw a party. You were always so good at throwing parties. Invite your new boyfriend. I want to meet him. Does he want kids?”
This time when I sigh, I’m not nearly as good at hiding it.
My mother goes silent across the line. “If you do that while on the phone with your boyfriend, he’s going to take it the wrong way. I know you don’t mean to offend me, honey, but it’s rude to make that sound when someone is talking to you. I’m sure Ted told you that, too.”
My heart beats a little faster as the urge to flee slams into me. “I’ve got to go, Mom. I’m getting another call.”
“Tell your boyfriend that I want to meet him. Goodbye, dear.”
I hang up and stare at the call ended screen. A minute goes by. Then two. I take a deep breath and pour another glass of my favorite sparkling wine, all the way to the rim. Maybe I’ll finish the bottle, too. It’s the weekend. I’m allowed to indulge.
Gulping a mouthful, I try to decide what to do next. The house is eerily silent, like it’s mocking me for being alone. In the first few months after the divorce, I let it creak and moan without much thought. We were doing it together— falling apart . Only after I heard that Ted was dating again—from my mother, of course—did I pick myself up and get back to business. Mikhail happily invested in my clothing line, and getting the proper licenses for the shop was a cinch with all of our connections within the city. The process was expedited at every level, the universe likely hearing of my downfall and deciding to throw me a bone.
I thought the sudden invitation to Midnight was another one of those gifts from the universe. A chance to start over. To reclaim something I’d lost.
It sure as hell feels more like a curse than a blessing.
Cell phone in hand, I open my contact list and scroll down to the R’s. There are only three names listed—Rage, Rebel, and Ruin—in alphabetical order. Possibly chronological order, now that I think about it. How much older is Rage than the others? Is Ruin the middle brother or the youngest?
Where does that other guy, the half brother, fit into the mix?
It’s probably a good thing that I don’t know more.
I might think that I care .
I put all three R’s into a group message, but once my thumbs hover over the keyboard, I’m not sure what to say. Thanks for making my mom think I’m a shit daughter for not telling her about my nonexistent boyfriend? I can’t truly blame them for my mother’s low opinion of me. I’ve been a cyclical disappointment to her my entire life.
When Ted and I announced that we were trying for a baby, she was elated. But the longer it took to conceive, the more critical she became. What positions are you trying? Are you temping yourself? Tracking your ovulation? You know, your father and I had to pray every Sunday for three months before we got pregnant—why don’t you speak with the pastor? Or better yet, why don’t you speak with God?
Sometimes I think that the reason my marriage fell apart isn’t because Ted had an affair—it’s because I didn’t have Faith—the one with a capital F. If I believed in God, he’d bestow gifts upon his humble follower, wouldn’t he?
A happy marriage?
A healthy baby?
A womb that works?
I swallow two more hearty mouthfuls of wine and type out a message for the group.
Do any of you want children? Answer honestly.
I hit send before I lose my nerve. If they say no, then I know that the universe—or God—is still punishing me for my lack of Faith.
If they say yes, it might be an even greater punishment…
Having a baby with a Russian criminal is probably on a list of sins somewhere. People are born with sin—isn’t that something I’ve heard from a Sunday sermon? Does that mean that the child inherits the sins of the parents?
My stomach churns.
If that’s true, then no matter what I do, I’ll always be a bad mother. I’ll have doomed my child before they even take their first breath. My chest constricts as the idea settles deep inside, weighing me down. I sink further into my chair, no longer battling the depression looming in the back of my brain.
I let it wash over me in full force.
My phone chimes loudly in the empty room. It takes me a minute to muster the strength to move. When I do, it’s in slow motion. I set my wine glass down on the coffee table and take several deep breaths, each one longer than the last. Then, I wrap my favorite throw blanket—the fuzzy one with silver hearts—around my shoulders and pluck my phone out of my lap.
The text message is from Rage.
Of course it is.
I have to read it a few times before my brain processes what it actually says. I’d forgotten the question already.
RAGE:
I only want children with you.
My breath hitches as I imagine the timbre of his voice rumbling in my ear. Hasn’t he said that before? I sift through all of our conversations, but before I can come up with the answer, my phone chimes again.
REBEL:
i want 6 kids minimum
so I can chase them around the house
it’ll be fun
(thumbs up emoji) ????
RAGE:
How many children do you want, Celia?
He isn’t asking if I want children, only how many. Shit, didn’t I tell him once that I didn’t want kids? Is it too late to shut this conversation down? I clench my eyes shut and take another breath, unable to block out the ache thrumming through my body. I want my own kids. Desperately. My heart flutters inside my chest as I imagine a house full of them, all different ages, like we’re on the set of Cheaper by the Dozen . Up until recently, I’ve always been close to my brother, and I’d want my children to have siblings they can rely on.
Six might be too many. Maybe four. A girl and three boys. Or two girls and two boys. But I’d be happy with only one.
okay, two
siblings are important
RUIN:
(smiley face emoji) ??
The irony of Ruin’s text isn’t lost on me. I’ve never seen the man’s smile, let alone his face.
REBEL:
miss u baby
I type back miss you too but catch myself before hitting send. I can’t miss Rebel… or any of them. Locking my phone and shoving it under a throw pillow, I pick myself up from the barrel chair in my living room and leave my wine glass on the table. It’s empty, but I’ll clean it up tomorrow. Same with the blanket I leave piled on the chair.
Tomorrow, I’ll put everything back to normal.
For tonight, I want to lie in bed and imagine how many children can fit under one roof. Which ones have dimples when they smile. Dark, unkempt hair no matter how often they brush it. Deep ocean eyes, capable of taking in an entire room with one glance.
And a mother who loves them all, no matter the sins of their mother… or their father.