Below Unforgiven (9 page)

“If I tuck the tags into the back, I can return these on Monday…,” I began with a whisper, and he gave me a disgusted look.

“Listen, you little criminal, I’ve been to jail. It’s not pretty.”

“You won’t go to jail for returning clothes you’ve worn,” I argued under my breath, a little embarrassed, and he shook his head.

“When I give you something, it’s yours. You keep it. No negotiation. Understood?”

I nodded, trying to will the hives on my neck to go away before they surfaced. When I started rifling through the jewelry stand by the register, Keaton shook his head and led me to Kay Jewelers.

He combed the glass counters, handing over his credit card and pulling my outfits out of the garment bags. The saleswoman’s eyes lit up, and she nodded eagerly, pointing out necklaces and bracelets. “You’re right in time for our Fourth of July sale,” she tittered. When she suggested earrings, Keaton wrapped his arm around my side, tugging me against his hip.

“Only clip-ons for my firecracker,” he said, bending to my ear.

Brushing my hair back, lips against at my earlobe, he breathed against my skin.

Currents of wanting shot through my body at breakneck speed, and the intoxicating spasm between my thighs took me completely by surprise. My eyes nearly rolled back, and he supported me as my knees turned to jelly.

It’s been way too long.

Way, way,
way
too long.

“Lucky girl,” the saleswoman commented wistfully.

“You’re spending all my money,” I hissed, trying to regain my equilibrium. “And stop kissing me for no reason.”

He pulled away, grinning. “Come on, V. Every kiss begins with Kay.”

“Keaton, I mean it.”

I scowled, and he pressed his pointer finger between my narrowed brows, mirroring my scowl. “Stop. Scowling.”

His phone rang, and he nodded to the saleswoman, confirming the hundreds of dollars worth of jewelry that she’d suggested for only three days.

“It’s almost twelve-thirty,” I prodded, and he plugged his finger in the ear facing me. I could hear Robin’s voice through the phone.

“I know. We’re leaving now. Don’t worry, I’ll get the tux, it’ll fit, and we’ll be on the road. Vivian is fine. Vivian, confirm you’re alive.”

He shoved the phone at me for the second time of the day, and I sighed. “Hey Robin.”

“Viv, is he being a gentleman?”

I turned to Keaton, watching him pour over diamond engagement rings.

“He’s about to propose to me, I think,” I answered, semiseriously from under my breath. Keaton pointed at a ring through the glass, and another saleswoman came running from across the store. I moved toward the exit and away from him. “Listen, we’re really hitting it off, and he wants everyone to think we’ve known each other for longer than a day. Can you do that for us?”

She was silent for a long moment. “You’re completely fucking serious.”

“I really am.”

“Yeah, yeah I can do that,” she answered. “Did he tell you about his wife?”

“Yes.”

“Mom doesn’t know that they’re divorcing, only that they are separated. She doesn’t know what that bitch did to him.”

“Maybe you could… gracefully… tell her that they’re divorcing.”

“I don’t feel like that’s my place. Viv, are you sure about this? You know-”

The phone flew out of my hand, and Keaton pressed it to his ear. “Go ahead and tell her. But make sure you tell her that it was the
best
thing that ever happened to me, because now I’ve found Vivian, and she’s everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Listening to him, my heartbeat doubled.

I’d heard those words before. I’d heard Matthew tell me that I was the best thing that had ever happened to him. This time, something stirred, some new feeling that I couldn’t place.

But this time, it was all fake.

A scene from a script that we were writing with dangerous ink, and every moment that passed edged us closer to a steep ravine.

I knew. I
knew
that it was all just part of the game, but still my stupid brain sent a million even stupider signals to my stomach, grabbing butterflies by the handful and slamming them against my heart.

He ended the call, accepting the bag of jewelry from the saleswoman. “She’s going to tell my mom. Nice work by the way, ad-libbing and taking the initiative,” he said, leading me through the mall.

It took less than five seconds for me to realize that we were nearing Victoria’s Secret.

I skidded to a halt like a cartoon character. “Um,
no
.”

He groaned. “Come on. I’m giving you my credit card, and you can go in-
alone
- and get what you need. Or want. I have to make some phone calls about this script. Go,” he ordered. “I’ll carry your bags to the car and be back in a little while.”

