Chapter 15
Fifteen
Lou
“You can best fight any existing evils from the inside.”
Hattie McDaniel
The last time I came like that, I fell in love with a bad man.
The difference between the two men is stark, though.
Whereas Pierre flooded me with expensive gifts, luxury travel, and so many false affirmations, Grady is simply himself.
A blue-collar guy, a normal dude who takes me to a dingy bowling alley and fucks me in the back seat, pulled off the side of the road.
Grady is real world while Pierre tried to be larger than life.
But mostly, the difference between them is that Grady isn’t blowing any smoke up my ass.
He’s not making promises to me that are impossible to keep.
He isn’t showering me with compliments about how I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.
There’s nothing but green flags, here, even as I desperately search to find a red one.
He’s a divorcée. His ex-wife cheated on him.
Surely, that should come with some unresolved baggage.
A sense of bitterness or indignation. Yet, I haven’t seen that from him.
He doesn’t badmouth her. He’s expressed frustration that he doesn’t get as much time with Paige as he’d like, but that’s only a sign of being a good dad.
He also doesn’t show any signs of wanting to be in control.
When I look back on the earliest time of my relationship with Pierre, I can see the small things.
The way he’d plant ideas in a way that I believed the choice was mine to make.
It wasn’t. But he’d word everything in such a way that what he wanted sounded like the most desirable or logical suggestion.
He never asked where or what I wanted to eat; it was always suggested.
And the suggestion came with a compelling reason. Same with travel. Same with everything.
It was never about me. Always him. Only him. And only how I could make him look better.
“I heard they dropped the charges,” he says after we’re dressed and driving again.
“It’s not what I’d hoped for, but it’s what I expected,” I say. “All I get is a protective order, which we all know doesn’t do much.”
“No,” he agrees. “Except maybe keeps him from being as bold in his contact.”
“It hasn’t stopped him, yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“He emails every day. Multiple times, most days.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. It’s the only way open for him to contact me. He won’t stop. Not until he finds something new to obsess about, I guess,” I say.
“Have you blocked him?”
“Over and over,” I say with a sardonic laugh. “He creates a new email every time I do.”
“Have you considered changing your email address?”
“I thought about that,” I admit. “But what if he sends me some sign? Some forewarning. I’m too scared to miss anything.” The emails have been increasingly erratic. The more I don’t respond, which I haven’t at all, the more irate he gets with me.
“Is it possible for him to guess your whereabouts?”
“No,” I say. “Juliet always disliked him. He knew it and didn’t let me hang out with her. But I liked her a lot. We’ve been secret friends, of sorts. I work with Luke quite a bit. I think she suspected what others didn’t.”
“That tracks,” he says, reaching for my hand across the center console. “She’s always been good at reading people.”
“She was the only one I could think to call for help and trust that they wouldn’t tell Pierre.
I don’t know where I’d be if she hadn’t answered,” I tell him.
She took control of everything, asking to speak with the nurse so she understood my situation.
Knowing that I’d sugarcoat it. She’s the one who lined up the car for me, the cell phone, and gave me explicit directions on how to get to Stowaway and let myself into her house in Portland where I picked up keys and the garage door clicker for Irma’s house.
All she left for me to do was follow her lead.
“She’s good people.” His thumb rubs small circles on the top of my hand.
I stare at the motion and revel in how easy it is to be touched by him.
It’s natural and comforting. I crave it but not in the same way I did with Pierre.
I’m not seeking validation from Grady’s touch.
My mind isn’t racing a thousand miles a minute, trying to search for the right things to say to please him.
I get to be myself, not his made-up version of me. “You’re good people, too.”
Am I? I’m still not convinced. But I don’t feel as bad about myself as I once did.
“Someday, I hope to believe that.”
“Someday, you will,” he says, pulling into my driveway. Or Irma’s driveway that already feels like home. It’s been more of a home than any I’ve had before. We both get out of the truck and Grady walks me to the front door. “Come over tomorrow at two. I’ll teach you how to throw a punch.”
“I’m not sure it will be strong enough to do any damage.”
“There’re a few tricks I’ll show you,” he says, both palms coming to stretch on either side of my neck. “Did you have fun tonight?”
“I had a great time,” I say honestly, staring up at his serious eyes. “The sex was a nice surprise, too.”
