Chapter 22 #2
It’s not the clear signal I had in mind.
Jacket?
I open the closet again, reaching for a hanger. Holding up the black rain-coat against myself, looking in the mirror. I bought this a while ago, partly to wear over that horrible dress when I go to church, the color a small rebellion, even then. Worn it… what, twice?
Repurposing it for this appeals for all the right reasons.
There’s even a pair of heels that match.
I pull them on, standing before the mirror, twisting to check myself out.
It’s not very long, barely below my ass. But it covers everything… just.
Perfect.
Needless to say, I can’t wear this outfit on a bike. I’ll have to order an Uber, and be very damn careful how I get in and out. It’s twenty minutes away, which leaves me just long enough to put on a touch of makeup—another thing I’m massively under practiced in.
But it’ll be worth it just to see Declan’s face when I knock on his door.
The Uber driver spends quite a lot of time looking in his rearview mirror, and I check again that the sides of my coat are pulled carefully over one another, held by my belt.
If he says anything, I’m going to punch him.
The next time he looks back he gets a well-timed scowl, and decides to focus more on the road.
“Thanks,” I say sarcastically when he drops me off, giving him the finger instead of a tip. He got paid in fantasies anyway, but now I’m here, and there’s only one man that gets to unwrap me.
I stand in front of the keypad for his apartment block, my finger hovering over the call button for his apartment. Then on a whim, I punch in six, seven, eight, nine and the main door clicks open. I grin to myself. It’ll be much more effective to knock directly on his door.
The building’s quiet as I take the elevator up, for which I’m grateful. It’s one thing walking into Declan’s apartment dressed like this—undressed like this. It’s quite another meeting a stranger on the way.
It’s the world’s slowest elevator. It has a mirror, cracked and dirty, and I can’t look at my reflection. It’s only now, this late, that doubts arrive. What am I thinking? This isn’t me at all.
But I shove them down. I’m here now. It’s either go through with it, or get an Uber back. And I don’t want another man’s eyes on me.
No, I’m committed. One minute, I’ll be in his apartment. Two minutes, I’ll be in his arms. Five minutes…
I’m already wet. The nakedness, the near-nudity, the anticipation on the ride over. Knowing what he’ll do when he sees me. It’s all adding to the excitement building within me, yet playing havoc with my nerves. This feels wrong.
What if he doesn’t want to see me? What if he’s not been around because he doesn’t want to be?
No, that’s fear talking. His text messages haven’t left any question that he’s interested. And I’m stronger than this. Normally, anyway. Why does sex rob me of my fire, my attitude, my confidence?
No more. I’m going to take what’s mine, starting with him. I stare right into the mirror, challenging myself. And my reflection stares back, giving me a determined nod.
When the doors finally slide open, I strut down the hallway, owning the moment. The doubts have gone, my excitement’s returned, and now it feels right.
I count the doors carefully—wouldn’t want to get this one wrong—wondering how thick the walls are, and if his neighbors are ready for what they’re about to hear. But I don’t care. This is for me and him, two consenting adults, one pinning the other down and doing whatever the hell he likes.
Taking a breath, I raise a hand, and knock twice.
That’s when I hear the voice. It’s not his, it’s a woman’s.
He has a woman in his apartment.
I’m still standing there, stunned, shocked, and with my world crashing around my ears, when Declan Hale opens the door.
I stare at him, suddenly lightheaded, the blood literally draining from my face.
She’s standing just past him. Immediately, I notice the similarity to me.
She’s slim like me, two inches shorter, a few years older.
A lean and flat stomach hinted at beneath a strappy crop top, paired with blue jeans.
While I’m here practically naked, ready to offer myself.
She has dark hair, almost the same shade as mine.
“Blonds, or brunettes?”
“Brunettes, definitely. Darker is so much more fun, don’t you agree?”
It seems Declan has a type. Not blond, after all. I wonder if the woman in Thousand Oaks knows. How many women does he have?
Stupid question when he looks the way he does. Dozens. Hundreds.
It’s obvious that he lied to me. Two years four months? As if.
It’s equally obvious why he hasn’t come to call. And apparently, he is much recovered.
Thank God I didn’t get here an hour later, with him answering the door in a hastily-donned bathrobe. Or leaving me standing outside, listening to the pounding of the headboard against the wall.
Fuck. Fuck him. Fuck her. Fuck my life.
It’s not shock anymore. It’s not even anger. It’s just hurt, deep and cutting and so fucking expected. Tears fill my eyes, and I turn away before he sees.
“Raven—” he begins, but I’m not hanging around.
He reaches for me, weight onto his bad leg, wincing a second later.
I don’t care—it’s probably an attempt at sympathy.
But that ship has sailed. I step back, meeting his gaze for a fleeting second.
My damn coat stirs with the movement, and I slap a hand onto it, holding it in place.
He doesn’t get to see that now. Or ever again.
The elevator’s only twenty feet away, but it feels like a marathon. Every step, waiting to hear their laughter behind me. Tears prickling my eyes.
“Raven!”
I ignore him. I have no interest in his lame half-assed apologies—or worse, the ‘I didn’t think we were exclusive’ when what he really means is ‘you suck in bed and she doesn’t.’
The doors have long closed. I press the button again and again. Why won’t they open? I should’ve taken the stairs. I only didn’t because anyone coming up would have one hell of a view, because I’m fucking naked under this coat.
What was I thinking? So damn stupid!
He’s coming down the hallway behind me. The elevator still hasn’t arrived. I don’t want to face him. A sob slips out, half frustration, half heartbreak. It hurts so much that maybe I did love him, maybe I was capable of love.
No more. Never again. Not him, not anyone.
A hand closes around my arm. I jerk back in reflex, but he doesn’t release me.
Fucking. Bastard.
“Let go of me!”
“No.” He doesn’t yell, he speaks calmly. Like my request is unreasonable.
The door to the stairs is drifting closed behind the other woman. She’s gone, leaving us alone. Except maybe I’m the other woman. I don’t know how long this has been going on.
I don’t care about that either. The hurt seems to have faded, leaving behind only numbness. It’s all too easy to find a calm voice that matches his.
“Let go of me.”
“There is no force in this world that will pry my hand from your arm,” he says. “Not until you’ve come into my apartment and let me explain.”
I almost laugh. Explain? What the hell is there to explain?
“There’s nothing to explain, is there?” I was wrong: the hurt is still there, making every breath painful. But I mask it with my contempt for him. “I have eyes. I’m sorry I… interrupted.”
He lets out a sharp breath, and his face loses some of its tension. Almost like he’s… relieved? Relief that I didn’t interrupt? That they hadn’t started yet?
I tug at my arm, but the bastard holds on. “Let go of me right now, Declan.”
“No. I told you—”
I’ve had it. With him, with this, with men.
“Fuck you.”
And I punch him. Not in his perfect face, although that’s tempting. Not in his balls, although he deserves it. No, instead I do something far worse.
I hit him as hard as I can, right over his wound, right into his thigh.