CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Ella
T he next day, Balor picks me up himself in a sleek black Lamborghini. Last night, the helicopter smoothly cut through the falling snow and landed us safely on a Manhattan helipad.
He dropped me off at my apartment around ten p.m. My dad, who monitors satellites for Balor, knew the helicopter was dispatched to airlift us out of that small town. If I didn’t go home...there’d be some explaining to do.
Instead of driving us to the command center this morning, Balor parks in front of a high-end boutique on Mayfair Street in Astoria. This city didn’t get any snow compared to the blizzard we saw so far north yesterday.
“Today, your job is to buy new clothes,” he says from the front seat.
“Great. I love dressing you.” I unbuckle myself, wishing I can stay in this amazing car.
He barks a laugh. “I like you dressing me too, but this time, the clothes are for you, butterfly.”
“For me?” I pinch my leggings, cheeks heating with shame. “If I embarrassed you yesterday by wearing old—”
He stops me with a finger on my lips. “Shhh. No. Not at all.”
All I have to do is open my mouth and I’ll be sucking on his fingers.
He helps me out of the sports car and whispers against the curtain of my hair, “You don’t embarrass me. You can never embarrass me. Don’t you see yourself?”
I’m spun around and my reflection, our reflection, shines off the store’s glass front doors.
“I don’t know what I see,” I confess .
“Your looks had nothing to do with what he did to you. If anything, he was probably jealous because you’re so goddamn beautiful, he thought he needed to bruise you so no one else would want you. But you know what?”
“What?” I ask, quivering.
“I want you,” he utters. “Every inch of you. Bruised skin. Healed skin. Tattoos to cover his sins.”
“Balor,” I go breathless. “You want me, but you’re...”
“I’m your boss.” Icy anger seeps into his tone, his inner struggle apparent.
“For now,” I challenge him, because I don’t want this job.
I want to go back to Fredricks Elementary.
Balor stares at me, pensive, with the weight of the world, or at least a mountain of problems, playing out on his face. He’s figuring it all out. Me and him. How we make this work.
I can’t push, especially since I don’t know what I want or what I can give, emotionally speaking. All I want is something physical with Balor because he makes me feel alive.
“Are you coming with me?” I ask.
“Where?” He strokes my ponytail, twisting it in his fingers.
“Inside? Shopping?”
“You want me to?”
I’m aware it’s Thursday, the day he meets with his brothers. “If you’ve got somewhere else you’d rather be.”
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
A woman emerges from the store and waves.
Balor scoops my hand into his and steers me to the entrance doors. “Erin, thanks for meeting Ella here.”
“She doesn’t work here?” I turn to Balor.
“I’m a stylist for Shea-Lynne O’Rourke. Brides mostly.” Erin beams at Balor .
“I’m not looking to get married. But I do need to refresh my wardrobe.” I refuse to repeat where all my other clothes are.
“I can help you with that.” Erin opens the door. “Balor, I got this.”
I stiffen, thinking he’ll leave me.
“I’m staying. For a while. To make sure she’s comfortable.” His arm winds around my waist.
Erin’s face turns pensive like she knows his history. “As you wish.”
The name of the store doesn’t sound familiar and it’s not a chain. Once inside, the high-end fixtures and displays, rival the snazzy Manhattan boutiques. The designer brand names suggest how precious I am to Balor. That he wants me to have this level of luxury. And the help of a stylist to rebuild my wardrobe.
My eyes slip closed, hating that I’m being treated like an injured kitten. I’m off my game because Wes can be anywhere. In Sydney, I felt more like my old self and used my strength to heal from the superficial wounds.
Now my father and Balor want me on lockdown. Am I not seeing the potential danger the way they are?
My fingers tighten around Balor’s hand, and he reacts to the change in pressure. “You okay?”
“Uh-huh,” I choke out, but I’m having a panic attack.
“What do you need, hun?” Erin asks, swiping an iPad.
“A little bit of everything,” I say, feeling overwhelmed already.
“Give us a minute, Erin.” Balor tugs me aside. “What’s wrong? Talk to me. I’m here.”
“I want... I want to scream. I hate this. I hate having to do this.” I sniff.
“Say the word, and I’ll drive to his place. You can watch me beat the piss out of him first and get your clothes after. ”
“That’s not the answer.”
“How much did you tell your father about what Wes did to you?”
“Not much.”
“You kept it bottled up?”
I nod.
“You didn’t want him to worry.”
I nod again.
“Let me make something clear right here, right now. I can handle worrying. You don’t have to be strong for me.” He glances around.
Following his gaze, I spot other women shopping, glancing at us.
“Fuck, I should have shut this place down for you.”
“Can we leave?” I ask, my voice small.
“No. You’re doing this.” He brings me into a dressing room. “Go ahead. Let it out. Scream. Cry. Throw things. Punch something. Punch me .”
Tears build up and once they leak, I can’t stop them.
It starts as a choking sob, but Balor holds my face. “Come on. Wail.”
“I don’t want anyone to hear me.”
“Why not? Who cares? I don’t. Stop protecting him. When Erin asks why you need all this. Tell her. Don’t feel ashamed. Shame him !”
