After We Fell (94 page)

I remove my hand from his mouth so he can speak. “I don't give a fuck that she's my mother, and I don't give a fuck about Vance either. And the joke's going to be on him, because when I tell Kimberly about them and you quit your job, he'll be fucked,” Hardin proudly declares, as if this would be the best form of revenge.

“You will
not
tell Kimberly.” I look into his eyes, pleading. “If Christian doesn't tell her himself, then I will, but you will not embarrass her or harass her about it. I understand that you're angry at your mother and at Christian, but Kimberly is innocent here, and I don't want her to be hurt,” I say firmly.

“Fine. You
will
quit, though,” he says while turning his body around to rinse the foamy shampoo from his hair.

Sighing, I reach for the shampoo bottle in Hardin's hand but he pulls it away.

“I'm serious, you aren't working for him anymore.”

I understand his anger, but this isn't the time to discuss my job. “We'll talk about it later,” I tell him and finally manage to get the bottle into my hands. The water is growing colder by the minute, and I'd like to wash my hair.

“No!” He jerks it back. I'm trying to stay calm and be as gentle as possible with him, but he's making it difficult.

“I can't just quit my internship; it's not that simple. I'd have to inform the university, fill out a bunch of paperwork, and give a solid explanation of what happened. Then I would have to add classes to my schedule in the middle of the semester to make up for the credits I was receiving from Vance Publishing, and since
the deadline for financial aid has already passed, I'd have to pay out of pocket. I can't simply just quit. I'll try to figure something out, but I need a little time, please.” I give up on washing my hair.

“Tessa, I literally couldn't give less than a fuck about you having to file some paperwork; this is my family,” he says, and I immediately feel guilty.

He's right, isn't he?
I honestly don't know, but his busted lip and bruised nose make me feel that way. “I know, I'm sorry. I just need to find another internship first, that's all I'm asking.” Why am I asking? “I mean saying . . . that's what I'm
saying
 . . . that I need a little time. I'm already going to have to move into a hotel as it is . . .” The anxiety I feel at the prospect of being homeless, jobless, and once again friendless is taking me over.

“You won't be able to find another internship anyway, not a paying one,” he harshly reminds me. I knew that already, but I was trying to force myself into believing that I had a slight chance.

“I don't know what I'm going to do, but I need some time. This is all such a mess.” I step out of the shower and reach for a towel.

“Well, you don't have much time to figure it out. You should just move back to central Washington with me.” His words stop me in my tracks.

“Move back
there
?” The very idea of it makes me nauseous. “I'm not moving back there, and after last weekend, I don't even want to visit the place again, let alone move back. That isn't an option.” I wrap the towel around my wet body and leave the bathroom.

I reach for my phone and panic when I see five missed calls and two text messages. All from Christian. Both text messages are pleas to have Hardin call him right away.

“Hardin,” I call to him.

“What?” he snaps. I roll my eyes and swallow my annoyance. “Christian has called, a lot.”

He emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. “And?”

“What if something happened to your mother? Don't you want to call and be sure she's okay?” I ask him. “Or I—”

“No, fuck both of them. Don't call them.”

“Hardin, I really think—”

“No,” he says, interrupting me.

“I already sent him a text, just to be sure your mother is okay,” I admit.

He grimaces. “Of course you did.”

“I know you're upset, but please stop taking it out on me. I'm really trying to be here for you, but you have to stop snapping at me. This isn't my fault.”

“I'm sorry.” His hands run over his wet hair. “Let's both just turn our cell phones off and get some sleep.” His voice has calmed, and his eyes have softened tremendously. “My shirt is stained,” he says, dragging the bloodied garment across the floor, “and I don't know where the other one is.”

“I'll get it from the suitcase.”

“Thank you.” He sighs. The fact that he finds so much comfort in me wearing his clothing makes me happy, even in the middle of this disastrous night. I retrieve the shirt he wore earlier today and hand him clean boxers to sleep in before refolding the articles in the suitcase.

