Red Hot Obsessions (18 page)

“I was worried about you,” he says. He reaches me just as Calder comes around the corner.

“Lily. Forgive me, I didn't mean—”

He comes to a complete standstill when he sees Garrett standing next to me.

“Who the hell are you?” Calder says. His eyes flick between Garrett and me. “What the hell is going on here?”

I glance back at my ex. “That's what I want to know.”

Garrett's blue eyes are blazing, and the corners of his mouth are tight. I know this look. He's furious. But this time his anger isn't directed at me. One glance at Calder and I know I need to do something—fast—before I end up in the middle of a fistfight.

“What are you doing here, Garrett?” I say. “I never told you where I was. I didn't tell anyone, not even Dad.”

He still won't look at me. His eyes are locked on the master of the house.

“You wouldn’t answer my calls,” he says.

“I had nothing else to say to you. My dad would have given you all the information you needed.”

“I was worried, babe.” He moves toward me, but I step back.

“You haven’t answered my question,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought something had happened to you. I know you, Lils. I knew you were up to something, and you wouldn’t tell anyone where you were. For all I knew, you’d been kidnapped or something.” His eyes narrow at Calder.

“That’s the stupidest excuse I’ve ever heard,” I say. “And that doesn’t explain how you found me.”

“The phone company can track your cell,” he says, his eyes still fixed on the man behind me. “You gave me your password, remember?”

I can only gape at him. I knew Garrett was crazy, but this is a whole new level of creepy.

“That was a year ago!” I say. “Did you seriously track me out here? What's wrong with you?”

“I told you, I was worried about your safety. Especially when I looked up the coordinates. If you’d told me, I’d have—”

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I just didn't want to talk to you?”

From the stunned expression on his face, I don't think it has.

It's taking all of my self-restraint not to punch him. I open my mouth to argue, but suddenly Calder stands between us, holding me back with one arm as he focuses his dark eyes on Garrett.

“I don't know who the hell you think you are, but you're trespassing on my property. If you're not gone by the time I count to five, I'm calling the police.”

Garrett stares back at him steadily. A brave feat, considering Calder is several inches taller—and broader in the chest and shoulders, too. If this does dissolve into a fight, there's little doubt, I think, as to who has the advantage.

But Garrett's unwilling to back down.

“Fine, call the police. I'll be sure to tell them how you kidnapped a young, innocent girl and kept her trapped in your mansion.”

“Stop being ridiculous, Garrett,” I say.

He tears his eyes away from Calder and looks at me. His gaze drops to my hand, which I've unwittingly placed on Calder's arm.

“Who is this guy to you?” Garrett asks me.

“He's certainly not a kidnapper.”

“You told me you were trying to get money for the Center.”

“I was. I
am.
”

“Not here you aren’t.”

I make an exasperated sound. “You worked with us for a year. You know how generous the Cunningham family has been.”

“Isn’t this guy why the Center’s in trouble in the first place?”

“I thought I might make a more convincing case in person.”

Garrett’s eyes are steely. He still won’t break Calder’s gaze. “And what sort of ‘convincing’ does this fucker require?”

Calder’s muscles tighten under my grip.

“This is your final warning to get off my property,” he says. “Or believe me, I will be pressing charges.”

Garrett looks ready to leap at Calder’s throat.

“You may have struck a deal with my editor, but I’m tired of keeping my mouth shut. I’m not going to let you take advantage of Lily.”

“He’s not taking advantage of me,” I insist, but Calder grips my arm.

“Come on,” he says. “Let's get back inside. I'm calling the cops.” He tries to nudge me toward the door, but Garrett jumps in front of me and grabs me by the shoulders.

“How much money has he promised you?” he demands.

Calder grabs Garrett by the collar and yanks him away from me. “I swear, if you put another hand on her—”

“How much?” Garrett demands even as he struggles against Calder's grip. “How much, Lily? He's a liar! He's a fucking liar! He doesn't have anything. The family's completely broke.”

Calder stiffens.

For a moment I just stand there in shock. What? The Cunninghams are broke? That can't be right. Garrett's trying to manipulate me. But there's a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I've never seen Calder look so pale.

Suddenly he moves, arm flying, and his fist connects with the side of Garrett's face. My ex flies backward.

“What are you doing?” I shriek.

But neither of them appear to hear me. Garrett recovers quickly, scrambling to his feet and launching himself at Calder. Calder catches him around the shoulders, but Garrett is quick. His fists connect with Calder's side as the two wrestle against each other.

