Chapter 15 – Cora #3
“I’m sure your accomplishments have more than earned you such appreciation,” Huda interjects, her fork paused midair. Huda is a feminist. Delaney’s ass-kissing must be raising her hackles, too.
“No doubt,” Delaney says. “Back in college, I decided that I wanted the best, and look—” She gestures around the table. At the view of Rockefeller Center. At my husband. “I’ve got it.”
She sinks back in her chair and crosses her legs, slowly so I’m sure to notice, flashing her long, bare legs and blush-colored slingback heels with red soles. She lets the shoe on the crossed leg dangle from her toes.
In my mind, I see her jammed down on my husband’s dick as she turns her head, tossing her hair, her mouth in a perfect, surprised “oh.”
I feel the beautiful soap bubble inside me that I thought was love pop again.
I stand, but it’s not me. I’m not in control anymore.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I mumble at the table.
From the corner of my eye, I see Adrian fumble with his napkin, but not-me is fast. In five steps, I’m at the coat rack, fishing his keys from his coat pocket.
Seconds later, I’m weaving through the dining room, and then I’m at the elevator bank.
It’s my lucky day. I push the button, and the silver doors in front of me glide right open.
I vaguely hear Adrian call my name from behind, but the door is already closing, and I’m going down. I catch my reflection. Today, I’m alone. No Schmidt or Tiller behind me, exchanging looks that are so obvious in hindsight. Adrian feels like he’s enough security for us when we go out together.
Adrian makes all the decisions, all the calls.
He fucks up and ruins everything and decides he doesn’t like the consequences of his actions, so he says we’re not over, and I can’t even make a liar out of him because a pair of goddamned red-soled shoes has ripped my heart out again like I’m the guy in Greek mythology who they chained to a rock so an eagle could eat his liver, day after day, forever. At least he got something for it.
It’s not fair.
I’ve never done anything to deserve the bad shit that happens to me, and it keeps happening, over and over.
Forever.
The elevator dings. The doors slide open.
A dozen feet away, Adrian’s Scorpion waits, sleek and expensive and buffed to a shine, backed into a space with his name on it.
When he married me, he parked me in a mansion in Connecticut and gave me a black credit card so I’d be sleek, expensive, and buffed to a shine, too.
God, but it felt like love.
I hate that fucking car.
Not-me floats across the garage, the soles of my pink flats scuffing the concrete. The door unlocks as I approach with the key fob. I slide into the driver’s seat.
A Scorpion can go from zero to sixty in 2.8 seconds. Adrian had fun showing me on the back roads by our house. There are no other cars parked down here in the family’s personal section. On the far side of the level, maybe forty feet away, there is a massive concrete column.
The last math class I passed was Algebra I in ninth grade, but I can guesstimate just fine. If I can get going fast enough, I can smash this car without killing myself.
I move the seat as far back as it goes and buckle up.
This is a bad decision.
This is trouble.
If I were me, I wouldn’t do it.
Adrian loves this car.
I grab the wheel and stomp the gas pedal to the floor. The Scorpion shoots forward like a rocket. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the stairwell door burst open, and Adrian come tearing through.
And then screech. Smash. My head snaps back. The airbag blows up, smacking me in the face like a punch in the nose. With one hand, I bat the bag away. With the other, I kick the car into reverse.
Hope Adrian’s not behind me. I can’t see out the rearview.
I reverse what feels like several feet, shift to first, and gas it again. Squeal. Screech. Smash. The scent of smoke, plastic, and copper fills my lungs.
I can’t breathe, I’m laughing so hard. What’s so funny?
I throw the gear stick into reverse, but before I can punch it again, the door flies open. Adrian seizes me by the upper arms and heaves, trying to haul me out, but I’m still buckled in, and I can’t stop cackling. Tears stream down my face.
His face is dark with rage. I’ve never seen him look like this—like he could kill someone.
He sticks his head in the car, fighting past the airbag to undo my seatbelt, and I laugh louder, right in his ear, as he wrenches me bodily out of the Scorpion and drags me to the curb by the elevators.
Keeping an iron grip on me, he turns his head to stare at the Scorpion. The front half is crushed. Ribbons of smoke rise from the crumpled hood. Fat black tire marks lead from his spot to the wreck. Look at that— I burnt rubber.
