Chapter 7 #2
“My, my. So what happened to the bad guy?” she asks, more engrossed in my story than ever.
“He came down with the flu.” I tilt my shoulders. “I don’t know. He called in.”
She tilts her head to the side and looks at me through her eyelashes.
Her attitude makes me think she knows a lot more about what happened tonight than she had led me to believe, and she’s just playing her part, trying to make me feel bad about it and snap.
Confess everything, pack up my shit, and move out.
That idea keeps circling back.
If it’s real and it’s not only happening in my imagination, then this is the ploy I thought it was.
“Are we done here?” I ask, unfazed, before taking another bite. “I don’t enjoy your questioning in the slightest,” I go on, signaling to her that it’s time for her to back off.
I barely swallow my last bit of food and a car roars outside. Only one car engine that I know of has that deep, raspy sound, and it happens that I was in that car tonight.
I stay still, focused on the woman in front of me.
If she and her husband have been plotting all this, this might be the perfect time to find out.
She slides off her seat, ties the belt over her short robe, and heads to the lobby.
“Finally,” I murmur to myself, ready to collect my bag and make myself scarce.
Her wearing that skimpy pajama set while talking to him doesn’t sit well with me, but that’s a topic for another day.
As much as I’d like to gather more information and gauge the danger I am in, being subjected to this woman’s scrutiny is exhausting. It’s equally bothersome to suspect he plays a role in this, and he does it for the money.
We’re all doing it for the money in the end.
Didn’t he say that to me?
I shift in my seat to slide off when his footsteps echo in the foyer.
She’s talking. He’s listening. Unfortunately, I can’t make out her words.
I panic for a moment.
What if she’s asking him about me, and he’s telling her something different than what I’d said to her and I get in trouble?
What if they’re not in this together after all?
I become one with my seat.
At the last moment, I run a hand through my hair, and sweep my fingers below my eyes, trying to remove any traces of mascara.
My lipstick is long gone.
I bite my lip and pinch my cheeks for a little color, although most of the light comes from the pool and is blue, so it doesn’t do me any favors.
I must look like a ghost.
The dangling lights in the kitchen spread a faint glow around the modernly decorated space and make the counters look good but not me.
I see my reflection in a mirror.
It’s bad.
It’s also… too bad.
He looms in the doorframe, and I swiftly assume a different position in my seat.
Relaxed, I lean against the kitchen island with a glass of water in front of me and an elbow on the counter.
“Good evening, Mr West,” I say. “Thank you again for offering me a ride home.”
His eyes meet mine for a second.
She can’t see his face. He also blocks her view of me and what goes on between us.
His expression glints like a glacier in the moonlight.
Beautiful, breathtaking, and filled with secrets.
He stares at me as if we share a secret, which we do, and the person behind him must remain unaware of it.
As unsettling as that is, I like this version of our truth more than him plotting against me.
Still, it’s not enough to categorically establish that something is going on between us, and there’s a reason for that.
Despite all that, I need to follow this man’s lead for now.
“You’re welcome,” he says, cold. “I hope you feel better.”
“I certainly do. The food helped,” I add.
My mouth would fall open if I afforded to look like a silly clown.
Has she just told him my story? Is she that dumb?
She was all territorial and suspicious with me, and now he seems to be aware of what has gone on between her and me.
He turns to her, with the same glacier floating on an ocean of indifference look on his face while she peers at him like a lost puppy.
“Something happened at the club?” she asks quietly, trying too hard to create a moment of intimacy and make herself into a confidant.
Weird moment.
He looks at her as if weighing an answer.
“No, everything’s fine.”
His voice is dry, his presence lackluster.
Why is he here?
“Do you want to eat something?” she asks him, and that would be something worth watching, but I realize it’s time for me to leave.
I push off my seat, and his eyes slide to me.
“I’m good,” he says to her. “Put on some clothes and come with me,” he murmurs, and her face lights up. “There’s a party at the club.”
She forgets about me in a second, spins around, and off she goes.
He watches her walk away before he turns to me, a hand concealed in his pocket.
His eyes keep me in place as he walks straight to me, when her voice rings outside again.
She shows up at the door.
“Do you want me to wear that red dress you like?”
A pinch of jealousy feels like chalk on my lips.
It’s a normal dialogue between two married people. And yet it feels like a fork in my eye.
He pivots quickly as if he intends to go to the refrigerator, and I watch him powerlessly as he studies her.
“Sure,” he says dismissively.
Just as she pulls away for the second time, he changes his direction, retrieves his hand from his pocket, and slides something small and shiny across the counter.
“Put this back on,” he orders me quietly, and I catch the little object and immediately bring my hand to my ear.
Oh, crap. My earring. I didn’t realize it was missing. Did she? I never saw her stare at my ear.
Which side of my face was visible to her?
What if she did notice that I was missing an earring?
Before I have the chance to make a slideshow with all the scenarios spinning in my head, he lowers his hand under the counter, brushes my thigh in the process, sweeps something off the frame, and drops his hand into his pocket again.
Without a word, he moves to the refrigerator and retrieves a bottle of water.
I stare at his back, like a scarecrow propped on a fence, not knowing what to do.
What was that last thing that he just did? Was that a minuscule microphone?
That would explain why he knew my story before she or I could say anything to him.
Did he know she’d be back? Does he routinely plant microphones in the house?
He probably does, and they probably don’t stay in the same place for long, so she doesn’t find them.
That’s not funny.
Her heels click against the marble floor.
Man, was she fast or what?
She looms in the door wearing a beautiful, strapless red dress. The woman looks like a deity with her appetizing silhouette, sultry dress, and sassy attitude.
I know what made my father lose his head over her.
The question is, had Damon West lost his head over her?
And if he had, what was the meaning of that moment between us in his office?
What was the meaning of his asking me to stay?
“Don’t wait up,” she tosses at me from the door, a smug grin on her face as he walks her out of the house, while I feel like throwing up.