Love, Chloe (33 page)

“Really,” Vic drawled out the words. “Love?”

“Yes.” I lifted my chin and met his eyes.

“Do you even know what love is, Chloe?” Funny that the man who’d tainted the word for me could speak so confidently about it.

I lifted my shoulders in a shrug. “I’m figuring it out.”

He didn’t like that. I saw the tighten of his lips, the clench of his jaw, the curl of his fingers around the lip of the bar’s edge. “So it’s the same? As it was with me?”

“No.” The next part was cruel and hard but true and necessary and the words fell out painfully. “It’s better. It’s a real relationship. I trust him. I don’t know if I ever trusted you.” So many nights, waiting up for his calls, wondering where he was. So many trips taken without me, Instagram pics on other girls’ accounts, his jet in the background, their smiles where mine should have been.

“And how well could he treat you, Chloe?” His loose position was gone, his stool empty. He was on his feet and stepping closer, one of his hands wrapping around my arm and squeezing. “Does he let you super-size your fast food order? Get a popcorn at the budget movies?”

“Don’t be an ass.” I yanked my arm and turned, stepping away, wanting some distance, some space, less of him and more of me. I raised my arms to my head and breathed deeply. Willed myself to relax.

He kept his distance, thank God. I heard the screech of a stool and looked over, seeing him push my purse aside, his hand on my glass and he met my eyes, lifting it to his lips. He scowled at the taste and set it back down. “What—you stop drinking too?”

I squared my shoulders and met his eyes. “I love him.” I watched him shove at my glass, the tumbler slick on its slide across the counter, and I winced when it went over the edge, turning away when it hit the tile floor, the crash loud and painful.

“Bullshit, Chloe. I know you. You don’t
love
him. And I’m different now. I’ve learned from my mistakes. I’m the only one who can give you the life you deserve.” At one time, that threat would have affected me. Now, it was laughable.

“You’re wrong. I love him.” Each time I said it, I found more truth in it.

“Stop saying that!” There was another crash of glass and he was on his feet again, stepping toward me, and I flinched, my hands coming up in protection.

There was a growl from the doorway in the moment before Vic’s hands latched onto me.

I didn’t know how long Carter had been standing there, or what he had heard but I knew when Vic’s hands grabbed me, Carter moved—a fluid burst of masculinity, his impact with Vic flinging me free, my side hitting a table’s edge. A burst of pain flared in my ribs and I clutched my mid-section, my head whipping to the two men who, at different moments in time, owned my heart.

Carter got to his feet, his hand tight on Vic’s shirt. Vic lifted his head, a manic laugh bubbling out. “Go ahead,” he spat out. “Give me your best shot.”

“Carter,” I spoke quietly but he looked up, his arms bulging as he held up Vic’s weight. I nodded to the three men standing in the doorway, Vic’s security team, men with guns underneath their jackets and itchy trigger fingers. “Let’s go.”

Vic’s fist swung upward as Carter let him go. It was a cheap shot, unsurprising, but I heard the connection and winced. Carter stood, his hand wiping at his mouth, his eyes dark, and looked at me. I hurried past him and grabbed my purse. It had fallen to its side, and I shoved its loose contents inside, my hands quick, steps quicker, and then we were outside, the night air warm, our exit lost in the madness that was a city at night.

We stepped into a curbside taxi, my butt sliding across the vinyl seat, my hand tightly grasped by Carter, nothing said between us until the cab pulled off, bumping over a pothole in its exit.

“Are you okay?” Carter ran a finger over his lip, blood smearing, and he frowned.

“I’m fine. He wouldn’t have … he wouldn’t have done anything.” Vic’s temper had flared a hundred times. The worst he’d ever done was throw things at me. Things that could be ducked, his fist hitting the wall beside my head something that scared but didn’t hurt. “I had it covered,” I said the words for myself as much as I did for Carter.

“You shouldn’t have met him alone like that. I told you not to.” His tone was low and judgmental, and I bristled.

“It wasn’t supposed to be alone. I didn’t realize he’d clear the bar. Why were you there?”

He laughed. “Is this what this is gonna be? You’re pissed at me for showing up?”

“I’ve been followed before. Checked up on. I don’t like it.” I looked out the window.

“I didn’t follow you because I didn’t trust you. You told me where you’d be—”

“And I was there,” I said, cutting him off.

“I was waiting for you in the entrance. Just in case. I heard a shout; I came in. Don’t make it into anything else.”

I didn’t know what to think. Didn’t know if I was sensitive from my time with Vic, time where I was constantly monitored, his paranoia trumped only by his jealousy. Carter had never acted that way, had been more than cool with all of Vic’s bullshit, including the set up of this meeting to begin with. I felt the knot in my back begin to relax, and I turned to look at him, reaching out my hand. “The only reason I met him was because you asked me to.”

