Chapter 22
Chloe: Thought I might take the kid skydiving afterward. You cool with that?
Zeke: Very funny.
Chloe: No? Strip club?
Zeke: Chloe, just the party will be great. Thanks.
Chloe: Playing in traffic? Party boat on the Hudson? Skid Row?
Zeke: No.
Chloe: To the cinema for that new horror film it is, then. It’s been banned in Europe, but I’m sure they’re exaggerating.
ZEKE
Three hours later, I’m sitting in the back of the Town Car nursing my third large tequila.
I’m not usually a day drinker, but the shit show I just had to smooth over deserves hard liquor.
Thankfully, no client data was stolen, so we’re not vulnerable to a fine from the FTC.
But whoever was smart enough to get by our embedded security system has managed to pilfer a good portion of code for a new platform we’re developing.
My head of IT is a little kooky and must have mentioned China fifteen times in the debrief.
But I wasn’t buying that. The whole thing reeks of corporate espionage and that means someone closer to home.
Sucking in a deep breath through my nostrils, I set my empty crystal tumbler down in the hidden bar compartment and try to shake off any negativity.
It’s a ritual I find myself participating in more and more, determined not to drag that stuff into my home so it affects my son.
Counting to four, I let the air whoosh out of my lungs.
Sucking in another four seconds of air, I rinse and repeat just like Dr. Wesley instructed me.
Running my tongue over my teeth, I trace the jagged line of my scar snaking down my upper lip with one finger.
The ghost of copper fills my nostrils and I give my head a sharp shake, trying to dispel the vision of ruby red that swarms my mind's eye. Sinew and bone and skin. Obliterated. Unrecognizable. Red is a color I avoid at all costs, until recently. On Chloe, it looks like home.
“Fuck’s sake,” I curse, shifting in my seat and starting my breathing exercise from the beginning.
By the time we arrive at the north entrance of the park, I’ve managed to resume some semblance of calm.
Bates stops the car and I step out, casting my eye around the street for any sign of the SUV to indicate Chloe is still here.
My eyes catch on something shiny and black, low to the ground.
“What the…” I stalk over to it, my eyes almost bugging from my damn head as I clock the personalized number plate.
My Aston Martin DB12 is parked casually by the curb, Diego’s car seat stuffed into the front, leaving barely any room for anything else.
The anger from before surges, laced with something that feels a whole lot like a challenge.
We’re far enough into our little living arrangement for me to know she gets a kick out of getting me riled, but even though I know this, I can’t seem to stop giving her what she’s after.
Every jibe, snarky remark, or rebellious act draws me in.
Makes me want to claim her. Challenges me to dominate her until she surrenders and is willing putty in my hands.
Her fire turns me on to no end, but once we cross that line into the bedroom, I want her to button it and do as she’s damn well told.
The sound of the word “please” on her lips has haunted every waking second of my life since last night and I’m eager to pull it from her again.
When she hasn’t been slinging back her body weight in tequila, that is.
Swiping a hand over my face roughly for what feels like the hundredth time today, I throw my eyes skyward and send out a silent prayer.
The front of my Levi’s feel uncomfortably tight and I’m about to walk into a kid's birthday party.
The weather is nice enough that the park is heaving with New Yorkers, tourists, and vendors alike.
Picnics are being eaten, aesthetically pleasing family photos snapped, and bikes ridden.
Pulling out my phone, I follow the pin Chloe dropped to show me exactly where they are.
I catch sight of about thirty children Diego's age all gathering around in a circle under a sour gum tree by the lake, surrounded by parents, and head that way. My eyes scan the crowd, quickly zeroing in on the lick of flame-red hair shimmering in the midday sun. All of the air is punched from my lungs like I’ve had a swift kick delivered to my chest. She’s wearing a blue and white floral sundress that kisses her knees and hugs her curves like a second skin.
The delicate straps are tied at the top, exposing miles of creamy, freckled flesh.
If I thought she looked good in her carefree fuck-me glasses and bun this morning, this is a whole new level of beautiful.
A light smile touches her full, pink lips as she watches the kid in the center opening presents.
Her arms are casually slung around Diego’s chest where he stands in front of her.
One of his pudgy hands clings to her wrist. Realizing the sight of her has literally stopped me in my tracks, I force my heavy feet forward.
