Blindsided (43 page)
“I hope so.”
Mom nods and turns away. I do, too, but I look out the kitchen window. It faces directly on the driveway, and the last time I wanted to see my sister this badly was when she went out with some asshole in high school who thought third base was acceptable for a first date.
Fortunately—or unfortunately if you were Peter Dart—my sister had more respect, and instead of third base, he got a black eye. I knew then that I didn’t have to worry anymore.
I hope that, this time when she comes home, she gives me the same feeling.
Dad’s car rolls into the driveway, and my sister’s dark hair is visible from the passenger’s seat.
Shit. My palms are sweating as I clasp my hands on my lap. I hope to fuck she can give me the only chance I have at getting Leah back. I hope, for once, she’s on my side.
I hope that, after years of being a royal asshole, karma won’t bite me in the ass any longer.
Lottie walks in with her purse slung over her shoulder and looks around. Her eyes meet mine, and a smile quirks her light-pink lips. “Tell me you love me.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Lottie.”
“Oh, sigh.” She actually does sigh. “And here I was, dear brother, thinking we were on teasing terms.” She sits next to me, pulls her tablet from her purse, then drops the purse on the floor by her feet.
“Well?”
“It got leaked on some website called ‘8Open.’ I’ve never heard of it before, but after some research, it seems like it would be a good place to go if you happened to have some gossip on someone famous, or someone popular, at least.”
“Like Leah.”
“Right. It’s a journalist’s heaven.” Lottie glances at me then goes back to swiping and tapping her screen. “It took me a while to get the website up. It was blocked on the college’s Wi-Fi system, so I’m guessing some people know about it. I had to hijack Starbucks’s, which was an absolute mess.”
“I bet,” I mutter, leaning forward.
“This is the site.”
She turns the tablet toward me. My eyes flit over the bright green-and-white logo inset on a black webpage, and she clicks on her bookmarks.
“And this is the page where Leah’s information was leaked.”
The page takes forever to load. The little loading bar ticks a million fucking times before the article finally comes up, along with the front page of what looks like her employment contract. There’s no information except stating that Leah has full design control of the line, but all publicity and final designs will be approved by Quinn Deacon of QD designs.
“And e-mails between her and Quinn…” Lottie scrolls down.
Sure as hell, there are a few e-mails with important dates and scanned designs.
“Why were e-mails on her the cloud?”
“She probably saved everything there,” Lottie explains, putting the tablet on the table. “It looks like only important e-mails were transferred—maybe so she could access the information no matter where she was without going through an inbox. That’s my guess, anyway. I can’t tell you more than that, Corey. But this right here is the proof that you didn’t tell anyone about her.”
“But I could be this”—I look at the username of the poster—“NatGojsh person.”
“Ah. No, you couldn’t.” My sister smiles and swipes a few times. “I traced the username as much as I could. It seemingly originates in the Philippines, but there are lines after. They’re just really messy. I could spend ten years going down every line and I’d only have a vague idea of who this person is. And no offense, brother, but the only line you can understand is the line of play.”
I smile. “True story. So how do I get this to Leah?”
Lottie grimaces. “I…don’t know.”
M
y pencil scratches across the page. It’s an unconscious movement, one designed to bring comfort and not really anything that makes sense. The irony of this is that, over the last three days, I’ve gone through approximately two hundred and fifty sheets of paper, and seventy-five of these have been usable designs. To an extent, at least.
Some I might not use for two years, some maybe never. Some I might pull out tomorrow and decide that a change of the neckline will make it a killer piece for my next collection.
The unusable ones are scattered in crumpled balls all over my design room floor. Not that they look out of place, mind you. The whole room is a mess. Fabric scraps litter the floor, too, and there’s a range of pins and clasps strewn across my desk. Post-it notes are stuck all over the top of my laptop at angles so random I can see them peeking out at me when I look at the screen. There are a couple of cans of Coke in the trash can, and there might be one behind it because I have a really crappy aim. Might be.
And I have no desire to clean it.
‘Cluttered space, clear mind’ might be true in some cases, but not in mine. In my life, my space is a reflection of me.
My once-clean, now-messy room is the reflection of how my life has changed since I met Corey Jackson.
Before him, everything in my life had a place. I knew what happened when. I knew where I had to be, who I had to be with, what I wanted. Down to the minutest detail, I knew.
He destroyed everything I knew.
He came barreling into my life with the force of a hurricane. He battered at my walls incessantly until they fell. He blew into me, beating me down, until I succumbed to his relentless attack and collapsed beneath the force of his determined desire.
