Love, Chloe (37 page)

I had always hoped that Nicole would be the one to confess. If I took away that option, telling Clarke about Paulo, would it ruin any chance of him trusting Nicole again? Or had I already ruined that moment by bringing up the paternity at all? It was pretty much assumed, from my quick glance at social media, that Nicole was the Unfaithful Slut of the Week.

“It was Paulo.”

“It was Paulo.”

That bomb didn’t come from me; it came from Dante, who muttered the words, his voice dark. My head snapped to him, my eyes widening, any inner debate over spilling the beans on Nicole’s lover ended. Clarke’s attention turned from me and zeroed in on Dante.

“Paulo?” Clarke sounded surprised.

“This
couldn’t
have been a surprise.” Dante stood and faced him. “How often was he at your house? And her getting this role?”

I didn’t know why Dante was getting so self-rightous. He had kept the secret, same as me, all of us guilty in this situation except Clarke. Clarke sank back in his seat, his head resting against the wall. He looked beaten. Lost. I watched his brow pinch and wondered if I had looked that defeated and broken, in the aftermath of discovering Vic’s affair. But then, I’d been caught completely off guard. Clarke, he’d spent almost a day sitting, waiting for the guillotine to fall.

Waiting to find out who the executioner was.

Clarke clammed up. I watched him sink against his seat, his gaze shuttering, his arms crossing, his mouth narrowing into a thin line. Our group fell back into silence, nothing said until a nurse walked out and asked for me.

“I’m Chloe.” I stood up, hesitantly raising a hand.

“Mrs. Brantley has asked for you.”

I glanced at Clarke, then back at the nurse, who had already turned, her scrubs pushing through the double doors. I grabbed my purse and darted after her, worried about being left. I didn’t glance at Clarke when I scurried past. Didn’t want to see the questions in his eyes. I didn’t want to know why she had asked for me, didn’t want to see her, was too terrified of a negative outcome to ask the nurse about the baby.

“The baby is fine.” The nurse spoke over her shoulder, waiting on a hospital bed to cross our path.

“It’s fine?” A swell of emotion filled my chest at the news, and I sent a silent
thank you
up to heaven.

“Yes. Mrs. Brantley has an ulcer, one that flared, probably due to stress and a daily ibuprofen habit. But she’s stable now. Still in some pain, but the medicine will kick in soon.”

She stopped outside a room and nodded me forward. I steeled myself and stepped into the room, ready for battle. Instead, I found a different woman. Not the enraged, screaming banshee from hours earlier; Nicole had sunk into a large bed, tiny among all of the IVs and equipment. Her room had a window and she looked out it, her gaze barely flicking to me when I entered.

“Does Clarke know about Paulo?” she asked quietly.

“Yes.” I didn’t bother telling her that it was Dante who shared the news, or that Clarke had pulled it out of us. At that moment, she didn’t seem to care and I was running out of the energy to deal with all of this.

“I don’t want to talk to him,” she whispered the words and wrapped her hands around her stomach. “I’m just so tired. Of everything.”

Well,
that
made two of us. I sank into a recliner next to her bed and closed my eyes. The last few days had been such a whirlwind; I’d hardly had a moment to rest. I wondered where all of her friends were. Then again … I wasn’t sure Nicole really had any friends. Acquaintances? Yes. Fellow social maggots? Yes. True friends? No. Another domino on top of Nicole’s stack of sadness. I had a fleeting thought of Chanel and wondered where she was.

“Is he staying?” Nicole’s question was so subdued, so quiet and naked in its vulnerability, I almost missed it.

“Who? Clarke?” It seemed like a ridiculous question. “Here at the hospital? Yeah, he’s in the waiting room.”
Wanting to see you
. An addition I should have added, but I was chicken.

“He should leave me,” she mumbled. “After everything…”

I didn’t know what to say. I completely agreed with her. During the last year, I’d asked myself a dozen times why the damn man stayed. On one hand, it was endearing, his commitment and devotion. On the other hand, it was stupid. But what did I know? I’d stayed with Vic for two years. There were probably plenty in his inner circle who had laughed behind my back, who had questioned my intelligence level. I couldn’t really judge Clarke for anything. “This could be a fresh start for you two.” I ventured. “You could be honest with him. Faithful.”

She snorted, a little taste of old Nicole fighting to the surface. “Like I have a choice?” She scowled. “My body is going to be shot after
this
.”

This.
That was her reference to the baby. I swallowed every response that bubbled in my throat and mentally circled, in bold red pen, my date of resignation. Next Monday. She should be out of the hospital by then. Maybe I could kidnap Chanel on my way out. With all the baby and affair drama, they probably wouldn’t even notice.

I glanced at my watch and decided to move this pity party along. “I’ve got to run.” I stood, snagging my purse off of the floor. “I’ll send Clarke back.”

Her head lifted off the pillow. “Where are
you
going? What is more important than
this
?”

“I’m sorry. An appointment,” I lied, moving for the door quickly, before she had a chance to retort.

Her last words were shouted at me, the demand slipping through the door right before it shut. “Don’t send Clarke back here!”

I considered the order, and then, in one of my final acts as Assistant to Nicole, discarded it.

I saw Carter the minute I stepped from the taxi. He stood on the front steps of our building, his hands in his back pockets, the pose accenting the tight fit of his shirt on his shoulders, the muscles of his arms, a slight peek of abs visible above the low hang of his jeans.