“I'm going to change our flight when I wake up. I can't concentrate right now.” He sits on the edge of the bed for a moment before lying down.

“I can do it,” I offer, pulling his laptop from the suitcase.

“Thanks,” he grumbles, half asleep already.

Seconds later he mutters, “I wish I could take you away, far
away.” My hands are still on the keyboard and I wait for him to say something else, but he breaks into soft snores.

As I pull up the airline's website, my phone vibrates on the table. Christian's name comes up on the screen. I ignore the call, but when a second comes in, I grab the room key and quietly retreat to the hallway to answer.

I try to whisper. “Hello.”

“Tessa? How is he?” he asks, panicked.

“He's . . . he's okay. His nose is bruised and swollen, his lip is busted, and he has a few bruises and cuts.” I don't hide the hostility in my tone.

“Dammit,” he breathes. “I'm so sorry that it came to this.”

“Me, too,” I snap at my boss and try to ignore the hideous painting in front of my eyes.

“I need to talk to him. I know he's confused and angry, but I need to explain some things to him.”

“He doesn't want to talk to you, and honestly, why should he? He trusted you, and you know that his trust is not something he gives lightly.” I lower my voice. “You're engaged to a lovely woman and Trish was supposed to be getting married tomorrow.”

“She's still getting married,” he says through the line.

“What?” I walk farther down the hall. I stop in front of the peaceful painting of the kneeling angel, but the more I look at it, the darker it becomes. Behind the angel is another; this second one's body almost translucent, and he's holding a double-edged dagger in his hand. The brown-haired maiden is watching him, a sinister smile on her face as she seems to wait for the assault on the kneeling angel. The second angel's expression is contorted, his naked body all planes and angles as he prepares to stab the first angel. I look away and focus on the voice on the other end of the line.

“The wedding has not been canceled. Mike loves Trish, and
she loves him; they will still be married tomorrow despite my mistake.” The words sound as if he's struggling to get them out.

I have so many questions to ask him, but I can't. He's my boss and his affair is with Hardin's mother; this is none of my business.

“I know what you must think of me, Tessa, but if I'm able to explain myself, maybe you both will understand.”

“Hardin wants me to change our flight and leave in the morning,” I inform him.

“He can't leave without saying goodbye to his mother. It will kill her.”

“I don't think it's in the best interest of anyone to allow him to be in the same room as her,” I warn and walk back to the room, stopping just outside the door.

“I understand your need to protect him, and it pleases me greatly to see how fiercely loyal you are to him. But Trish has had a hard enough life as it is, and it's time for her to have some happiness. I don't expect him to show for the wedding, but please do what you can to have him at least say goodbye to her. God knows how long it will be before he comes back to England.” Christian sighs.

“I don't know.” I run my fingers along the bronze frame of the Lucifer painting. “I'll see what I can do, but I can't promise anything. I won't push him.”

“I understand. Thank you.” The relief in his voice is clear.

“Christian?” I say just before hanging up.

“Yes, Tessa?”

“Will you tell Kimberly?” I hold my breath and wait for his answer to my highly inappropriate question.

“Of course I'll tell her,” he softly responds, his accent thick and smooth. “I love her more than—”

“Okay.” I'm trying to understand, but the only image that's coming to mind is Kimberly smiling in their kitchen, her head
tipped back in laughter and Christian's eyes sparkling as he watches her in amazement, as if she's the only woman in his world. Does he look at Trish that way?

“Thank you. Let me know if you need anything. Again, I'm sorry for what you saw earlier, and I hope that your opinion of me hasn't been completely destroyed,” he says and hangs up the phone.

I take one last glance at the hideous monster on the wall and walk back into the hotel room.