And now he’s gone and I’m left with the aftermath of his storm. There are a thousand pieces to pick up and unimaginable damage, but somehow, I keep going. Somehow, I can look past the pain and destruction and see how things might be in one, two weeks. Maybe even in a month, when the memories have dulled and the future is brighter than the past.
The only problem is that I can’t see a part where he isn’t there. And that’s my downfall. That’s the downfall of every storm—they might not be there, but you’ll never forget them.
Corey Jackson grabbed ahold of me and my life and wormed his way in, inch by inch, hour by hour.
I miss him. The thought sizzles through my body, vibrating across my skin, making me hyperaware of the hole inside. That little dickhead-shaped hole where he used to be. It’s a dull ache, and the only thing that eases it is when my pencil hits the page and my subconscious takes over.
Only now, my subconscious isn’t in control anymore.
I look down at the page and gasp. I didn’t draw a dress or pants or even shoes. I’ve drawn an eye with lashes that curl out at the edges and an eyebrow that quirks at the perfect angle.
From somewhere in my thoughts, I drew Corey’s eye.
I snatch the page off the pad and twist it into the tightest ball possible as the doorbell rings.
No, no, no.
Don’t say my dumbass mind has summoned him here, too?
“Leah?” Cole yells through the house.
“Upstairs.”
There’s silence until he hits the stairs. Then the sound of his footsteps fills the air. The hallway floorboards creak under his weight.
“Where are you?”
“Here,” I call from my chair and wave my arms above my head. I spin as he turns, and I frown.
There’s an envelope in his hands, unsealed but pretty thick. I watch as Cole walks toward me, steps into the room, and looks around.
“Wow,” he breathes. “Is this where your magic happens?”
“It’s only magic because my name is there.” I smile sadly.
“No.” He walks to my memo board, where I have random sketches of items. “Trust me. It’s the clothes people are going crazy for. I spoke to my mom on the phone this morning and she fucking freaked that you designed some black-and-green lace dress she saw in the QD preview catalog.”
My smile brightens, and there’s a glint of hope—one that’s been absent since I left my show. “Really?”
“Really,” he confirms. A moment passes. Then he turns and says, “I have to show you something. But you have to listen to me, all right?”
“Um, okay?” I get up. “Let’s go in my room. This place is a, uh…”
“Shithole,” Cole answers for me, pushing my bedroom door open.
“Yeah. That.”
He drops onto my bed and lays the envelope in front of him. “Come sit down.”
“Cole, you’re scaring me.” I walk toward him with hesitant steps and swallow hard.
“I promise it isn’t bad. But you gotta listen to me and not say a word until I’m done, because, shit, Lee.”
“What did you do?” I sit down and reach for the envelope.
He snatches it back. “It’s what I’m about to do. Baby girl, I’m ten seconds from turning your life upside down and I’m sorry.”
He pulls a wad of paper from the envelope before I can reply and puts it front of me. There’s a website, 8OPEN, and beneath it is a paragraph connecting me with Lea V. and the front page of my contract. The contract saved to my cloud.
“I…I don’t understand.” I look up, my voice a mere whisper. “Cole, what is this?”
His shoulders heave with his deep breath. “This is the proof that Corey didn’t betray you.”
I stare at him, my heart threatening to break again. It’s pumping fast, my lungs constricting, and I scramble through the pages. There are e-mails, designs, endless images. All of my work, all connecting me to QD, but the contract is the damning one. That’s what connects me to Lea V. One page out of fifty, but that one page is enough.
Cole hands me another sheet of paper. “My friend traced the hacker to the Philippines, then to South Korea, Russia, Malta, and finally, Finland. After that, he surmised that the hacker was leading anyone searching on a wild-goose chase and gave up untangling the lines.”
I push that sheet away and stare at the first page, the website screenshot. And all the ones after.
It sinks in slowly.
Like a poison, the truth creeps beneath my skin and invades my bloodstream, flooding my body with its reality, all the while not caring about the shattering of my heart or the ripping of my soul.
My hands shake, and in my eyes, there are tears. They burn and they sting, because it’s a slow realization, but it’s strong and it’s harsh.
After what feels like a million years, I look up at my best friend of a lifetime, my future brother, his face barely visible through the streaming of my tears, and I whisper five words.
“Cole, what did I do?”
I haven’t used the punching bag in so long. It doesn’t matter that, after ten punches, I hugged it and collapsed to the floor, the weight of the truth too much to bear.