“Stop!” I say. “What the hell are you doing? Stop, now!”

They ignore my pleas.

“This is ridiculous!” I say. “Stop it!”

But the two continue to batter each other. Calder takes another swing at Garrett's face, while Garrett jabs his knee upward, hitting Calder in the gut.

I don't know what to do. There's no way I'm getting in the middle of those flying punches. Should I go get Martin? Find my cell and call the police?

I turn and bolt up the stone steps. How the hell did this all blow up so fast?

“Wait—Lily.”

I'm at the top step. When I turn, Calder has Garrett pinned to the ground. Blood drips from Garrett's nose down a cheek that's already starting to swell. Calder doesn't look much better. He has a split lip and his shirt is torn. Both of them are covered in mud.

Calder holds Garrett down by the upper arms. My ex's eyes are wild, furious—and I know that he'll throw another punch as soon as Calder releases him. I hurry back down the steps.

“You’re insane,” I say. “Both of you. Does anyone actually have any idea what the hell is going on?”

“He was screaming at you,” Calder says. “Not to mention trespassing on my property. That's all I need to know.” He tightens his grip, and Garrett curses.

“Why the hell are you listening to him?” Garrett tries unsuccessfully to twist out of Calder's grasp. “He's a liar. I don't know what the fuck is going on here, but I guarantee it's not what you think.”

I wait for Calder to rebut the accusation, but instead he only gives his opponent another shake. His face is full of storm clouds.

My stomach twists as I step closer. “What's going on?”

“He's a liar,” Garrett says again. “The whole family's broke.”

“Shut
up
,” Calder says. He looks ready to take another swing, so I rush forward and grab his arm, forcing him to turn and look at me. His gaze softens slightly, but not enough—and I know I'm not going to like what he has to say.

“What's going on?” I ask again.

“You better tell her,” Garrett says. “If you won't, then I'll—”

“Stay out of this, Garrett,” I snap.

I turn back to Calder. His eyes are pleading with me, and I know I'm about to have the rug ripped out from beneath me.

“Tell me,” I say, so softly I can hardly hear it above Garrett's ragged breathing.

Calder's gaze darts away, and he lets out a long breath.

“Lily…”

“Tell me.”

He tenses under my hand, and I can feel his pulse beating rapidly beneath the thin skin of his inner elbow.

“I inherited some financial difficulties,” he says finally.

I stare at him for a long moment, trying to process everything that this means.

“Is that why you broke your father's pledge to the Center?” I ask.

His dark eyes bore into me, begging me for understanding.

“It wasn't just the pledge,” he says. “I've broken a number of other contracts, too, and I've started selling—”

“Does this mean you never intended to give us the money? That all those promises and all those games were—were what? Just a ruse? Just enough incentive to get me to… to…”

I glance down at Garrett, who's near purple with fury.

“What the hell happened here?” he says, struggling again against Calder's hold. “What the fuck did he do?”

I don't respond. I feel as if someone has dunked me in cold water.

“Lily,” Calder pleads. “If you would let me explain…”

“No,” I say, releasing his arm. “No. I'm done. With both of you.” I turn and bolt up the steps before either can stop me. Someone calls my name, but I don't care who. I can't bear to look at either of them right now.

I know my way to my room at this point. I grab my things and fumble in my purse for my keys. I refuse to stay here a moment longer. I can't believe I allowed myself to be so easily fooled, that I believed Calder's lies even for a minute.

When I return outside, Calder is halfway up the stairs. Garrett is dragging himself to his feet behind him.

“Lily,” Calder says, “if you'd just let—”

“No.” I push past him. “If Garrett made it up here, then the road must be clear by now. I'm leaving.”

Garrett grins at my announcement. He thinks he's won.

“Come on,” he says, taking my arm. “Let's get out of here.”

I jerk away from him. “Don't touch me. I don't want to talk to you, either.”

“Lils, I didn't—”

“ENOUGH.” I shove him aside and march down the driveway. If either one of them comes after me, I swear, I'll punch him in the face.

When I get to the gates, I find them locked. Garrett must have climbed over them like I did. I can’t believe that one stupid, reckless decision turned out like this. My ex’s Jeep is parked beside mine, and I give his front tire a kick before diving into my own car.

And that’s when I lose it. As soon as I crank the gas, the tears begin to spill over.

I keep replaying the entire thing in my head: the argument I had with Calder in the garden, Garrett's unexpected arrival, the subsequent fight. The realization that Calder has been lying to me this entire time.

