It’s not such a bad thing, my attraction to him. It’s the emotional distance I feel from him that’s bugging me. I suspected he’d be in and out of my life like a flash of lightning—bright and electric and then gone without a trace—but on some level I must’ve expected him to be a little more open with me, a little more . . . feeling. But it’s like the only thing he feels is my physical presence, my body. And, of course, anger. Lots and lots of anger. It’s always there, hovering just beneath the surface. It’s like nothing is stronger than that, no feeling or person or emotion.
I think he loses himself in me much the same way I lose myself in him, only his is much more temporary and transient. As soon as his mind strays from our physical connection, from desire, he’s right back in his miserable past and his equally miserable present.
What bothers me most is that I’m starting to suspect there’s nothing I can do about it. No way I can change it, no way to make a dent in his life and his heart the way I think he’ll be making one in mine.
Hearts don’t often break even. One person is usually more hurt while the other is more relieved. But in this instance, there is likely to be devastation on one side. And it’s likely to be me. Yet here I am, thinking about him, anxiously anticipating the next time I’ll see him or hear from him.
You’re like a schoolgirl with one horrific crush.
Or maybe a glutton for punishment.
There are a thousand reasons I should stay away from him and only one that I shouldn’t. But that one reason is powerful enough to keep me right here, in the thick of things.
He’s the forbidden fruit. And I’m tempted beyond what I can resist.
With a growl of frustration, I walk to my closet to put on some presentable work clothes. I’ve got to get out of the house. But I don’t want to go to work. I figure a trip to the library will be both distracting and productive. At least I can continue trying to build a case, a case I know little about against people I know nearly nothing about.
* * *
Three and a half frustrating hours later, I’m driving home, considering calling one of my law professors for some guidance. What gives me pause is that it would be utterly humiliating to admit that I knew where my career was going because I was a spoiled little rich girl with a future set in stone, one that had nothing to do with criminal law. I felt zero need to retain what I’d learned in several of my classes.
Only now I need it. And so do the people I care about. I want justice not only for myself, but for Nash and Olivia. And a tiny bit for Cash, I guess. He did play a big part in rescuing me.
I still have mixed feelings about him for the most part. What I like least about him is that he reminds me of someone I no longer want to be, of someone I’d rather not ever think about again. But when I see him, that’s what I’m reminded of—the old me. And I don’t like it.
Every thought in my head is banished to a back corner as I approach the condo door. I haven’t walked through the front door by myself since the night someone was waiting on the other side of it. And even though my brain tells me I’m being ridiculous, that I wasn’t even the one they wanted that time and that there’s no reason for them to grab me again after they let me go, my muscles freeze. I’m stuck in a terrified stare, on the sidewalk, facing my front door, with no one around to help me.
The muted bleep from my phone sounds from deep inside my purse. I force my muscles into action, reaching with one shaking hand into my bag to retrieve my phone. I slide a trembling finger over the button at the bottom of the rectangle to light up the screen.
It’s a text. Three letters. Two words. One sentiment. Something so simple. Yet it changes everything.
U ok?
It’s Nash.
There’s nothing in the message to identify who it is. But I know. Deep down in my soul, I know who it is. And he might as well be behind me, standing with me, an ever-protective shadow. The effect is that profound.
Maybe it’s knowing that I’m not really alone, no matter how often I feel that way. Maybe it’s knowing that there’s someone out there who cares about what happens to me. Maybe it’s just the fact that it’s from Nash. Maybe it’s that he was thinking of me, that he took the time to text me. Maybe it’s that he wanted to check on me, that he even thought to check on me. Maybe it’s that he seems always to be there for me when I need him, even though he doesn’t necessarily set out to be.
Whatever the real reason, whether one of those, none of those or a combination of them all, it breaks the firm grip of fear, not completely but enough to let rational thought in.
I type out my short reply.
Yes.
I slide my phone back into my purse. I know I won’t get a response from him, but that doesn’t matter. Even though I know it’s a mistake, that it’s probably leading me nowhere good, I walk toward the door with a smile on my face and hope in my heart.
* * *
I feel much more at ease once I’m safely inside with the door locked behind me. I won’t lie. I checked every closet and under both beds, but that’s just being responsible. Right? Right.
I peel off my suit jacket and hang it in the closet. I grab a hair band as I pass through the bathroom, pulling my hair into a messy bun as I set about changing the rest of my clothes.
I’m attempting to stuff wayward strands of blond hair into a fairly neat pile atop my head when the doorbell rings. My hands pause in midair. Reflexively, my pulse speeds up. My mind rushes through names and faces of people who might be visiting me at such an odd time.
I know it can’t be Nash; he’s not that polite. He’d try the doorknob first, and then when he figured out it was locked, he’d knock. Loudly, I’m sure. Unless he knows which key on Cash’s BMW key ring belongs to my door. I didn’t tell him. I mean, he’s staying with me, but I didn’t give him that much freedom. That would’ve required too much trust.
I make a mental note to get that key back from Cash.
I return to puzzling over my visitor. It shouldn’t be my father. Or anyone else from the office. Daddy’s working and anyone else would call first.
Who else could it be?
I reason with myself that it’s broad daylight, and that the likelihood that it’s someone with nefarious plans is slim to none. Still, I look out the peephole before I slide the deadbolt open.
I’m puzzled by what I see. Shoulder-length blond hair, pretty face, skintight miniskirt and snug T-shirt, all on a Christina Applegate look-alike. It’s Olivia’s friend, Ginger. And she looks irritated. The question is: Why is she here?