“You weren’t expecting it?” he asks, pressing his thumbs up under my jaw.
“No. Were you? Is that why you had the condoms?”
“I wasn’t expecting it at all,” he says. “I like to be prepared, though.”
“I’m glad you were.” I barely breathe the words over his lips.
“Next time, I want more time. And a bed. I’m too old for that back seat shit.”
“I happen to think you managed fine, old man,” I say with a grin. “But deal.”
“Deal.” He kisses me, then. Slow, like we’ve got all the time in the world. Like he’s in no hurry to leave my side. Like he likes being with me.
A warm tendril comes alive within me. I like my deals with Grady Steele. It’s a partnership, promises and compromises that work both ways. A give and take, a balancing of the scales without either side ending in a hierarchy.
It’s refreshing.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Sleep well,” he says, pressing a final kiss on my lips, then watching while I get inside safely.
A memory of my father flashes in my mind. He used to say that to me on the rare night my mother wasn’t around when I went to bed.
Our family never said things like I love you or drive safely. Or, at least, they never said those things to me. Perhaps my brother got that from them when he was young. I often wondered if they used up all their parental love on him so there was none left by the time I came around.
Whenever my dad told me to sleep well, it felt special.
A secret I could treasure, and sure enough, those nights I would sleep better.
As if those two words acted like a safety blanket for me.
Sometimes, I think I’d like to be closer to my father.
Then, I remember that he’s never stood up for me when it has counted, and I’m left with only sadness.
Micah calls the following day. My phone rings so seldom, it startles me when it does.
“Hey, Micah,” I greet him.
He’s sent me the new contract already; everything is in order for me to sign as soon as my current one expires.
“Hi, Louisa. How are you?” He doesn’t sound his normal chipper self and a knot in my stomach instantly starts tightening.
“I’m good, how are you?”
“Pissed, honestly. I’ve been busy booking you the best jobs, and I just got a call from one of the designers that confirmed they wanted you only yesterday.”
“What changed today?” I know the answer before I even ask the question, but I have to hear it.
“They wanted Pierre. I said that wasn’t an option, that we needed to find a different photographer. They agreed to that but must have told Pierre,” Micah says. “Who then told them you tried to trump up charges on him.”
“And the designer cancelled,” I say and Micah hums irritably. “Who was it?”
“Shania James.”
Well, damn. That stings. She’s one of the hottest in the business, right now. A few years ago, she wasn’t much more than a protégée; today, they talk about her heading one of the bigger design houses.
“Wait. Doesn’t she platform survivors of sexual and domestic violence?”
“That’s what I fucking asked,” he answers, near yelling.
I can picture his face beet red, imagining the contrast it must be with his strawberry blonde mustache.
Micah is a small man, maybe five-foot-five. I’d be surprised if he weighs a buck-twenty. His personality makes up for his size, though—he’s bold, direct, and energetic. “I don’t know how, yet, but I want to bury that bitch right next to him.”
“This is how I know you were the right choice for new management,” I tell him.
“I’m not sure you’ll be saying that if I can’t book you a gig because that fucker sabotages them all.”
“He won’t win every battle,” I say, though I’m not at all confident about that.
“We should get ahead of it, Louisa. That’s my advice, anyway,” he says. “But it’s your career, and your call, of course.”
“Let me have some time to mull it over, have a good cry, whatever,” I say. “I’ll be in touch soon.”
“You got it. Let me know what you want me to do.”
As soon as we hang up, I feel the beginnings of a panic attack as reality slams through me. He won’t give up. He won’t give in. He wants me to be afraid and alone.
And I am afraid. I’m always, always afraid of him.
I’ve been trained to make every decision with his reaction in mind.
Down to the simplest of things, he’d berate me over all of them.
Once, I had my nails painted pale pink and he told me I not only acted like a child, but I looked like one, too.
I’m not sure how a simple nail polish color could have been so offensive, but he kept at me until he dragged me into the bathroom and made me scrub it off.
Every day, there was something. He’d tell me I purposely did things to piss him off, that I liked his reaction. I didn’t.
On the contrary, I tried so hard to be the perfect woman, the perfect girlfriend. Someone who was pleasant, loving, fun to be around. God, how I tried. Only to fail again and again.