It's a disaster, this whole situation. How the hell do I attract such assholes?

But no, that's not fair—I brought all of this upon myself. I called Garrett when I knew I shouldn't have. I gave into my attraction when I knew Calder was no good for me. I can’t blame them for being themselves.

The worst part is that there's no hope for the Center now.

My tears are coming so hard that I have trouble seeing the road. I force myself to slow down. The last thing I need is to crash my car out here and rely on one of those idiots to save my ass.

When I get to the place where the road crosses the river, I nearly lose it again. On either side of the bridge, the road is completely underwater. I estimate it’s still a foot deep in some places. Garrett was fine in his Jeep, but I'm not sure my crappy old Honda can survive that much water. She's on her last legs already, and I certainly don't have the money for repairs. I don't have money for a tow, either, or to call a cab all the way out here. I pull over, park, and lay my head against the steering wheel, nearly hyperventilating.

I feel so… empty. Like I sold my soul and have nothing to show for it. I dig my nails into the vinyl of the steering wheel and force myself to count down from ten. By the time I reach one, I've managed to breathe normally again.

This is just a setback, I tell myself. There's still plenty you can do for the Center. Don't let one bad weekend destroy all of your hope.

Easier said than done. All the hope in the world won’t make me feel any less horrible about these last few days. I can’t believe that I fell for Calder’s lines, or that I thought I could handle Garrett in my life again, even in some small capacity. I’m an idiot all around. I need to get as far away from these dipshits as possible before I’ll even be able to think straight again.

I look at the water in the road.

“What do you think?” I ask my Honda. “Up for the challenge?”

I give her an encouraging pat on the dash, and then I crank her into gear.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Three days later, I'm helping out in one of the Center’s art classes. Marie, who usually leads the children's programs, is out sick. I suspect we'll lose her to another job in the near future anyway.

I lean over the shoulder of one of our regulars, an enthusiastic seven-year-old named Erin. We're working with watercolors today, and she holds up her work-in-progress.

“It's a garden, Miss Lily,” she says. “Like the one in my book.”

“It's beautiful. You've been practicing, haven't you?”

She beams at the compliment.

“Look, those are the roses,” she says, pointing them out. “And these are the daisies and these are the tulips. And here's the cat. He likes to sit next to the fountain.”

I smile at her, trying to ignore the pang I feel in my stomach. I was in a garden like this only a few days ago—minus the cat, admittedly—and I'd thought it was one of the most beautiful places I'd ever seen.

But I'm not supposed to be thinking of that. Or him.

“It's beautiful,” I tell her again.

She grins and picks up her brush once more, and I turn to the boy sitting at the table next to her.

“And what are you painting, Ben?”

He shows me his artwork, which features a T-rex attacking a fighter plane. I smile.

“That's awesome!” I say. I give him a high five.

I remember when Ben first started attending classes with us. Both of his parents work late, so they signed him up for our after-school program. For the first several sessions, he refused to take part in the activities. He said art was dumb and “for girls.”

Now, though, he's often the first one diving into our supplies for the day. A couple of times his mom has had to literally drag him away from the table at the end of the session.

I look around the room. Ben's story isn't unusual around here. The Frazer Center has impacted the life of every child in this room—and hundreds of others of all ages besides. What will happen when this place is gone?

It's not that I believe they won't explore other hobbies, or find equally productive uses of their time—but how can I not bemoan the loss of these smiles, this enthusiasm?

I return to the front of the room and sit down to watch the children work. I'm exhausted. I've spent every night since my return tossing and turning, trying to brainstorm some magic solution to our monetary problem. I've been here every morning at seven, and I've taken to the phones as early as it’s socially acceptable, calling every contact I could find. I've tried begging, I've tried offering incentives—everything I can think of. But people are either unwilling to give or have already given as much as they can. In this economy, I'm grateful for everything we can get, but it's just not enough.

I sigh. There's no way around it. I know Dad is hesitant to even consider it, but I think we're going to have to cut back significantly on our program offerings if we're going to hold on. We've done our fair share of fundraisers, but no single event save Arts & Hearts has ever come close to matching the pledge we would have received from the Cunninghams. And fundraisers require manpower and many hours of planning and preparation, but we're low on those, too.

I nibble on my nail. At least focusing on the Center's problems keeps my mind from straying to this past weekend. Garrett's called several times since I left him back at the Cunningham estate, but I let all of them go to voicemail. Calder hasn't tried to contact me at all.

