Chapter Two
CHAPTER TWO
Zarah
H e lowers next to me, like sitting in the middle of the sidewalk is the most natural thing in the world.
I recognize his face, but I can’t place him. I know enough not to be scared, but my thready memory of him is misty with anger and blame and while I’m relieved he didn’t leave me alone, I wish he would have because whatever made him mad at me probably hasn’t gone away.
He hands me a rumpled tissue, and I wipe my face. I don’t want to meet his eyes, but I can’t hide. I can’t get better if I hide, and I raise my gaze to meet his flinty hazel stare. His features pull at me, but my brain is a sieve, latching on to some things, letting others slip out.
My doctor says my mind is protecting me, and if I can’t remember him, we might have been in a confrontation or conflict I’m trying to shut out. His expression isn’t kind, but it’s not mean. That’s not proof I can trust him not to hurt me, though, and I wait for my body to give me some kind of sign, a warning I should get away, but there’s nothing. He chased off the paparazzi when he could have let them harass me. That will have to be enough.
A dead brown leaf scrapes by us on the sidewalk, and I think we must look a pair sitting on the ground.
“Thank you for helping me.” I don’t know how the afternoon got so out of hand. I’d been doing so well, then that pack of rabid reporters saw me alone.
“Where are your handlers, Miss Maddox?” he asks, his voice low and smooth, a touch of accent revealing he grew up on the poor side of the city.
Of course he would know who I am. Even if I wasn’t the daughter of the founder of Maddox Industries, I’ve been in the news enough to last a hundred lifetimes.
I lift my chin. I’m nearly twenty-seven years old. I can be out for an afternoon alone, but a normal woman would have been okay if a group of photographers had wanted to take her picture, maybe even posing and answering their questions to move them along. This man would know I’m lying. He knows me, knows I’m babysat twenty-four hours a day.
“Miss Maddox?” he prompts.
I hate when people call me that, but his voice is gentle and his eyes are sympathetic and for some reason, I’m compelled to tell him the truth. “This was supposed to be an experiment. A couple of hours to myself. I guess it didn’t work.” I sigh and dab my cheeks.
“You have some time?”
I dig my phone out of my purse and glance at the screen. I’m supposed to meet Douglas in front of our building at three, and he’ll drive me home. “I have forty-five minutes.”
“Would you like to get a coffee?” He holds out a hand. “Do you remember me? I’m Gage Davenport, Max’s brother. We met—”
I remember how we met, and I flinch and struggle to my feet, wobbling in my heels. Gage. The jerk who blamed us for Max’s death and wouldn’t let Zane and me attend Max’s funeral.
“You hate me,” I say, my chest heaving. I should run away, but he hoists himself to his feet and I need every ounce of willpower I have to keep from flinging myself at him and begging him to hold me. He could protect me from everything.
“I don’t hate you, Miss Maddox—”
I shake my head in frustration. “Zarah.”
“Zarah. I’d just lost my brother and I wasn’t thinking clearly. Can we talk?”
I bite my lip. I don’t want to lose this connection to Max, but Gage took away an important chance to let me say goodbye. He might not hate me for my role in his brother’s death, but for a while, I hated him. Finally, I say, “Okay.”
I follow his lead and he guides me down the sidewalk, his hand hovering near my lower back. The Sweet Apple is only a block away when Gage stops and opens a door to a dark café. The rich scent of coffee meets my nose.
“Hey, Sierra,” Gage calls out, and the barista wiggles her fingers.
An emotion I can’t name pricks at me, and I bat it away.
“What are you having?” he asks me.
I stare at the board behind the gorgeous redhead who can’t stop drooling over Gage. I’m overwhelmed by the choices presented in a curly script, and my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth. The fact that I can’t do something as simple as order a cup of coffee humiliates me, and tears blur my vision. I’m so stupid.
“I can’t.” My shoulders slump and I turn to leave. I can’t do this. Can’t pretend I’m normal.
Ash ruined me. I’ll never have my life back.
Gage grabs my purse strap and halts me in my tracks. To pull away would cause a scene, and I’ve already done enough. Of course this lady knows me. Of course she thinks I’m a zombie who needs to be locked up.
Maybe I should be.
Locked away.
Safe.
“Two malted chocolates, hot,” Gage says and slides his bank card through the machine to pay.
We don’t talk, and I can’t look at him until we’re tucked into the shadows of the café. He sits in a corner seat giving himself a view of the entire coffeehouse. I wonder if he did that deliberately to look out for the paparazzi, or if he does it out of habit.
The barista places huge bowls in front of us, looking at me out of the corners of her eyes. I ignore it and focus on the coffee, inhaling the sugary aroma. She topped the lattes with huge mountains of whipped cream and sprinkled chocolate powder over that.
Maybe she has a crush on Gage. I wouldn’t blame her, and they seem to know each other.
“I’m sorry,” I say, but I speak to the whipped cream.
“Life’s a bit complicated, huh?” he says, wrapping his large, strong hands around the dark blue coffee bowl.
A hint of color peeks out from under his jacket sleeves. I’ve never been keen on tattoos. In our circles, tattoos are thought to be crass, trashy. Except Stella’s pretty dove. I’d like that. Something that would symbolize between light and dark.
Maybe one day.
“Yeah.”
Gage shrugs out of his black dress coat, and I follow his lead. It’s warm in here, and I have half an hour before I need to go.
I haven’t sipped my coffee yet, and Gage pushes my bowl closer and says, “Try it. It tastes like a malted milkshake. Have you had one before?”
I brighten. “Like Whoppers.”
“Exactly.”
It’s impossible to delicately sip around the mountain of whipped cream, and I dip my nose into the sugary froth.
Gage chuckles. “Here.” He gestures me closer, and I lean in. Using a paper napkin, he wipes the cream off the tip of my nose and the backs of his rough fingers graze my cheek. I meet his eyes and a fluttering whispers in my stomach. It’s not unpleasant, like a parent swinging their child around. Fun, but a hint of danger, too.
It unsettles me, and I shy away.
Gage drops his hand.
“It’s good, thank you.”
“Anytime.” He clears his throat.
I sip the sweet confection, wiping my own face when I need to. I don’t know how to talk to men. I don’t have friends besides Stella, Lucille, and Ingrid. I’m more comfortable with the dogs, outside.
He doesn’t push me to talk, doesn’t scroll on his phone to amuse himself, either. We sit in comfortable silence, like he’s used to being alone or with someone who doesn’t need conversation.
It’s nice to sit and not feel forced to say something.
My heart beats normally, and my hands stop shaking. I enjoy the coffee, and by the time I reach the bottom, I’m almost content, a feeling that’s strange to me.
This isn’t a date. We won’t go back to his place and make love because the only sex I’ve had was violent and full of hate, and if I couldn’t let Max, one of the gentlest people on the planet, touch me, no one has a chance.
Just like that, Ash ruins a peaceful moment, and without saying one word, I pull on my coat and run out of the café.
I’m dirty and I’ve been used. Men paid Ash money to hurt me, and someone like Gage will never love a piece of trash like me.