Reluctantly, I turned toward the store, jumping as he yelled from across the mall. “V!”

I rolled my eyes, turning. “What?”

“I like black.” He bobbed his eyebrows and winked, and I groaned, ignoring him and turning back to the store.

I was accosted by a woman in a snazzy black suit and a measuring tape. Once I got out of her clutches, I moved directly to the bin marked CLEARANCE. As I dug through ugly bra-and-panty soup, the saleswoman appeared with three bags of lingerie.

“Your boyfriend ordered everything for you and paid over the phone. These are yours.” She handed the bags over with an amused sneer.

I accepted them, beyond irritated. Keaton was pushy, controlling, and directing the shit out of my every breath, and I was going to give him hell in the car.

Stopping in midstride, I checked myself.

You agreed to this. He is paying you. He is your employer.

Nothing more.

I made it out to the front of the mall just before he pulled along the curb in the Ferrari. Jumping out and jogging around the car, he held the door open for me.

A gaggle of women approaching the mall watched us, audibly swooning over the scene before them.

“Come on, we’re late,” he urged, taking my bags into his hands.

As I turned to him, a thought occurred to me. Just a tiny idea.

A hope.

I looked at him, meeting his hazel eyes, counting the flecks of gold in the sunshine.

He needed me. I needed him.
Right? Isn’t this the way it goes? Isn’t this our blockbuster?

I needed him to unbreak my heart, and he needed me to save him.

Maybe… I’m supposed to move on. With Keaton.

Forget about Matthew…
forever.

“Pretty woman, get… in… my… car,” he sang, off key, his aviators masking his playful eyes.

He was teasing.

Taunting.
Smiling
.

Inviting.

I slid my hand behind his neck, finally feeling the texture of his hair as it threaded through my fingers. Thick, clean, and soft. I lifted my other hand to his cheek, tugging him closer.

In his mirrored sunglasses, I could only see myself. The actress Vivian Hale, and the part that I was choosing to play.

Before I could think, I pressed my mouth to his.

I knew how to kiss a man. I knew what he’d like, just a twist of his lower lip between my teeth, a shy tongue darting between his lips, closing, pressing, tasting. I sucked on his lip until I was breathless, stunning him for long seconds.

When he finally joined me in the moment, all hell broke loose.

Groaning, he dropped my bags to the pavement, his arms surrounding me and crushing me to his chest. He dove, tongue plunging, once, twice, drawing me into him, coaxing me to relinquish control.

I refused. We both fought to upstage the other; his hand on my ass, kneading, my teeth on his neck, nibbling, until someone near the front of the mall called “Yeah! Fuck her on the car!”

Wrenching away, I turned toward the obnoxious dickhead, but the guy had already disappeared into the store.

Keaton stared down at me, his breathing erratic, his lips wet with our kiss.

“Get in,” he ordered gruffly.

I nodded, sliding into the passenger’s seat.

Pulp Fiction

“All packed?”

She emerged from the house, and I handled her suitcase and four garment bags easily. “Yes. I just need to grab my book from the video store. I hope you don’t mind that I proofread on the drive. I have to mail it back by Monday.”

“Hmn,” I gave her a disapproving look. “Moonlighting on the job?”

“Keaton.”

“Joking. Sure, that’s fine.”

We’d been overly polite and quiet to each other on the way to get my tux, on the way back to the house, and now the courteousness was making me nervous. I preferred her playful banter, not this void of
what the hell just happened
aftershock.

I knew what had happened. She hauled off and kissed me, and now, I was buried even deeper into my concocted mess.

Does she want more? Is she playing the part?
She was damn convincing, and I wanted to violate the hell out of our contract.

Retrieving her book from the video store, we were on our way to Pittsburgh minutes later. I watched her open the novel across her lap as she twirled all three highlighters between her fingers.

“Will music bother you?” I asked.

“Not at all.”

See? Polite.

I reached for my phone, settling on Metallica. “So, whatcha reading?”

She sent me a speculative glance, sighing. “It’s called
Doubting Damon.
”

“And? What’s it about?” I cracked open a Red Bull, waiting for her to chastise my drink of choice like Kelsey constantly did. Instead, she ignored it and plunked her bottle of water into the adjoining cup holder.