But why do I care if he contacts me, anyway? We were just fucking. Nothing more. He lied to me and he used me, and that's not something I can forgive easily.

His accusations still haunt me. The Center is just an excuse. You’ve buried yourself in this little mission of yours so you don’t have to think about how you really feel or what you really want.

Is that true? I’ve sacrificed a lot for this place—a social life, a decent income, and no small amount of sanity—but I have genuine personal stakes in its fate. And an even deeper interest in the emotional well-being of my dad. True, I’ve thrown myself even deeper into the Center’s affairs since Garrett and I broke up, but it seemed like a healthy thing to do at the time. It gave me a distraction, a purpose, an emotional anchor. It’s my passion, but that doesn’t mean I can’t emotionally invest in other things, too.

Except when it comes to Calder. How could I even consider it when he was actively responsible for the Center’s current situation? I think that’s a fair reason to hold back from him.

But I’m not supposed to be thinking about him. I need to focus on the Center right now.

“Lily?”

When I glance up, my dad is standing in the doorway.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, pulling up a chair beside me. “You've seemed a little preoccupied since you've been back.”

I force a smile. “I'm fine, Dad. Just trying to figure out a way to get us out of this.”

He watches me for a moment. “No. I think it's something else.”

I look down at my lap. He was always really good at reading me. It must be some super-parent sense or something. I’ve been rather closed-mouthed since my return. When I confessed to him that I hadn’t been able to secure any more money, he was so completely crestfallen that I couldn’t bear telling him the rest of the truth.

I mean, what was I supposed to say? Oh, by the way, Dad, I lied to you about where I was going this weekend. I went to see Calder Cunningham, even though you asked me not to. And oh yeah, I slept with him a few times. Oh, and while I'm making confessions, I don't think Garrett will be helping us out after all.

I’m ashamed even now of my behavior. Just seeing the hope and trust in my dad’s eyes makes me sick to my stomach.

“What's going on?” he prompts. “You can tell me.”

That's just it, though. I'm not sure I can. There's no way I'm telling my dad about everything that went on this weekend. There is one thing I can talk to him about, though.

“Dad, I don't want Garrett helping us. I know he found us some money, and I’m grateful for that, but I can’t do it. And I promise I’m not being petty. If it were just old feelings I’d suck it up for the sake of the Center. But he’s…”
How much can I say without worrying him?
“He’s done some things this past week that have made me very uncomfortable.”

My dad considers this a moment.

“I understand,” he says finally. “I knew it would be hard on you. It wasn't fair of me to ask that in the first place.” He glances around the room. “Sometimes I get so caught up in this place that I forget the important things.”

“It’s not—you had no way of knowing,” I say quickly, trying to drive that guilty look from his eyes. “If it were anyone else, I’d just deal with it. But Garrett…”

“What has he done? Something I should know about?”

I take a deep breath. “He thought me asking him to help was an invitation to come fully back into my life. If you knew how many times he’s called me, what he’s said…”

“He's been harassing you?”

Harassing
. I remember how Calder accused me of that very thing after all of my calls and letters and emails. I freaking broke onto his property, for crying out loud. Am I really any better than Garrett, in the end?

“It's just caused more problems than it will help,” I reply diplomatically.

“I’ll call him and tell him we won’t be needing his assistance,” my dad says.

It only makes me feel a little better. I haven’t seen him here at the Center since I’ve returned, but I know this isn’t over yet. But I don’t tell my dad how uneasy I am, how I’ve been a jumble of nerves these past few days.

“Thank you,” I say simply.

My dad nods and turns back to watching the children. For a moment, neither of us speaks. We just watch our charges laugh and chatter and create.

When my dad does speak, his voice is so soft that I hardly hear the question at all.

“When do we give up?”

I look at Ben, who's adding a Pterodactyl to his dinosaur picture, and Erin beside him, who's painting a princess next to her explosion of flowers. I reach over and grab Dad’s hand.

“Never,” I answer, just as quietly. “Not until the very end. Not until they make us.”

* * *

It's a week before I get the letter. At my apartment, not the Center, same as the last one. I find it among my other mail when I get home, and I read it as I sip the tea I've been using to help me sleep.

Dearest Ms. Frazer,

I am deeply sorry for the events of last weekend. It was never my intention to mislead you—if you recall, I was adamant from the first that I had no intention of giving you the money. I'll admit I would have been in a bind had our wagers come out the other way, but as they did not, this issue is of far less significance. I owe you nothing, and whether or not I actually have the means in my possession is of little consequence in that matter.

