Chapter 15
I pour myself a cup of coffee and a glass of milk for Taylor. She called me earlier today, and when I told her about the dinner invitation from Lucifer, she came over so we could talk.
“What’s there to think about?” she asks.
“You know when something feels too good to be true?”
When she came back to New York, I kind of dodged her questions about who Lucifer—whom I refer to as “L” for her safety and his—really was in my life.
What was I supposed to say?
Hey girl, here’s the deal. The dangerous brute I’ve been in love with since I was a teenager—the same guy who rescued you—hasn’t spoken to me face-to-face in six years. Even when he saved you, everything was handled by phone. And still, I can’t get him out of my head. I must be a masochist.
God, even my thoughts sound pathetic when I say them like that.
I think she senses I have feelings for him, but she’s too kind to say, Girl, just let it go. He’s not into you.
“So what do you think it means?”
I bite my lip before answering.
“I don’t know.” I take a deep breath, mustering up the courage to admit, “About two months ago, on my brother’s death anniversary… we sort of hooked up.”
“You little criminal! And you didn’t tell me anything! I was over here like a fool, believing all that ‘he was just my brother’s best friend, Taylor’ crap.” She mimics me.
“He was, until that night.”
I don’t confess the years-long obsessive love—my self-respect won’t allow it—but I go on:
“He disappeared for a month.”
“Maybe he was away for work,” she says, though her face gives away how weak the excuse sounds.
“Cell phones exist.”
“I think you should go to dinner with him, Jackie. What do you have to lose?”
My heart again?
But that’s a lie. I never got it back in the first place. It always belonged to Lucifer. Maybe it always will.
“I already said yes anyway. I’m just scared I’ll get my hopes up and end up disappointed.”
“Life’s never guaranteed, Jackie. If it were, I wouldn’t have lost two years of mine. You’ll never know what could happen if you don’t take the risk. Go. See what happens. If it all goes to shit, we’ll buy ice cream and have a girls’ night.”
“Like William would ever let you sleep away from him,” I sigh. “You’re right. Thanks for coming.”
“I’m never really leaving again, Jackie.”
I’m not usually punctual. Five minutes late is my version of being on time. But tonight, for the first time I can remember, I was ready two minutes early.
The car that picked me up had tinted windows. It was luxury-grade, just like the one that drove us from the club that night, and the driver offered me complete silence.
We were never rich, but we lived well. And after my parents died, I guess that “well” turned into very well, since the apartment my brother gave me cost a fortune.
Even after buying my current place in full, what was left from selling the old one could keep me financially secure for life—if I lived modestly.
When I used to think of Lucifer, back before our encounter at Vanity about two months ago, I saw him as the poor boy my family had taken in.
Now, though, riding in this luxury car and remembering how he was dressed the night we… what? Hooked up? Made out?
I don’t really have a word for what happened, because the ending—me literally passing out from a mix of alcohol and orgasm—was so pathetic I’m embarrassed to even name it.
The man of my dreams gives me an orgasm and I faint at his feet.
Okay, setting the humiliation aside, that night I realized Lucifer isn’t just well off.
He is filthy rich.
I can’t decide if I want to know what he does for a living, or if I’d rather stay blissfully ignorant. At this point, what does it matter? I gave up on the fantasy.
The entire ride, wherever we’re going, I keep reminding myself of that.
The only reason I’m going to this dinner is curiosity.
And if that’s all it is, why is my heart racing now that the car’s stopped?
Because you missed him, I tell myself quickly.
There’s nothing wrong with that. He’s my last real link to childhood. It’s only natural that I’d miss him.
The car door opens, and as I step out, I’m stunned to see two other cars filled with bodyguards surrounding mine. At least half a dozen men get out.
And that’s when it hits me: I no longer have any idea who the man I fell in love with as a teenager really is.
While I was busy not living—clinging to the crumbs he tossed my way, feeling his presence shadowing me—he was out building his life.
A wave of nausea hits me so hard I almost lose my balance.
Building his life?
God… could he have a wife? A family?