Authors: Jessica Hawkins
Tags: #Contemporary Fiction, #debut, #Romance, #Contemporary Romance, #Contemporary, #Fiction
Come Undone (10 page)
“Shit, Olivia, I am so sorry.” He ran a hand through his hair and
stared, as if he was physically unable to look away.
“No,” I insisted, shaking my head harder. “No, no, no - you didn’t
do this. It wasn’t you,” I reassured him, waiting for his relief. Instead, his
look grew menacing as his eyes crept up to meet mine. I sat back in my chair, nervously
clutching for my sweater. He rounded the desk and gently pulled my wrist up so
my arm was taut. I relished the careful touch of his fingers encircling my
wrist. His thick eyebrows met in the middle while he examined the bruises.
In a voice contrary to the feather touch, he demanded, “How did
this happen?”
“It doesn’t hurt,” I said in a small voice, although I knew he
wouldn’t believe me. It didn’t, I hadn’t even noticed anything until now, but
the marks were vivid nonetheless.
“Olivia, tell me who did this. Was it me?” he asked with a
wavering voice.
I was reluctant to tell him. I hadn’t even had time to process it
myself. But I could tell he wouldn’t back down and that his patience was
wearing thin. I sighed and looked down. “Last night . . . after I left you, I
was walking home - ”
“What?” he bellowed, dropping my wrist. “You
walked
home last night? Christ, I never would have let you walk; do
you have any idea how dangerous that is?”
I fluttered my eyelashes at him innocently, and his expression softened
slightly. I started to tell him that I’d done it several times, but thought
better of it. “Someone – a man, he . . . Well, he was drunk. He tried to
get my attention, but when I ignored him, I guess it upset him. He grabbed me.”
David’s eyes widened visibly. “But,” I said before he could speak, “I used my
purse to fight him off, and I’m fine. Here I am.” I shrugged, tucking some hair
behind my ear.
“I can’t believe you walked home, I never should have let you go,”
he muttered.
“You didn’t
let
me do
anything, David. I’m not your responsibility.”
He drew his lips into a straight line and looked at me guardedly.
“Right,” he said. “What did your husband say? Did you call the police?”
“He’s out of town.”
David closed his eyes and shook his head. He opened one eye and appeared
to brace himself. “You slept alone last night?”
“Yes, of course.”
He exhaled forcefully. “What if he had followed you home?” he
asked. I hesitated, avoiding his eyes. “What is it? What aren’t you telling
me?” He waited a moment. “Olivia.” It was a command, rumbling with warning, and
it almost turned me to jelly. I wondered, if I didn’t respond would he say it
again?
“He was looking for Bill.”
“Your husband?”
I wondered if he had actually forgotten Bill’s name or if he
didn’t want to use it. “Yes. He’s a lawyer, and it’s related to one of his
cases.”
“Is that so.” His jaw looked tense enough to snap. “So he was
looking for him but found you instead. Do you know how?”
“It was in front of my apartment.”
“He knows where you live? But you still slept there?” He rolled
his head back and said something under his breath. He took his phone out of his
pocket and checked the screen. “Shit.” I hadn’t even heard it ring.
“Dylan. Yes. No. No. How is that an emergency?” David looked at me
as he listened. “I see. Okay.” He hung up the phone, never taking his eyes off
me. “I have to go.”
“Everything all right?”
“It is, just a fire I have to put out. Are you safe here?”
“Yes,” I said with fake confidence. I had no idea, but I wasn’t
about to admit that. “It’s not as big of a deal as it seems. I’ll be fine.”
“It is a big deal. What about tonight? You can’t stay alone.”
“Bill thinks I should go to New York, where he is, but I haven’t
decided. I’ll have to clear it with Beman.”
David appeared to relax, but his guarded expression remained as we
stared at each other. Knowing that I could sit and drink him in all day, I
turned away and held out my card. “E-mail me, and we’ll do this another
time.”
CHAPTER
8
STATELY SILVER BUILDINGS
, glowing in
the last light of the setting sun, filled the tiny airplane window. Beman
wasn’t pleased about my personal emergency, but I had assured him that I could
work remotely. His annoyance was tempered by the news that David had agreed to
be in the issue. Leaving the apartment was an overreaction, I was sure, but the
idea of getting out of town for a few days had won me over. And Bill had
pointed out that I hadn’t taken a break in over a year.
