Chapter 62
sixty-two
“So,” Chris says, biting into his pizza. “Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”
Over the week, our meals have moved from his bedside to a small table in the corner of his room. Beside it, a dark window offers a view of Chelsea’s nightlife.
Not that either of us can partake in it. According to his doctors, Christian won’t be going out anytime soon. And, once he does, bars and clubs will be low on the list.
I watch a taxi drop off a gaggle of girls just up the block and shove my own slice into my mouth. “The fuck do you mean?” I grumble. “I’m here every day.”
It’s true. He knows about Juliet leaving me, how I had to hire Ava and a new lawyer, and—finally—all about the fraud situation.
That one was tricky; I actually asked one of his therapists to be present when I told him. He took it all surprisingly well, though I suspect he may still be in denial.
“Yeah,” he replies, chewing. “You’re here every day . But it’s nighttime. Shouldn’t you be out? Moving on or something?”
Probably .
But my traitorous dick wants nothing to do with even the idea of another woman.
I’ve discovered that unrequited love does strange things to one’s libido. The rest of me might be in agony, but my stupid cock didn’t get the memo. He still thoroughly approves of anything to do with Juliet and has no reaction to anyone or anything else.
“Can’t,” I report. “Not up for it.”
My brother stares at me for a moment too long. “So Juliet hasn’t called again?”
A bolt of pain sticks itself in my gullet. I swallow hard. “No. We haven’t spoken. I don’t expect we will anytime soon. I’m going to send her clothes to her and?—”
I catch myself right before I say, “—and the ring I moronically purchased is locked in the offices of Everett Alexander that I no longer have access to.”
Christian pushes his dinner away, disgusted. “Did the new lawyer say anything else?” he asks, ever-serious. “I’m worried about G but inside, I’m not so certain. The money I earned for Stryker and myself grows every day. If the FBI takes the stance that I only made that money after starting my own company as a safety net to escape my father’s fraud, it makes me partially complicit. They’ll take every cent.
Not to mention, I have contracts on hold. I don’t want to sign them until I know I’ll be able to fulfill them. With the added scrutiny from the investigation, I can’t afford to do anything remotely shady. And eventually, I need to come clean to my clients before they catch wind of Everett Alexander’s demise.
“Ava is on it,” I go on, bolstering myself as much as him. “She’s launched her plan of attack. It’s all going to be fine.”
It has to be. I’m all Christian has now. I need to step up for him.
The wheels of my mind spin. “And,” I add, recalling his living situation, “as soon as you’re ready, I’ll get you out of here, and I can pay your tuition with the money I’m currently using on this place.”
My monologue trails off when I see the look on his face. Christian is always a grim motherfucker, but I’ve honestly never seen him look so solemn. Or doubtful.
“Graham,” he finally says, blowing out a breath. “I need to stay here.”
“Yeah,” I agree, not following. “Of course you need to be here right now, but soon, when you’re better, we’ll?—”
He shakes his head again. “I’m not going to get better , Graham.”
His blue eyes meet mine, icy seas of regret. His meaning sinks in bit by bit.
“But,” I start, wanting to believe, “you will , Chris. Before you know it. You’ll see?—”
For the first time in as long as I can remember, he interrupts. And he sounds angry . “Do you remember last week when I asked you about your back hurting?”
Because of Jules . I repress a wince. “Yeah…”
His features stretch into a bleak facsimile of a smile. “Do you know why I asked you that?”
“…because I was acting weird?”
“Because I wanted to know if you had a back problem in order to figure out whether you might have painkillers at your place,” he explodes. “My own brother , who is paying for my rehab , came to visit me and bring me lunch. I saw you were in pain ; and the first thing to come into my brain was how to get my hands on whatever you might be taking so I could steal it from you.”
Chris sits back, glaring, and demands, “Do you get it now? Do you understand? It will never be safe for me to be around normal people. I’m practically deranged.”
I have no idea what to say to him.
Because, well, he sort of has a point. His admission does make him sound like a heartless fiend hell-bent on his own destruction.
“You’re not well, Chris, but that’s why you’re here,” I argue. “To get better. I’m going to help you.”
He folds his arms, his face turning to stone. “And what if you can’t help me? What if you just gave up your inheritance, your company, our family name, Dad…? And—fuck, Graham— Juliet . You should have seen the way you looked when you talked about her and now she’s gone. Because of me . Your whole life is fucked-up because of me. What if you gave all of that up to pursue this case and preserve my name, and I turn out to be a useless junkie for the rest of my life?”
I sit completely still. Tension grips the air between us. The horrible silence expands, swelling with all the dismal possibilities haunting us both.
His voice cracks in the quiet. “I—I think I need to be alone.”