He turns back to me. His pupils are huge. I grin. Now, he’ll scream and shout and lose it. I hope he hits me. I’ll tear him apart.
He relaxes his hold and smooths his hands down my arms, gently squeezing, testing the bones. “Are you hurt?” he asks, his voice gruff. Shaken.
His hands are trembling. My laughter dies.
“Cora,” he snaps. “Focus. Where are you hurt?”
The skin above my lip tickles. I touch it, and my finger comes away bloody. I show him.
“Goddamn it, Cora. Fuck.” He digs a handkerchief from his pocket and presses it under my nose. “Hold that there. Jesus. Where else? Does your head hurt?”
His fingers move to my scalp, undoing the twist, combing through my hair.
“Mr. Maddox! Oh my god!” An attendant in blue overalls appears, running over from somewhere on the other side of the garage. “What happened?”
I drop the hand holding the handkerchief to my nose. Adrian grabs my hand and presses it right back where it was. “Hold it, dammit.”
The attendant stops between us and the car, his gaze snapping back and forth.
Satisfied that my head’s not bleeding, Adrian’s hands move to check my ribs. “What were you fucking thinking?” he mutters. “You could have fucking killed yourself. Jesus Christ, Cora. What the fuck?”
“That’s gonna be a total loss,” the attendant says, swiping his ballcap off his head out of respect. “How did it happen? Did she mix up the gas and brake?”
Adrian’s hands fall, and he pivots so he’s partially blocking me from view.
“I was driving,” Adrian says, his face perfectly straight. “My foot slipped.”
The attendant gawks at him wide-eyed. “But I—”
“My foot slipped,” Adrian repeats. “I must’ve had more to drink than I thought.”
Just then, two men from building security spill from the stairwell, jogging over.
“Mr. Maddox, are you okay?” one pants. “Should we call an ambulance?”
My blood freezes.
“No,” I gasp, panic flooding the empty space left by my receding hysteria. I didn’t mean to do it. It wasn’t me. Not really.
They’ll say that’s why I need to go. Get help. Feel better.
They’ll take my girls away. I moan.
My teeth chatter. I’m drenched in sweat despite the cold December air.
Adrian takes a half-step back toward me, his back to my face as he blocks me fully from the men’s view.
“There is no need. As you can see, we’re fine.
It was just a minor accident, although, obviously, it’s going to be an expensive one.
” Adrian reaches into his interior jacket pocket and draws out a thick wad of bills.
All three men’s attention pivots from the smashed car to Adrian’s hands. He slowly counts out several bills.
“I’m sure I can rely on your discretion.” He hands the attendant a stack. “I am, of course, embarrassed.” He hands the first guard a stack. “And the CCTV video—” He offers a stack to the second guard.
The man immediately palms the cash. “Taken care of. Don’t think twice about it, Mr. Maddox. We’ve got you covered.”
“Thank you.” Adrian takes a card from his wallet. “If you’ll call this number and let them know there’s been an accident, the man who answers will handle the tow truck. I’m going to take my wife home now.”
“Yeah, of course. I’ll, uh, get a fire extinguisher, and, uh, extinguish the fire, eh?” The attendant gestures at the smoking hood.
“I’d be obliged,” Adrian says, passing him a few more bills. The man trots off.
Adrian wraps an arm around my waist and guides me toward the elevators. His muscles are taut with rage. My steps stutter. He holds me tighter, his fingers digging into my ribs.
“No you don’t,” he growls. “No more shit from you.”
As soon as we’re on the elevator, he turns to me. “Give me that.” He snatches the handkerchief from me and pinches my chin to lift my face toward the light.
“Ow.”
“That hurts, does it?” He gently feels along the bridge of my nose. “How about that?”
I shrug. It’s not broken. I can breathe out of both nostrils, and I don’t have that heaviness under my eyes you get with a busted nose.
He scowls down at me, his hands resting on my shoulders, so close to circling my neck, then sighs and presses his forehead to mine, bumping my tender nose.
“I could kill you,” he murmurs.
“It’s just a car. Buy another one.”
“Buy another one? Fuck the car.” He laughs, jagged and raw, his fingers digging into me. “There isn’t another one. Only you.”