The kid in the middle with wavy blonde hair and an upturned nose snatches up another gift, swiftly discarding the one he just opened on the floor.
Chloe leans her head down close to Diego’s and says something in his ear that makes him clap his little hand over his mouth and giggle.
My own lips tug up in response, but my attention is drawn by a high-pitched shriek.
Frowning, I glance back at the kid in the middle.
A woman, presumably his mother, is standing over him with an open card in her hand, her lipstick-painted mouth open.
She’s a typical Stepford-looking thing—bottle blonde with a sharp Chanel flannel suit and pearl earrings.
My footsteps divert, deciding to go and see what the fuss is about.
“Who would dare!” the woman cries, her heavily lined eyes flying wide as she gapes down at the card still outstretched in her hand.
The kid happily shredding presents a few moments ago seems to pick up on the atmosphere and begins to wail loudly, setting a handful of the other kids off too.
A few of the other moms press in closer, and I have to weave my way through until I’m standing directly behind the inner circle.
Clutched in the crying boy’s hand is a pink leather dog leash and collar.
A shiny silver bone tag catches the sunlight, dangling off the collar with the name Princeton engraved on it.
The woman pivots on the spot, scanning the surrounding crowd with wide, outraged eyes.
Her gaze falls on me and I don’t miss the flare of recognition.
She flourishes the card at me, apparently deciding that I’m her best bet at some authoritative backup.
Plucking the card wordlessly from her French manicured hand, I scan the one line of text.
Act like a bitch and get treated like one, Princeton.
Oh fuck. My eyes jerk away from the card, but I make a point to scan around a few faces before landing on Chloe, who is innocently standing blank faced, staring at me.
My gaze tumbles to my son, who has turned to press his face into Chloe’s hip.
Her hand rests on the back of his head, keeping him there, but his shaking shoulders give them away.
“You!” the boy's mom shrieks, pointing a finger at Chloe like she can summon a lightning bolt from the heavens and strike her down. Double fuck. What is this woman’s name, again? Wracking my brain quickly, I grab at the first foggy memory from the invite Diego brought home from preschool.
“Sadie, this has been a misunderstanding. Let me—”
“It’s Shelley!” the woman snaps, turning her glowering face to me. Triple fuck.
“Right, Shelley. We must have picked up the wrong present, Chloe—”
“Your fiancée did this on purpose! This is what you get for marrying a common—”
“Do not forget who you are speaking to.” My voice claps like thunder as I cut her off.
A hushed silence settles, and the woman’s eyes widen before I continue.
Even the kids stop crying for a moment. “I do not take kindly to being spoken over and I certainly will not allow you or anyone else to speak ill of my partner.”
I’m remembering who she is now. Shelley Myers, formerly Townsend.
Married and divorced to a slick git who sits on the board of a pharmaceutical company.
The slick git in question has been trying to lean on me to nominate him for membership at the Chilson House for years.
Her lashes flutter and she swallows, raising a hand to her throat as though remembering herself.
Without waiting for a reply, I fold the card and slip it into my back pocket, stalking over to where Chloe stands. “We’re leaving.”
Thankfully, she doesn’t protest. Diego twists and peeks up at me as she urges him to move.
I school my face before he can see the annoyance radiating from my pores and he offers me a small smile, reaching for my outstretched hand.
The murmur of shocked voices crescendos behind us and I realize he won’t be able to walk fast enough to avoid the obvious commotion about to ensue as more parents hear of what happened.
Scooping him up in my arms, I plunk him onto my shoulders, to his delight.
He lets out a quiet giggle, his hands grabbing below my jaw to hold on.
I wince as I feel the sticky hands of a boy who has clearly been in the sweets, or the birthday cake, or something else sugary.
He urges me onward in Spanish, each outcry punctuated by soft laughter.
He needn’t though, I’m speeding away from the crowd as fast as I can, eager to get the fuck out of there before the homeowner's association moms descend like a pack of angry wolves.
“Wait up. Jesus. My legs are half as long as yours,” Chloe mumbles, jogging at my side to catch up, her delicate sandals slapping softly.
“Not a word out of you,” I snap, making a beeline for the path that leads us back to the exit.