My rage builds to a frenzy, a volcano erupting inside me. In the corner, I spot a mannequin. A male one. It’s dressed up in a baseball hat, a stupid striped shirt, and Bahama shorts like someone is taking it on a boat for crying out loud.
I storm up to it and start punching it. Screaming at it. Kicking it. “You bastard. I hate you. I hate you.”
This goes on for I don’t know how long, until Erin peeks into the dressing room. “What’s going on?”
She probably thinks I’m yelling at Balor and is ready to call one of his brothers.
Balor pulls me against his chest. “She’s letting out some bottled-up anger.”
“Are you that hard to work for?” Erin asks.
This makes me snort a laugh into his chest. “No. He’s the best boss.”
Erin fidgets, knowing she’s not getting the full story. “Oh.”
Straightening my back, I say, “I walked away from everything I owned eight months ago to get away from an abusive situation.”
Erin nods. “I’ve worked with survivors in the past. I have a checklist for building a new wardrobe.”
The sense that I’m not alone in my trauma takes so much weight off my shoulders.
“She can have whatever she wants.” Balor kisses me on the cheek. “Just don’t buy anything too revealing. No one sees what’s...” He bites his lip.
Mine? Is that what he wants to say?
I can’t get it out of my head. Not to mention what we almost did in that hotel room last night before we were whisked away by men in a helicopter who turned out to be Trace’s cousins.
Balor’s brothers weren’t on the helicopter, but with the raging storm, it made sense not to risk mafia bosses, especially three who are new fathers, according to Balor.
Erin asks me a series of questions about my schedule, my life, and my fashion goals. I answer with Fredricks Elementary in mind for next fall. Waking up Balor can be done in jeans and T-shirts, or naked like him. God, I wish.
Erin shows me a graphic with an entire wardrobe laid out by piece. It’s a starting point of what I need. The knot in my stomach loosens. I’ll actually walk out of here feeling like a new woman.
“If we agree this is what you need then we shop until you find pieces you adore. Then match them up with coordinates,” Erin says. “What kind of skirts do you like?”
I nod and swipe to see the options. “Pencil. Flare. Mini?”
“One of each,” Balor insists. “No minis.”
“Three of each,” Erin chimes in. “One mini. She has nice legs.”
“Ten of each,” he snaps. “If you see it and want it, it’s yours.”
Balor’s phone rings and his jaw twitches when he glances at the screen. No matter how many times he ignores the calls and sends a text, it keeps ringing.
“You should answer it,” I say and with a nod, he does.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Riordan. What? I know what day it is,” he says, stomping away.
Erin steers me back through the store, folding anything I want to try over her arm. When I see her struggling, I think it’s time to see how these work on me.
I catch Balor making his way through the store, looking for me. Waving him over, I say, “I’m going to try these on. Can you help—”
“I have to go,” he says abruptly.
“Oh.” Breathing deeply, I say, “I’ll go with you. We can do this another day.”
“No. You need to do this right now.”
I need to look better, got it. I need to look less like a homeless person. Got it.
“Okay.” I wave him off, figuring my outburst must have scared him.
Out comes a credit card. A sleek black one. “This has no limit. Buy whatever you want.”
I’m uncomfortable with him picking up the tab, especially with all the money he gave me.
That money I earned.
“No. I can pay. ”
“I brought you here. I’m paying.” Balor’s phone blares to life again. He rips it out of his pocket and hisses into it, all gruff and talking in Gaelic.
Buying me things is just another form of control. My emotions are all over the map. My mood swings are nothing like I’ve ever seen. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
“Go.” I push him away because I don’t want him to think I need him like this.
I expect him to kiss me on the forehead, but with Erin watching us, he’s stock still. Next, he’s playing with his keys.
“I’ll pick you up in a few hours.”
SHOPPING IS AN ANNOYING slog without Balor.
Maybe it’s irrational, but I’m hurt. I thought shopping was a romantic gesture when it wasn’t. When Balor had the chance to leave me, he took it.
He doesn’t want a relationship, and I clearly have baggage from my last one.
With his credit card in my hand, I take advantage. I load up with the maximum outfits Erin’s program recommends and then do a lot of damage in the perfume and jewelry departments.
It’s childish and I’ll probably return it all, but right now, I’m angry and hurt. This shopping spree is the only thing that feels good because I know the final bill will get his attention. Force him to react. Show me how he feels about me.
“Oh, and you’ll need a gown,” Erin says, knocking me out of my thoughts.
“A gown? For what?” I ask.
“The O’Rourkes attend a lot of fundraisers, galas, auctions, shows.”
“With their wives and girlfriends,” I say on a painful swallow since I’m neither.
I don’t want to be his wife or anyone’s wife. But I’d like to be his girlfriend to get some more benefits. But he doesn’t want that.
Erin steers me to a sea of beautiful gowns. She digs into the racks and produces several in my size. Black, white, pink, yellow, and light green.
“Knowing the family, I recommend you buy at least one,” she says.
I glance at the price tags and laugh. “One? I’ll take them all.”