“You figured that out a little too late.”
He loosens his hold and smooths my sleeves. “Yeah.” The elevator dings. “Come on, Harley Quinn. Let’s get you home to your babies.”
Instantly, fear sours my gut. “I won’t do anything like that again,” I say in a rush. “I swear. It was a mistake.”
“A mistake.” He chuckles once. “Come on.”
He guides me off the elevator and down an access hall, making phone calls while we walk.
He tells Mike to apologize to the Richards on our behalf, that my stomach disagreed with me, but I’m sure to recover soon enough.
The story might fool the Richards into thinking I have morning sickness, but Delaney will know the truth. She won.
I pull away from Adrian. He draws me right back to his side.
He calls a car to pick us up and checks in with James to make sure the attendant spoke to him and the car was being handled. James must ask what happened because Adrian says, “I pay you very well to not explain myself,” and hangs up.
We emerge from the building at a loading dock. The snow is coming down harder, but the flakes are small like powdered sugar.
Adrian shrugs off his jacket, holds it up for me, and orders, “Arms.”
I slide my arms into the sleeves. My brain is rubbery, like it usually is after an episode. I won’t be clearheaded again until after I sleep.
Adrian helps me down the metal stairs to the lot where the trucks make deliveries. When we’re on the ground, he doesn’t let go, so while we shelter by a concrete wall and wait for the car, we hold hands. Does he think I’m going to run?
Is he plotting to send me away? Is he thinking about that holistic wellness retreat in Switzerland?
They sent me away for almost a year and a half in Baltimore, and they didn’t have Adrian’s money and connections. I can’t leave the girls. Winnie wouldn’t even remember me if I was gone that long.
“Don’t send me away.” I stare at the smudged toes of my flats. I hate asking him for anything when the woman he fucked is dangling her red-soled shoe from her toes a few floors away, but I have no pride when it comes to my babies.
I know I should have thought of them before I did what I did. Shame burns under my skin. Now is now, though. I’ve never been able to undo my mistakes, but maybe this time—
“I’d die if you took them away from me.” I don’t have the strength to firm my voice. The words come out a snotty, hysterical babble.
Adrian glances over and exhales. “I’m not taking the girls away from you. I wouldn’t do that to any of us.”
“What about the prenup?”
“Fuck the prenup. Prenup is over.” He grabs me by the arms and whirls me to face him.
“Try to divorce me if you want, but don’t ever, ever, ever scare me like that again.
Ever.” He shakes me to emphasize his point.
My body’s pretty much rubber, too, so my neck snaps back and forth.
“Shit.” He stops immediately and seizes my head to stop the bobbling. “Did that hurt? Did I hurt you?”
I shake my head, but he’s still holding it like he’s afraid it’s going to fall off my neck.
He exhales. “Just don’t ever do anything like that again, Cora. Just don’t. Please.” His voice is frayed.
He drops his hands to his sides and collapses to lean against the dock, exhausted. The dark smudges under his eyes that never go away now are almost purple in the shadows of the building.
His face is grim, his shoulders stiff like he’s been forcing himself to stand straight for too long.
“Cora, all I want is for you to stay. For it to be like it was again.” He stares across the lot at the alley running past. Skyscrapers rise above us on all sides.
“It can never be like it was again.”
His jaw flexes, his shoulders somehow tensing even more. “I know.”
I turn so I’m standing next to him, leaning back against the concrete, too. I brush the side of my palm against his. He doesn’t move to grab my hand.
So I grab his. I’m still angry. Broken. Bereft.
And it probably wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, anyone who hadn’t lived my life or been the places I’ve been, but there was a moment—when he stood between me and the men in the garage and covered for me without hesitation. When he said I wouldn’t do that to any of us.
A rich, handsome man who whisks you away on his white horse is a dream.
But a man who’ll lie for you? Who doesn’t care what’s wrong with you? Who protects you when you’re burning down your own house?
A man like that is as fucked up as I am. He’s real.
“It could be different, though,” I say, sniffing back blood or tears, I’m not sure. “Maybe.”
He squeezes my hand so tightly, my finger bones grind together. A sedate black limo rounds the corner and pulls up in front of us.
“Let’s go home,” he says.