13. Kitten
Chapter thirteen
Kitten
Ian woke me up at four and wouldn’t let me go back to sleep.
I finally gave up trying to push him out of my head and go back to sleep around five, went downstairs, and made coffee.
I need a calm place to think, and sitting out here in the early morning always helps. Watching the light come up gray over the horizon lets me pretend there’s real calm someplace in my life.
Well, at least trying to pretend.
Ian is haunting my thoughts and that pisses me off. When I left Portland I swore I’d never give him any more of my mind or time than he’s already stolen.
This house, this yard, the bulkhead and the dock. It’s always been my source of comfort. Sitting on this deck conjuring up happy memories of our family has gotten me through some pretty dark times.
I rebuilt myself here and learned how to breathe again.
But not even this sanctuary seems to be able to protect me this morning.
The fucker is back in my head. On my island. And threatening to be in my world.
Again.
Never once did I even consider that he would show back up in my life. Eight years and two hundred and thirty-eight miles seemed like more than enough distance to put it so completely in my rearview that I couldn’t even see it anymore.
It wasn't.
Last night a boogeyman from the worst year of my life appeared. Stood on a stage forty feet from me wearing an expensive suit and smiled at my whole town.
Generous. Conniving.
Certain. Vile.
A man doing everyone a favor by existing. My ass.
The absurdity of it all keeps running on this continuous loop in my mind.
Mayor Ford tapping the microphone, our developer has graciously agreed to say a few words.
No, your developer is a narcissistic weasel who wants to dupe people and take their money.
Ian stepping out from the side of the stage.
But he’s Ian Danvers now?
That man is Ian Thorne.
Disbelief.
My stomach retched as every inch of skin on my body cringed and ached simultaneously.
He’s still hot as hell.
He put on a good show.
Always does. He’s a fucking con-artist. Of course he’s good, his trade depends on it.
Forty minutes and a panic attack later, his carefully worded speech is over.
And a town that came in suspicious left, half in love nodding about heritage jobs and thinking the building they all grew up loving might be saved.
And the other half trying to remain cautious but still affected by his poisonous siren song from the podium.
He’s a wicked, dangerous snake in the grass and no one sees him getting comfortable enough to start to coil.
Except me.
He made his way back to me. Cold. Calculating. Shaking hands. Smiling. Lying. When he finally made it to the refreshment table, he had the balls to shake my hand, smiling as vile words slithered from his mouth for everyone in the general vicinity’s consumption.
The whole time he stroked the webbing of my hand at the base of my thumb. That used to be thrilling, his private language when we were out letting me know it was time to go, he needed to be inside of me.
I recoiled, trying to look casual.
He made sure I knew he had more to say and was going to say it, people around or not. So, I moved us to the hallway where he’s a half a step too close using a tone in his voice that used to belong only to me in the dark.
"You look good, Kitten. This small town life agrees with you."
I didn't flinch. I want that on the record.
“Don’t call me that. I’m not your fucking kitten.”
“Oh but Kitten, you used to be,” he purrs. “And fucking or not, you and I are going to get reacquainted.”
“I seriously doubt that will ever happen. This town isn’t for you. Take your bullshit and move on to someplace where people aren’t already on to you and your side show.”
He took my hand to shake it and intimidate me. "This town listens to you, Kitten." He leans in close to my ear. "So, we’re going to talk. Properly. You remember how to do that, don’t you, Kitten? How smooth things can go and fit together when you stop fighting."
I pulled my hand back and walked out the side door before he could see me fall apart. That was saved and kept private for only me, in the car on the way home. Home, where there was a scalding shower waiting for me to try and scrape his touch off of me.
If only it were that easy to get rid of him.
I know better.
Ian doesn't scare and he didn’t talk to me in that hallway to reminisce. He came for the cannery. But in that hallway when he looked at me, I’m pretty sure he’s coming for me now, too.
***
When I get to the clinic, I’m so grateful to have work to change my focus onto something meaningful.
Yeah, that lasts all of about two minutes.
The waiting room is buzzing with talk about last night’s meeting. Every side of what to do with the cannery is being taken up in a neighborly way. And two young moms are even talking about how handsome the developer was.
Shit.
I let it go by because there is no version of arguing with it that doesn't end with me explaining how I know Ian Danvers is really Ian Thorne…and why.
And that can’t happen.
