Icy Pretty Love (10 page)

Asked for her ‘niceness lessons’ in a moment of weakness. She’s so damn earnest. To listen to her preach about how anybody can change is to almost believe it. I know better, of course. I can’t change. I’m a cruel person, and that drives people away, and that’s for the best.

I’ll humor her a while longer, though. If I felt things like guilt, I’d feel guilty she got roped into spending a month with me before being warned about my disposition. At least this seems to amuse her. She’s remarkably easy to amuse, for someone who’s seen all the worst sides of people.

If I felt things like pity, I might pity her.

But I don’t. And before long, she’ll realize that she’s wasting her time and move on.
      

Just like everybody else has.

Bad things happened to the last person who did that…

His words cycle around in my head like the laugh track to a bad sitcom, except nobody’s laughing. What does that even mean, bad things? I let my head flop against the pillow, staring at the ceiling encased in shadows. Did he put out a hit on the last person to trust him? Disembowel them himself? Feed them to circus lions?

Oh, well. At least I had a good time today.

After our first harrowing climb, we’d decided to take the elevator for the last leg. We got so high up that I could no longer see individual people, and the buildings were tiny as the people had been. When you’re high up like that, it feels like you could close your eyes and fall forever. Fall away from who you used to be.

I used to think like that, sometimes. About how easy it would be to slip off the edge of my apartment building. Just one step. Just a handful of pills. Just a slip of the knife and I’d never, ever have to link my arm with a strange man’s ever again, a strange man who only knew the mask and didn’t care to know more.

But I’m smarter now.

At least, I thought I was. The ache between my thighs that flowers every time I think about the sweat that collected in the groove of Cohen’s collarbone is not smart. The pang I feel when I picture the sadness in his eyes when he told me not to trust him? Not smart. Those two things together is a very, very dangerous cocktail to feel for someone who, as it happens, is not gay.

The ringing of my bedside table phone shocks me out of my not-smart thoughts. I grab for it, half-grateful. “Hello?”

“Miss Montgomery,” Renard says dryly. “Someone is here to see you. A Miss LeCrue?”

“LeCrue’s a dude,” I say. “Oh! Wait, no, that’s Annabelle. I know her. Send her up.”

It doesn’t even occur to me to check with Cohen until I’ve wrapped myself in a silk bathrobe, courtesy of my shopping trip with Renard, and headed out into the living room. As it turns out, it doesn’t matter. Cohen’s door is hanging ajar, his bed empty. I pause to stare at his lonely rumpled sheets.

What is he doing out there in the Parisian night, if not having wild gay sex parties? What’s so important that it’s worth the lost sleep? Is he safe?

Oh no—what if he has a mistress?

I retroactively remove the ‘oh no.’ I couldn’t care less if he has a mistress, obviously. And it wouldn’t be a real mistress, because I’m not his real fiancé. It would a girlfriend. A girlfriend, possibly, who he can tolerate even though he can’t tolerate anybody else. A girlfriend who he kisses and whose shirt he unbuttons while he—

I slam his bedroom door, put both hands on it, and bang my head on the cherrywood as hard as I can.

“Ow! Damn it!”

Never bang your head off anything as hard as you can.

A second banging noise joins in. There’s someone knocking. Annabelle’s sweet voice penetrates my haze of pain: “Georgette? Are you home?”

“Coming!” I attempt to call delicately. Instead, the word comes out in a high-pitched squeak of agony. My eyes watering, I fumble for the light switch and then fumble for the doorknob.

“Hello, dear, I was just in the area and thought I’d…my goodness, what happened to your forehead?”

Turns out knocking yourself half-unconscious is not a good antidote to horniness, I want to say, but I still have a couple brain cells that aren’t dented. “I was having a hard time sleeping and I tried to make myself a cup of tea in the dark. Bumped my head on the wall. Please do come in—I’m so sorry about the bathrobe.”

Annabelle steps into the apartment, and as she does, her eyes harden. “You don’t need to lie to me.”

“Ahaha, who’s lying? I’m not lying, nobody’s lying,” I stammer, exactly like someone who’s lying out their ass. I flee to the kitchen and scoop a handful of ice from the freezer. Annabelle follows me, her hair perfectly curled and makeup flawless for eleven o’ clock, which, now that I think of it, is a weird time to be ‘just passing by.’ Maybe this is normal for rich people.