“I know, and maybe I shouldn’t have insisted. I’m sorry I didn’t knock him out.” He grimaced.

I thought about how he’d looked, his muscles tense, the blur of his movement, the protective rush to my aid … it had been, in the whirlwind of it all, pretty hot. I smiled. “You didn’t do so bad. That’s probably the closest Vic’s ever come to a beating. He’s normally got his guys close by. But I hate that he sucker-punched you.”

Carter shrugged. “Hey, I got the girl. It was worth it.” He leaned over, burrowing his head into my shoulder and inhaled deeply, relaxing into me. “A kiss would help,” he whispered.

I obliged. It was the least I could do, the soft brush of my lips against his split lip, his bruised jaw.

It wasn’t until later that I realized the problem. After our shower, after his gentle towel dry of my hair, after a long and sweet session in between the sheets, after I flipped off the bedroom light, and reached down into my purse for my phone to plug it in.

My hand skated over a compact, lip-gloss, and my wallet. Fumbled behind a half-eaten Snickers bar and my earbuds. My heart started beating and I turned on the bedside light, looking again, more frantic this time.

My phone. It was gone.

My missing phone wasn’t an accident and it wasn’t my fault. I knew that instinctively, my stomach twisting as I slowly shut the purse and set it down. This was Vic.

I heard the screech of his stool and looked over, seeing him push my purse aside, his hand on my drink and he met my eyes, lifting it to his lips.

Shit. I imagined him, sitting at home, his fingers across my screen, flipping through my photos, reading my texts … I had the insane urge to get dressed and run back to his bar, or his penthouse, or wherever the damn man was. Find him and rip my phone back from his freshly manicured fingers.

I punched on the bed with a hard fist, Carter sitting up, his hand touching my elbow, asking if everything was okay. “It’s fine.” I tried to smile, turned and crawled under the covers, my body sliding alongside his. I kissed his neck and burrowed into his side.

Right then, I should have told him about my missing phone. Full disclosure, open communication, and all that good-for-relationship stuff. But with his lip freshly split from Vic’s punch, our minds finally off the night’s events, I just couldn’t. Instead, I laid my head against his chest and stewed. Pretended to be asleep while, inside, my mind went crazy.

I never wanted to see Vic again. Not even for my phone. But then, I thought of everything on it, the personal invasion of him pawing through it…

As soon as Carter fell asleep, I crawled out of bed. Borrowed his cell and called Cammie from the bathroom. She was awake and cut me off mid-sentence, as soon as she understood the dilemma.

“Wipe your phone.” She spat out the directive as if it was simple.

“What?”

“He knows your passcode, right?”

My passcode. The four-digit code I’d used since high school. “Yeah,” I said glumly.

“Remotely wipe it. Now. You can do it through iCloud.”

iCloud. The thing I’d cursed so many times before… could it actually be my savior? I winced at the thought of the last time I’d backed up my phone. At what I’d lose in the wipe.

“Now, Chloe. Before he gets every naked selfie off it.” Cammie’s voice broke through.
Naked photos
. My mind tripped and fell over every sexy pic I’d taken in the two years I’d had that phone. I should have known my vanity would have come back to bite me.

I cracked the bathroom door and eyed Carter’s laptop, one I didn’t have a password for. “Can you do it? I’m at Carter’s.”

She jumped into action and a few minutes later, my phone, wherever it was, had been completely erased. I would have the headache of paying for a new phone. But the satisfaction of not having to call Vic? To not go crawling back to him, hand out, asking for it back?
That
was worth it. That felt better than anything else.

That night, for the first time all week, I slept soundly.

A woman in New York City couldn’t survive without a cell phone. It was a fact. Especially not a woman working for Nicole Brantley. My old self would have marched into the closest Verizon and walked out with a shiny new phone. My new self had to wait three days for my phone insurance to ship out a refurbished replacement. My new self agonized over the two-hundred-dollar fee. I hated Vic a little more with every inconvenience caused.

My job probably wouldn’t have survived the three-day period if not for the set walkies—a giant radio that hung on my hip, a cord running from it up to an equally sexy headpiece that Nicole insisted I wear. I looked ridiculous but could hear Nicole’s voice loud and clear when she barked. And she barked constantly. It turned out pregnancy was hell on a bitch’s hormones. Her taste buds had gone crazy too. She’d been demanding the weirdest food. Olives, coffee-flavored ice cream, feta cheese, and banana popsicles. Try and track down
banana
popsicles. It was impossible. I called seventeen stores before she decided she’d rather have cherry.