In the end, I only leave because I honestly can’t think of a single goddamn thing to say. I tell him I’ll be back tomorrow with breakfast or lunch and suggest we hit up the exercise facilities together, but he barely meets my gaze as I walk out of his room.
I fight the impulse to call Juliet with herculean effort. And I almost make it home. Until the car hits the Lower East Side and I realize we’re stopped right next to the alleyway where I almost ripped her dress off because she wouldn’t buckle her damned coat.
I stare down the dark passage for a long second, remembering how she clung to me. How hot and wet she got… how she gripped my cock when she slid her hand into my pants. And then, just moments later, how she sprang into action and helped me find my brother.
Before I finish forming my decision, I find myself with my phone to my ear, listening to it ring.
She’s been ignoring you for days , I jeer at myself. There’s no way in hell she’ll pick up. She’s probably out finding a new guy to spend “just one night” with.
Unless she figures she doesn’t have to uphold her old rule now that I smashed it to bits.
Oh God . I didn’t even think of that. Am I the reason some other jackass will get to have her over and over and over and?—
“Hello?”
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I hear her voice. “Juliet.”
“Yes,” she replies, hoarse. “It’s me.”
Her voice sends alarm bells clanging through my mind. I immediately sit up, my chest tightening. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“I’m…” She takes a long time to answer, and when she does, she sounds so defeated. “I’m just… at home. Are you okay?”
Say yes. Say, “Sorry, wrong number.” Make a joke or smirk or anything but ? —
“No,” I admit, because even though she ruined me, I still can’t lie to her. “I just left Christian and…” There’s a chance I lost you for nothing . “No, I’m not okay.”
Shock seems to bring her back to life. “Is he all right?” she demands. “He’s still in the treatment center, right? He didn’t check himself out or get lost or anything?”
Somehow, her concern hurts worse than apathy. More proof she’s exactly who I’ve always thought she was—the person I adore.
“He’s physically fine,” I sigh, leaning against the car window. “Just depressed and hopeless. He’s probably feeling a lot of pressure, because I gave up so much to clear his name. Now he thinks he has to prove he’s worth it or something.”
Juliet sounds outraged on my behalf. “You would never think that! Did you tell him that’s crazy?”
My fire-filled bijou . Always ready to fight. For me.
Ah , God .
Is it possible to have a heart attack from longing? The pain in my chest seems unbearable. Everything in me throbs, begging to throw what little pride I have left aside and crawl back to her.
“I tried,” I croak. “He thinks I don’t understand how sick he is.”
Her voice softens to the tone I love most. “Do you think you understand it?”
I close my eyes. “I thought I did, but tonight he told me something fucked up. And I realized he likely has dozens of similar stories I’d find equally chilling. Or worse. So now I’m really just thinking that I don’t know shit.”
About anything , I want to add. Like why you finally answered me.
My cab stops. Wordlessly, I pay the man and get out, pausing to stare up at my own building. Dreading the quiet, sanitary solitude I’ll find once I get home. Words just tear out of me; ripped from the place where the desperation wells.
“Why did you answer?”
Juliet’s voice sounds thick again. “Your gift came today. The tickets.”
Fucking hell. I forgot all about the damn tickets. She must have hated ? —
“It’s,” she starts and then sniffs. “It’s the best gift anyone’s ever gotten me. I’m sorry we won’t get to go.”
Because we’re over. She left me. And me calling her like this is really fucking inappropriate.
But does that stop me?
My heart throbs. “I know,” I husk. “I’m sorry I forgot to cancel the gift. I’ve been—” in a waking nightmare .
“You’ve been…?” she urges softly.
“Missing you,” I exhale. “So goddamned much.”
There isn’t anything I can do to take it back. So I linger on the blustery street, looking upward, hating her and myself and everything that’s happened in the past week. Hating the lonely cold and the stupid hope hidden in my heart.
But hating the silence on the other end of the line most of all.
After a moment, I can’t take it anymore. I open my mouth to do damage control… only to have the words die in my throat when I hear her sniffle. Twice.
Shit . Is she crying ?
“Baby, no,” I rasp. “Don’t cry.”
That only makes her sob harder. And the more I try to soothe her, the more upset she gets.
It’s the worst I’ve ever heard her. Even worse than the day her own mother broke her heart. By the time I get up to my apartment, I’m restless. Pacing the room and listening to her shuttering breaths.
Something is wrong .
I know it.
She didn’t just answer the phone because of that gift. Some other thing must have happened today—and it must be really bad.
“Juliet?” I ask. “Please. Tell me what’s wrong.”
She gasps over another sob. “I can’t, Graham. I—We’re over, okay? We have to be. I—I’m sorry.”
The line goes dead.
I stand in my silent living room, staring down at my phone. Knowing there’s only one way to figure out what happened to her today. And accepting that I’ll burn myself to the ground if that’s what it takes.