As for the other events of this weekend, I never had any reason, I thought, to doubt your own desires. If at any point I believed you were not enjoying our little games, I would have ceased them immediately. I'm deeply sorry if I misread the situation.

Regarding your friend who arrived just before your departure—I highly recommend that you acquire a restraining order, for your own protection. I had him detained on charges of trespassing, but that will not keep him, I suspect, from contacting you in the future. Please be safe and take wise course in this situation.

Sincerely,

Calder Cunningham

There's no lawyer's signature on this one, but that makes it no less impersonal. He's just trying to cover his ass. This is an entire letter of excuses.

I crumple it into a ball and throw it in the garbage. Did he really believe this was an acceptable apology?

The real question, though, is why he would send such a letter in the first place. There's no call to action at the end, no invitation to contact him or indication that he means to contact me again. There’s no mention of our argument in the garden, either. Was this just a way to assuage his guilty conscience? To convince himself on paper that he wasn't at fault for this entire situation?

I'll admit I should have paid attention to the warning signs from the beginning. I noticed the lack of security and other employees. And Calder told me himself about selling his boat and his horse. His financial situation seems obvious now, but that doesn't relieve him of his mistakes.

Deep down, though, in spite of my anger, it still hurts. It's my own fault for letting my feelings get involved, I know, but acknowledging that doesn’t lessen the sting. And there’s the crux of it: despite what he claimed, I
did
feel something when I was with him.

I don't want to admit it, but I've been waiting for him to contact me. I've always thought myself a very logical, reasonable person, but even though I know it's ridiculous, I've been hoping for some grand, romantic gesture, some apology to end all apologies. Every day that's gone by without word from him has been a torture.

But when did I become one of those women who agonizes over the fact that a man hasn't called? Calder and I agreed that what happened between us was only physical. We're not dating. We're certainly not in love. Yes, I allowed myself to start feeling things I shouldn't, but that's my own fault. I can't expect him to suddenly change his emotions because I can't seem to control my own.

It's a mess, this whole thing. And at the end of the day, no matter what I tell myself, I still end up hoping that he's in as much agony as I am, that he's just as disturbed by the fact that
I
haven't called
him.

I’m pathetic, that’s what I am.

Which is why this letter is so painful. This letter makes it quite clear where he stands on the entire issue. Forget those moments where he started to open up to me this weekend, when I thought I glimpsed something deeper. Forget the intense physical connection I felt when we were wrapped around each other. I'll be incredibly surprised if he ever contacts me again.

Life goes on
, I tell myself.

I'm not done with my tea yet, but I don't care. I open the trash can once more and flip the rest of my drink on the crumpled letter, just in case I feel the urge to pull it out and read it again.

* * *

A week later, I'm standing in the Center's gallery. It's nothing like the elaborate room in the Cunningham mansion, but I've always been proud of the space. The walls feature work from local artists of all disciplines, including several names that have been popping up in collectors’ circles. There’s also a corner dedicated to pieces created by our students—everything from the finger-painting masterpieces of the preschoolers to the charcoal drawings produced in one of our master classes.

I stroll down the length of the room, alternately admiring the artwork and surveying the space. We use this room for a number of our classes and larger events. And every February, of course, it's turned into a proper ballroom for our Art & Hearts fundraiser. Every year at the event, guests come up to me and my dad and compliment the space. It's amazing what some well-placed decor and appropriate lighting can do for a room.

I stop in the center of the floor and turn around. Given the right amount of attention, you could do a lot of things in here.

The idea hits me hard and suddenly. I turn once more, taking it all in.

How the hell did I not think of this before?

I rush to find my dad. He's in his office, of course, bent over a stack of invoices.

“Dad,” I say, out of breath.

He glances up, his eyebrows quirked quizzically.

“The gallery,” I say. “I was thinking—can we rent it out? For events?”

He sets down his pen, thinking. “That's an idea.”

“Think about it. It's a large space, and it's easy to adapt and decorate. We have a lot of flexibility over the lighting and layout. We have tables and chairs we can include as part of the rental fee. We have the retractable stage we use for recitals—”

“And a decent sound system,” he says, nodding now. “And I'm assuming most events are on the evenings and weekends, when we aren’t using the room anyway.”

“We can black out any dates we have recitals or gallery shows. It's a fun, unusual space, I'm sure there are plenty of people out there who want a unique alternative to a hotel ballroom or something.”