Ever.Jesus. How much is the cost of a one-way trip to Siberia?
Maybe, I won’t have to hear about Ian Danvers there.
So I focus, put my nose to the grindstone, treat patients and keep my mouth shut as the commentary continues to roll in.
But all of this negative pressure bottling up inside of me has to go somewhere. And that somewhere is…
Doc.
All morning I’ve been icing him and pelting him with jabs that, truly I’m ashamed of, but cannot stop my mouth from inflicting the damage. By lunch he’s had enough of it and corners me while I’m eating.
"What the hell has happened that has made you turn into an icy porcupine again?" He says.
He called me a porcupine. To my face.
And god help me, for whatever reason, I laugh. First real laugh in two days, dragged out of me by the person I’ve been an ass to for the crime of being kind to me.
So I try to open up and give him an answer, as much as I can.
"Ian Danvers," I tell him. "Is my ex.”
Doc looks at me, listens and doesn’t ask for more.
“From Portland,” I add.
The rest of Ian isn't a lunch conversation. Doc just takes it for what it is and goes back to work. And that’s the thing the boroughs under my skin into the afternoon.
Doc.
I’ve been shooting daggers at him and been a royal bitch, and he just waited me out.
That scares me more than Ian does. I know exactly what Ian is. I've known for a long time, and I know what to do about him.
Doc, I have no idea. He just keeps being decent and patient, and I don't have a single defense built for that.
***
I make it through the day and finally get to the grocery store. Walking up and down the aisles is kind of a zen thing for me, getting my steps in and tuning out the world for a little while. This is about taking time for me.
I don’t have a lot of these moments in my life, so I try to enjoy them.
I'm wedging a bag of groceries into the back seat of my car, keys in my teeth, when a voice comes from behind me, light and easy.
"You still buy the good coffee, Kitten,” he says, moving in beside me.
I stand up too fast and crack the back of my head on the door frame, and there he is.
Hands in his pockets, leaning against the next car, looking pleased with himself.
He’s been there a while. Long enough to know that I came alone, that I'm tired, that I'll want him gone more than I'll want a scene.
"What the hell are you doing here, Ian?"
“I was in the area,” he says with a voice laced with smarm. “I was feeling a little hungry.”
“Are you following me?”
He stands and takes a step toward me. “Kitten, I’m just paying attention.”
I can smell he’s wearing the same aftershave. It used to drive me wild. I can feel my body remembering and I have to shut it down hard to stay sane.
"Say what you came to say."
"Not here." He glances around the parking lot filled with people coming and going. Paula from the pharmacy is loading her trunk two spaces down, and is already looking over for the second time.
"Unless you'd like to undress these thoughts here, in front of the town. I’m sure they would be more than interested to hear what you did in Portland."
"You wouldn't."
"Kitten, all I have to do is stand here and let them watch." He laughs. "I don't make scenes. I orchestrate them. There's a difference, and you of all people know it."
He knows what this looks like, Annie Lockhart and the handsome developer with their heads together over her groceries, and he’s counting on my reaction to move us somewhere private rather than feed the town rumor mill a story by suppertime.
And he gets it. Smart and not safe are not always options. I hate myself the minute the words leave my mouth.
"Follow me."
“Oh Kitten. I already know where you live.”
Ice runs through my veins.
***
I bring Ian Thorne to my parents’ house. My sanctuary, where I’m confident no one will see him talking to me, and more importantly, no one will hear our conversation. He follows me in his rented raspberry-colored Tesla.
Showy through and through.
He stops inside the door. "This is lovely, Kitten," he says. "Yours?"
"My parents."
I walk into the living room, staying close to the door. "Say what you came to say and get out of my house."
"But, you invited me in." He wanders, unhurried, deep into the living room.
"You always did believe you could manage a situation.” He turns back to me. “Kitten, you chose your empty house over a parking lot because it felt safer. Now I'm in your living room because you wanted me here."
“I wanted you here to get you away from the town’s prying eyes. That’s all.”
He takes a step towards me.
"You've done well here. Respected. Trusted. The local girl who came home and made good." He pauses. "That's worth more than any permit or politician I could buy."
"You actually think I would put my name beside yours, whatever the hell it is now, ever again after what you did to me in Portland? You’re out of your fucking mind.”
He crosses the room slowly. I step back, my shoulders meet the bookcase beside the fireplace.