W
here are you?” His angry voice booms down the hall, creeping into the kitchen. The front door slams, and I jump down from the kitchen chair, grabbing my book. My shoulder knocks into the bottle on the table, sending it crashing to the ground into too many pieces. The brown liquid covers the floor, and I hurry to hide it before he finds me and sees what I did.

“Trish! I know you're here!” He yells again. His voice is closer now. My small hands pull the towel from the stove and throw it onto the floor to cover the mess I made.

“Where's your mum?”

I jerk back at the sound of his voice. “She's . . . she's not here,” I tell him, standing to my feet.

“What the fuck did you do?” he shouts, pushing past me and seeing the big mess I made. I didn't mean to make the mess. I knew he would be angry.

“That bottle of scotch was older than you,” he says. I look up to his red face and he stumbles. “You broke my fucking bottle.” My dad's voice is slow. It always sounds like this when he comes home lately.

I back away, taking small steps. If I can just get to the stairs, I can get away. He's too drunk to follow me. He fell down them last time.

“What's that?” His angry eyes focus on my book.

I hug it tighter to my chest. No. Not this one, too.

“Come here, boy.” He circles around me.

“Please don't,” I beg the man as he rips my favorite book from my hands. Miss Johnson says that I'm a good reader, better than anyone else in fifth year.

“You broke my bottle, so I get to break something of yours.” He smiles. I back away as he tears the book in two and rips out the pages. I cover my ears and watch as Gatsby and Daisy float around the room in a white storm. He grabs some of the pages in the air and rips them into small pieces.

I can't be a baby, I can't cry. It's just a book. It's just a book. My eyes are burning, but I'm not a baby, so I can't cry.

“You're just like him, you know? With your stupid fucking books,” he slurs.

Just like who? Jay Gatsby? He doesn't read as much as me.

“She thinks I'm stupid, but I'm not.” He grabs the back of the chair to keep from falling. “I know what she did.” Suddenly his face goes still, and I think my dad is going to cry.

“Clean up this shit,” he groans and leaves me alone in the kitchen, kicking the binding of my book as he leaves.

“HARDIN! HARDIN, WAKE UP!”
A voice calls me from my mum's kitchen. “Hardin, it's only a dream. Please wake up.”

When my eyes fly open, I'm met with worried eyes and an unfamiliar-looking ceiling above my head. It takes me a moment to realize that I'm not in my mum's kitchen after all. There's no spilled scotch or ripped-up novel.

“I'm so sorry for leaving you in here alone. I just went to get some breakfast. I didn't think—” Her voice breaks off into a sob, and she wraps her arms around my sweat-covered back.

“Shh . . .” I smooth her hair. “I'm fine.” I blink a few times.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she quietly asks.

“No, I can't even remember it, really,” I tell her. The dream has turned blurry, fading out more with each stroke of her hand across the bare skin between my shoulder blades.

I let her hold me for a few minutes before breaking away. “I got breakfast for you,” she says, wiping her nose with the sleeve of my sweatshirt she's wearing. “Sorry.” She smiles shyly, holding the snot-covered sleeve up in front of me.

I can't help but laugh, my nightmare forgotten. “There have been worse things on that sweatshirt,” I cheekily remind her, trying to make her laugh. My thoughts travel back to when she jacked me off in the apartment while I was wearing said sweatshirt, and quite the mess was made.

Her cheeks flush, and I reach for the tray of food next to her. She has piled it high with different types of bread, fruit, cheese, and even a small box of Frosted Flakes.

“I had to fight an old woman for that.” She grins, nodding toward the cereal.

“You did no such thing,” I tease her as she brings a grape to her lips.

“I would have,” she insists.

The mood has shifted drastically since our arrival in the middle of the night. “Did you change the flight?” I ask her and tear into the Frosted Flakes, not bothering to pour them into the small bowl she put on the tray.

“I wanted to talk about that with you.” Her voice lowers. She didn't change the flight. I sigh and wait for her to finish. “I talked to Christian last night . . . well, this morning.”