I’d
bought myself a ticket, thrown some things in a suitcase, my laptop in my
carry-on and hopped in a cab to the airport. It had all happened so suddenly,
that I hadn’t had a chance to sort out much more than that.
I
thought back to Bill’s and my conversation earlier in the day. The Alvarez
brothers were dangerous. Bill had known instantly why I was being threatened,
but had no idea how Lou’s brother Mark had found me.
When
Bill had worked as an assistant state’s attorney, his final case had been
trying Lou Alvarez for drug possession with intent to sell. He and Mark had
been arrested together. Bill had successfully proven that Lou’s crimes were
gang-related, and it had added almost a decade to his sentence. But Mark’s
prosecutor couldn’t make that same link. He was only sentenced to two years but
Bill had heard he’d been released for good behavior after thirteen months. He
assured me that it was the empty threat of a druggie, but we agreed that it was
best to play it safe.
Now
in New York, the yellow cab dropped me in front of Bill’s hotel. I stopped at
the front desk, where I found a key and a note with a time and address for
dinner.
“Is
this far?” I asked the concierge, handing him the paper.
“26
th
Street? Not at all,” he said and explained the route. I hadn’t been to New York
in years and was looking forward to wandering anonymously among the crowds
until dinner. I thanked him, and after a quick refresh, left the hotel.
Boutiques
had lowered their gates for the night, shielding exquisite works of art
parading as clothing. As I headed down a side street, bass thumped from behind
opaque glass. Two young women, models I guessed, laughed casually, cigarette
smoke wafting from between their fingers. Between their exposed belly buttons,
long slinky hair and black studded booties, it was obvious that they were
regulars of New York nightlife.
I huddled
into my coat. I hadn’t fixed my hair or make-up before leaving the hotel, and I
felt suddenly underwhelming. Though I was nearly as tall as them, I wasn’t sure
I possessed the graceful movements that painted them as gazelle-like. These
were the sorts of women that belonged to handsome, wealthy, charming men.
Men like David
, I thought before I could
stop myself.
I
was hundreds of miles away, yet I couldn’t seem to break the pattern that was
beginning to form. The rate at which my heart skipped had proliferated since
we’d first made eye contact. I shook my head and rewrapped my scarf around my
neck, as though doing so might shield me from the direction of my thoughts. I
pushed the women and everything they represented from my mind.
At
the restaurant, I was pleased to find that Bill was also early and waiting at
the bar. I sneaked up behind him easily since his eyes were transfixed on a
television that sat behind stacked bottles of liquor.
“Come
here often?” I grinned, tucking a piece of loose hair behind his ear.
He
jumped at my touch. “Hi.” He glanced at his watch and then back at me. “Huh, I
didn’t realize the time,” he said. “I missed you.” He snaked an arm around my
waist and planted a peck on my cheek. I nestled in against the barstool awkwardly.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he added, giving me a squeeze.
“Shall
we eat?”
The
hostess showed us to a cozy table under dim lighting and handed us our menus.
After I had decided, I looked up to find him watching me.
“I’ve
been worried,” he said.
“I
know,” I replied, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.
“What
were you even doing out that late by yourself?” My mind flitted back to our
phone conversation, where I had skillfully avoided the question. He wouldn’t
let me get away with it again. Knowing that Lucy would be a hard sell on a
Sunday night, I went for Gretchen. How I would get her to lie for me, I didn’t
know, but I knew she would.
“Gretch
and I went out for a couple drinks, nothing too crazy.” With my right hand, I
spun my wedding ring around my finger under the table. “We walk around Lincoln
Park at night all the time,” I proffered.
“Together,
yes.”
“I’ve
done it alone,” I countered.
“Whatever,
Livs. I’m just glad your safe, and I’ll have to give Gretchen a talking to
about this.”
“Ah,”
I gasped, “please don’t. She feels just awful and blames herself even though it
was entirely, one-hund-red per-cent
my
fault. Please don’t bring it up with her.”