“That bastard.” She sets her teeth. “He hit you.”

“What? No!” I cry, not missing the irony. I’ve made that claim many times in my life, and it’s the first time it’s ever been true. “I bonked my head on the door, that’s all!”

“You said wall before.” She advances, accusing.

“I practically have a damn concussion and I mixed up a word, cut me some slack!” I snap before realizing it’s not very Georgette-y. I wrap the dripping ice in a towel, hold it to my swelling forehead, and paste on a smile. “I’m so sorry to worry you, Annabelle. But it really is the truth. I’m awfully clumsy, as a matter of fact. My—er, my dear Cohen would never ever lay a hand to me.”

She stares at me a minute before smiling. As someone who regularly puts on a fake smile, I can tell when someone else does it. Hers is as creaky as an old seesaw. She takes my wrist and draws me back into the living room. “Georgette, sweetheart. If you’re honest with me, I’ll be honest with you. I didn’t just happen by tonight. My visit has a purpose.”

Well, poke me in the eye and slap me with a tuna.

“I’m not lying,” I say weakly.

“I’m so glad I did decide to stop by. I was quite torn about it, darling. But it looks like my warning comes not a minute too late.” She shakes her head in what I interpret to be, possibly not very graciously, a self-satisfied way.

“What warning?” All I want to do is take an Advil, or whatever the French equivalent is, and collapse back into bed.

“Oh, darling.” She shakes her head again, pityingly this time. “I understand. I truly do. All that money and might can dazzle a girl, when she’s without a proper guide. And he’s got the looks, too, nobody can deny that. A terrible combination. I’m sure you regret the situation you’ve found yourself in, by now, and a little bit of reflection earlier on might have served you well, but now that you’ve come to the right realizations, I’m here to offer you a helping hand.”

Jesus. The rich can talk in circles forever. I try and fail for a minute to find meaning in that perfumed pile of words. “Sorry, but…what?”

“Well, you’re going to break the engagement, obviously,” she says.

I will never, ever bang my head on anything ever again. Even something soft. “Look, Annabelle…er, dearest. I appreciate your concern very much, and I’m glad to have found a friend here. But Cohen didn’t hurt me. It was my clumsiness alone. He’s been out for the past hour—go ask the doorman if you don’t believe me—and look how fresh my bruise is. It hasn’t even purpled yet. I bumped it right before you came in. See?”

I give her a minute to examine the evidence before returning the ice pack to my forehead.

The breath leaves her in a whoosh. “I see.” She sits back. Is that disappointment in the creases on her forehead?

“So,” I say carefully. “I’ll put on some tea for you, then…?”

She grabs my hand. And, to my amazement, squeezes out a tear.

“Annabelle?” I cover her hand with mine, concern overriding my suspicion. I know what it means when a woman goes crying to another in the middle of the night.

“It’s just,” she sobs, “I’m so relieved, you see. When I saw you, my heart near stopped. I felt so terrible that he’d done it to someone else, after I’d convinced myself he wouldn’t.”

“Done what?” My heart plummets like a stone.

“I wasn’t going to tell you unless I absolutely had to, but I see no way around it now,” she sniffs. “The truth is…the truth is that I used to be with Cohen. For a short time, before I found my darling Claude. I was dazzled the same way you were, of course. For someone who doesn’t know his heart, the rest of him can be quite…alluring.”

Don’t I know it. But even that thought is crushed by Annabelle’s revelation. It seems insane to think, knowing what I know of Cohen and his absolute disdain for everyone, that he’d ever pursue someone like Annabelle…

“I struggled with my conscience after the dinner when we met. The poor dear seems to like him so much, I thought to myself, maybe he’s changed. But eventually my soft heart won out and I just had to come and tell you the truth. You see…Cohen used to hit me, too.”

She covers her face with both hands.

The apartment shatters, leaving me suspended briefly in black space before it reassembles, piece by piece. But…something isn’t right here. My instincts are singing at me. Annabelle’s sobs are too calculated, her story too hollow. A tiny being uncurls in my chest and whispers:
she’s lying.

She drops her hands. “You do believe me, don’t you?”