Sighing, she shifted in the seat. The pencil skirt was fucking distracting, which I knew was the point, but I was having a hard enough time keeping the car on the road without looking at her legs constantly. “It’s about a girl with a tortured past who falls for this
guy
with a tortured past.”

“Tortured?”

“Yeah, you know… they’ve got their secret demons that they both hint at for eighty-five percent of the book, but don’t reveal them to each other until right before the end. He’s got adult ADD, and he’s a sex addict. She’s got PTS from getting date raped five years prior, but yet she can’t stop fantasizing about his dick. Oh, and she has OCD.”

Breaking into laughter, I turned to her. “That’s a lot of acronyms for just one couple.”

She gave me an amused grin.

Feeding off of her reaction, I glanced at her, considering. “Hey, maybe we need secret acronym diseases. You know, to add to our story.”

“I am probably a buffet of undiagnosed acronyms,” she struck through a word with a pink highlighter. “And now, either the author left out a ‘D’ here…
or
he also has Alzheimer’s.”

I laughed, searching for a list on my phone, swerving a little over the line. She snapped her eyes to the windshield.

“How you drove across the entire country without killing yourself is beyond me.”

“Oh, re
lax
.” I pulled the list down the touch screen with my thumb. “Okay, I have to have something convincing that my family doesn’t know about. I have RLS and… CSD.”

She grabbed my phone, scanning. “Restless Leg Syndrome… and
Cat
Scratch Disease?”

“And you,” I gave her an exploratory glance. “Well, I saw the cans in Gram’s basement. You have OCD, and AQD.”

“AQD?” She demanded, confused.

“Air Quote Disorder.”

She sent me an exasperated-but amused-glare.

“Is there an acronym for ‘Arrogant Hollywood Director’?” Her fingers bobbed in exaggerated air quotes, and I snatched her left hand, bringing it to my mouth.

When I closed my teeth over her fingertip, she widened her eyes, appalled.

“You
bit
me!”

“I warned you.” I licked the tip of her salty finger for good measure.

“You’re crazy,” she fired, jerking her hand away.

Unofficially, she was kind of right. Officially, the psychiatrist that I’d been mandated by the courts to visit weekly had diagnosed me with PPD.

“PPD,” I’d repeated, and the doctor had nodded stoically.

“Possessive Personality Disorder. This is a serious illness, Mr. Thorne. Extreme cases have led to schizoid behavior.”

She’d handed me a pamphlet that I perused with as much sarcasm as possible. “Huh. So, my wife is sleeping around behind my back, and now I get a personality disorder that involves a ‘general mistrust of others.’ I just don’t see how the two are related.”

“Mr. Thorne, the medication will prevent a manifestation of overly suspicious and possessive behaviors-…,”

“Overly suspicious? When I walked in, she was riding the motherfucker and screaming his name. Suspicions confirmed.”

Ever since I’d quit going to therapy and stopped the medication, I was hyperaware of my every ‘suspicion.’ Was it founded? Unfounded? Was my possessiveness over everything a result of mental illness, or just me trying to sit on my toys so the other kids couldn’t play with them?

I didn’t want her to stop talking-or blushing. She was charismatic, magnetic, and I hadn’t laughed this much in a very long time.

“
Well?
” I demanded, pointing back at the book. “Is he banging her yet?”

She gave an exasperated sigh, capping and uncapping the yellow highlighter. “I’m only supposed to be checking for typos and grammatical errors. But Jesus Christ, this girl’s pussy ‘reaches for him’ about seventeen times. How does your pussy ‘reach’ for someone? I keep having these visions of the giant flower in
Little Shop of Horrors
.”

I choked on my Red Bull, nearly spitting all over the dashboard with laughter. She grinned, flushing beautifully. “Oh, that’s not all. She’s wet. Constantly. She checks her email-wet. She goes grocery shopping-wet. Answers her text-wet. Wait,” she lowered her eyes to the book, clearing her throat exaggeratingly. “And ‘then, to my surprise, pools of passion potion soaked my panties.’ I mean, A-plus for alliteration, but this happens several times a chapter. She’s going to end up with some kind of yeast infection. And why is this ‘to her surprise?’ You’d think she’d purchased some panty-liners by now-…,”