He
studied me warily until defeat crossed his face. “Yeah, we’ll see,” he said,
but I knew I’d won; he didn’t typically challenge me when I was adamant about
something. “You’ve been drinking with them too much,” he added, crossing his
arms on the table.
“Can
we drop it?” I pleaded, inching the chair out from the table. “Order me the
crab cakes, I’m going to the restroom.”
~
The next
morning, Bill left me at first light with his credit card and for the first
time since we’d been married, instructions to go shopping. When the door clicked
shut, I climbed back into bed, thinking about his reaction the night before,
and his pained expression as he kissed the marks. His mooning had irked me more
than anything.
In
bed, I flipped over to the window and then back again. After twenty minutes of
staring at the wall, I decided to get some work done.
Outlook
popped up on my laptop, and the program pinged steadily while it updated. As
the e-mails filtered in, I saw David’s name flash by and forced my heart steady
as it threatened to leap. I started from the bottom, meticulously reading
through each e-mail until I could no longer concentrate and skipped ahead.
From:
David
Dylan
Sent:
Mon,
April 23, 2012 04:26 PM CST
To:
Olivia
Germaine
Subject:
Your
safety
Olivia,
What
did you decide about New York? Please let me know that you are safe tonight.
How is
Friday morning for our interview?
DAVID
DYLAN
SENIOR
ARCHITECT,
PIERSON/GREER
I
smiled inwardly at his concern, resolving that he’d probably figured out I’d
gone to New York. I proceeded to read through the rest of my e-mail, but
curiosity gnawed at me, and I was finding it hard to focus. I opened the search
browser.
‘D-a-v-i-d
D-’
David Dylan
. There he
was. Not high on the list of autocomplete results, but in the first round of
David Ds. The first link was to the
Architectural
Digest
magazine article. I opened it to see David’s stern face staring back
as he stood in front of his latest masterpiece. I scanned the three-page
article, noting that his firm, Pierson/Greer, was within walking distance from
my office. It discussed his impact on modern architecture, stating that he was one
of the most in-demand architects in Chicago.
They have to say that
, I thought, rolling my eyes. I hit the ‘Back’
button and scrolled down through a couple more work-related links.
“GQS will acquire Multi-Parcel
Express, CEO Gerard Dylan announces”
GQS? The GQS?
I wondered.
I read intently about Gerard, CEO of Global Quick & Speedy, the worldwide
shipping company. I returned to the main page and typed in Gerard’s name, which
revealed endless articles, both business and personal. A profile of his home
life presented four perfect smiles: Gerard, wife Judy, daughter Jessa and son
David. There was no mistaking David’s sister, who had the same obsidian hair
that complemented clear brown eyes and long black lashes.
He
was so photogenic that his piercing gaze and sturdy features almost made him
hard to look at. I sifted through images of him, mostly working or at events,
and smiled at how his tall frame and broad shoulders dwarfed those who posed
with him. A profile shot of him and his sister laughing, dressed in head-to-toe
black, could have been from a perfume ad. A few rows down, there was an image
of him on a red carpet, his arm placed behind a stunning golden-skinned
brunette with narrowed green eyes. Two more photos with her. And another with a
leggy redhead. I clicked out of the browser.
So much for research. All I learned is that he looks unjustly good in a
hardhat,
I thought, shutting the laptop with a thud.
I
headed out into the balminess of the late morning, surprised to find it warmer than
I’d expected, and directly into the nearest Starbucks for a hit of caffeine. I
considered staying to do some work but was feeling restless, so I took my drink
to go.
Shopping
and people watching were two areas where New York was never lacking. Throngs of
people filled the sidewalks, stopping abruptly to take pictures or admire the
shops along 5
th
Avenue. I perused a few stores along the way, more
admiring than shopping.
Eventually
I stumbled across the imposing St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Its dark beauty showed
through hard, sharp edges of smooth stone-colored marble. The intricacy of the
carvings that decorated the entire building, from base to sky-stabbing spire,
was breathtaking. I climbed the steps of the grave, mysterious building and
entered quietly behind a slew of other tourists. Studying the interior, I was
overcome with the solemnity that religious structures always inspired in me.