And I’m immediately disgusted with myself.

I know almost nothing about Cohen. Why am I so willing to believe the best of him, and so quickly? The only thing I know for sure about him is that he’s a jerk, and that’s not exactly a great defense.

What reason would Annabelle have to lie?

What’s wrong with me, that I was so ready to throw away a lifetime of hard-earned lessons just to hope that Cohen might be different?

“Of course I believe you.” I rub her back, a ring of steel entering my voice. “Girls need to believe each other. I’m so sorry, Annabelle.”

“Thank you, darling. I feel better already knowing I’ve saved you from marrying that terrible man.” She peers at me. “When you break the engagement, if you wouldn’t mind keeping my little visit and confession quiet…”

“Yeah, I won’t say anything.” Uh-oh. I press my hand to my chest in the way that I hope a rich princess would after finding out her fiancé is a terrible person. “This is just…astounding. I’ll need time to process…”

“But you
will
break off the engagement?” Annabelle interrupts. She has the pouty scowl of someone so used to getting what they want that the mere hint that they might not is enough to ruin their day. And then I feel awful for thinking that, because she’s not acting selfishly at all. She just doesn’t want me to marry a man with that kind of badness in his heart.

The kind of badness I’d been so relieved that Cohen didn’t harbor.

Despite everything, though, I’m a realist at heart. I’m not going to throw away all that money and my new life to escape one month with the type of man I’ll be spending a lifetime with if I have to go back home. “Time is all I need, Annabelle, honestly. I need time to think. It’s just…I can’t believe I was so wrong about him.” And then, even though my heart is heavy and acting is the last thing I feel like doing, I force out a tear or two.

The tears are lies, but the words aren’t.

I thought I had instincts I could trust. Good ones. Honed ones.

And despite his attitude, those instincts had whispered to me that Cohen was a kind person, deep down.

Guess I’m not as smart as I thought.

“But didn’t you hear what I told you?” Annabelle tosses her hair back. “You can’t stand for this sort of thing. You should break it off immediately—”

“Time,” I say firmly, wiping away a tear. I summon the best part of my heart. “Thank you, Annabelle, so much. I can’t imagine the courage it must have taken to come tell me this. And I hate to send you off, but I won’t be able to truly think about this until I’m alone. I’m sorry.”

She stares at me. For a second, she looks almost angry. Then she smooths herself over and stands up. “Of course, darling. I understand perfectly. You can come to me with anything, I want you to know that.”

“Thank you,” I say again. Those words are starting to burn on my tongue.

Finally, she leaves. I’m left alone. The apartment seems bigger and emptier than it ever had before. Cohen’s bedroom door, still shut, now looked like the eyelid of a closed monster eye. A monster that I don’t want to rouse.

I can’t go back to bed. Instead, I draw myself a bath and sink deep in the bubbles, the hot water loosening the concrete that had hardened over my thoughts. Anger breaks through.

That bastard, promising he wouldn’t hurt me like the very idea was abhorrent to him.

That bastard, with the flash of pity in his eyes.

Well, I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t be opening my heart to him again. It was stupid to let him see the real me in the first place. I’ll be an icy shell to him, Georgette Montgomery through and through, and the rest of me I’ll keep locked up until this month from hell is over.

I don’t need him to be different. He doesn’t matter to me.

I only cry a little bit, warm water joining hot. Because sometimes a girl just needs a decent cry, goddamn it.

~7~

Cohen’s Diary, Entry #2

I’ve proved myself right again. I am always right. I don’t know why I was expecting to be wrong this time.

No. No, I wasn’t expecting to be wrong. I expected this all along.

Rae hates me now. She lasted a good amount of time, I guess I should give her a medal. Congratulations: You Went Two Days Without Hating Cohen Ashworth, a World Record. Not sure what I did, but then again, anything I do is usually enough.

Came home, sat down to breakfast and she barely spoke to me. When she did, it was with the cool, polite voice of her alter ego. No inane chatter. No obnoxious jokes. Honestly, I’m relieved. I won’t have to put up with her annoying nonsense anymore.

She’s given up on the “niceness lessons.” Asked about it. She said, “No, we’re not doing them anymore. I realized you’re right. People like you don’t change.”