Observers wielded their cameras and phones, trying in vain to capture the power
of the architecture. Staring into the altar, I watched the candles flicker with
each opening of the cathedral door.
When
a familiar melody filled the room, I was embarrassed to find it was coming from
my purse. I scrambled to excavate my phone as I bolted for the door. A hurried
finger swiped across the screen silenced the ring. “Hello?” I asked breathlessly
as I descended the steps.
“Olivia.”
His voice was no less powerful on the phone, and I cursed inwardly. “It’s David
Dylan. Serena said I could reach you here.” I rolled my eyes, trying to imagine
how he had charmed my personal number out of her.
“Hello,
Mr. Dylan,” I said, trying to keep the butterflies in my stomach and out of my
mouth. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve
been concerned,” he said.
“I’m
fine
,” I exhaled, feigning
exasperation. “Everyone is overreacting.”
“How
is your arm?”
“Healing
beautifully. What can I do for you?” I repeated.
“Friday,”
he said.
I
bristled at the way he disregarded my clipped tone. “Actually, Friday works if
you don’t mind a phone interview.”
“Hmm.
I’d prefer to do it in person. I’ll get in touch with a better date.”
My
phone pinged in my ear and I pulled it away to quickly read a text message from
Bill.
Apr 24, 2012 4:17 PM
Headed back now.
“You’d
love it here,” I said, changing the subject. “The architecture is jaw-dropping,
as are the women.”
“I’ve
been to New York, Olivia. I travel there for business quite frequently,” he
stated.
“Oh,
of course,” I said, flushing under the chastisement. Obviously he must have
known intimately the type of women that lived here.
“Where
are you?” he asked, his tone softening barely.
“Um,”
I glanced around. I realized I’d been wandering, engulfed in our conversation.
I squinted for a street sign. “I don’t know, actually.”
“What?”
“Well,
I’ve just been wandering and exploring . . . . I’m by St. Patrick’s Cathedral,
or at least I was.”
“Christ,
Olivia. Pay attention, would you? I’m about to hire you a bodyguard.”
“Well,
imagine how I’ve made it this long.”
“You
are trouble,” he intoned quietly, so I had to strain to hear it. His tone
stirred my insides. “You know, I waited a full twenty-four hours for your
response,” he said. “It was everything to restrain myself from calling.”
“It
has not been twenty-four hours,” I pointed out.
“It’s
four-thirty,” he stated simply.
“Not
in Chicago, it isn’t,” I giggled.
“You
have a most enchanting giggle, Olivia Germaine,” he teased.
I
stopped, reddening further. “David,” I started. “Don’t call me here again. You
can e-mail if it’s important.”
“Understood,”
he complied, easier than I would have thought. “Tell me where you are though.”
“Hmm.
Madison Avenue,” I read off the nearest street sign.
“Not
surprising,” he mused. “What, were you doing some shopping?”
“Well,
I rarely get a chance to shop for myself,” I explained.
“I
think it might be fun to take you shopping.” I could almost hear him smiling on
the other end. I blanched, unsure of whether or not he was joking.
“Sure,
Edward Lewis,” I said, playing along.
“Edward
Lewis?”
“Never
mind, it’s a
Pretty Woman
reference.”
“So
that would make you Julia Roberts, then.”
“No,
that would make me Vivian.”
“All
right, well,
Vivian
- where are you
staying? I’ll tell you how to get back.” I toed the deformed sidewalk beneath
me, thinking. “Don’t worry, I won’t show up or anything.” I relented and told
him we were staying in the Meatpacking District.
“Okay,
listen,” he said, and instructed me on how to return to the hotel, where I knew
Bill would be waiting.
My
plan to forget was not working, but I relaxed knowing I wouldn’t be hearing
from him for a while. My heart dropped a little, too.
That
night, Bill surprised me with tickets to a show. We enjoyed the play, took in a
late night meal at Sardi’s . . . . Stayed up late, talking in our hotel room,
deciding to extend our trip through the weekend. I was content, as I’d always
been, except that I couldn’t shake the tiny knot at the pit of my stomach.
Something had been planted inside of me that I was finding hard to escape.