I stopped before him and looked up into his face. “Hey.”

“I love you.” The best response in the whole world. I smiled bigger.

“I love you too.”

“I can’t decide if I want to carry you to my bedroom or to lunch.”

“Bed,” I said immediately, and he laughed, dropping his arms and stepping down a few steps, pulling me against his chest and looking down at me for a moment—one heart-stopping moment where he stared at me as if I were everything in his world. I lifted my chin, and he kissed me softly.

When the kiss ended, he kept me there, his face serious. “Do you know how scared I was last night? When he proposed?”

Last night. How could so much have happened in just twenty-four hours? I wet my lips, and his hands tightened a little on my hips. “You shouldn’t have been. I was yours the entire time.”

He swallowed and his eyes moved to my mouth, then he kissed me again, this kiss hard and dominant, his tongue diving in and claiming me, his fingers hard as they pulled me close. “Bed,” he whispered, and I nodded.

“Now.”

My bag fell in his hall, my clothes got lost along the way, and I lay back on his bed and watched him yank at his shirt, his abs stretching and popping as he pulled it over his head and tossed it aside. He kicked off his shoes as he undid his jeans, shoving them over his hips, taking his boxer briefs along with them, and then he was naked—fully naked—the sun coming in the window and showcasing the utter perfection of the man. Already hard, he took his time walking over to the bed, his hand gripping his cock, moving in slow and delicious strokes. I hated to glance away from the scene, but then he spoke, and I looked up to his face and there … I was a goner. Intense heat in those eyes, he looked at me with such need that I was instantly addicted, never wanting to look away from his face again.

“Spread your legs, baby. Let me see you.” He stroked himself, his voice hoarse and I slid my feet along the bed, my knees parting, nothing hidden from his eyes.

He stopped at the foot of the bed and stood, his legs slightly spread, and stared. “Touch yourself, baby. Put your fingers everywhere that you want my mouth.”

If I was wet before, I was soaked by the time I ran my tentative fingers in between my legs. And with him there, his chest flexing, arm moving, breath hard, I showed him exactly what I wanted him to do.

And then, he did it better.

I knew I’d said it before, but I loved this man.

If I ran fast enough through life, I couldn’t see its cracks.

Nicole’s drama.

My looming unemployment.

Carter’s parents.

Vic.

In the moments since that horrible night when Vic proposed—I’d run fast, and love had blurred my vision. Carter and I fit so perfectly together, in this new relationship of
I love yous
and
orgasms
and
God you’re beautifuls
that I managed, for almost a week, to ignore everything else.

Then real life came calling.

Cammie was coming over, and late. I eyed the clock and sipped my wine, turning up my playlist. The buzzer sounded and I skipped the speaker, letting her in without complaint, my hand swinging open the door at the first sign of a knock, my buzz kicking, pajama pants imperfectly paired with a Current-Elliot top. We were going to make cupcakes, drink wine, and watch a movie. Plans that stalled when I saw the couple at my door.

“Mom?” I almost checked my wine glass, to see if I had chugged it all, had slipped in pills, had done
something
to imagine my mother, her arm slipped carelessly through a Gucci crocodile bag, my father towering behind her. I hadn’t seen them in over a year, and yet, somehow, they looked exactly the same. No extra wrinkles from stress, no salt and pepper roots betraying the months since a proper dye job, no worn suitcase in hand. Mother was in a St. John suit, her hair perfect, smile wide, a mink stole around her shoulders. My father was in his typical garb: an oxford shirt tucked into dress pants, sunglasses perched on his thick head of hair despite the late hour. As handsome as ever, they looked like a million bucks. A million highly illegal bucks.

“Chloe, where are your manners?” She scowled at me as if she still owned my dwelling, her hand pushing open my door, and as she swept past, the scent of Chanel No. 5 catching me, a thousand memories tied to the smell.

“Chloe.” My father nodded stiffly and I nodded back.

“What are you guys doing here?” I didn’t close the door, just pivoted in place, a little wine sloshing out, and stared at them. Mom didn’t respond, too busy surveying my apartment, her lip curled in a manner that clearly indicated her disapproval. Something inside of me snapped.

“What are you doing here?” I repeated. “Aren’t you both under house arrest?”

“Oh,” she said airily, waving her hand. “Nothing so barbaric as that. I mean … the hearing is tomorrow morning.
Then
we’ll probably be restricted to the house.”

“If the judge doesn’t send us straight to jail.” My father said the statement mildly, lifting up my bottle of wine and examining the label.

“It’s turned into such a mess, it’s really quiet humorous.” Mom turned back to me, her eyebrows raised, and she grinned at me, as if we were teenage girls sharing a delicious secret.

“You have a hearing
tomorrow
?” I tried to follow this.

“Yes.” She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around my neck, hugging me tightly. “We came all the way up here just to see you, Chloe. You should really act happier to see us.”

I didn’t have a response. I patted her back awkwardly and looked to my father, who was busy tipping back a glass of my cheap wine. “So … you fly home tonight?”

“Oh, I’m not sure.” Mom pulled back and reached in her bag, finding a tube of lipstick and pulling it out. “We may do a little traveling. We tried to deal with the investigators, but…” She waved a hand in the air like the FBI was a pesky little kid who was stomping through her hibiscus.

Then it hit me, and the only thing that really surprised me was that they had stopped in New York first. “You’re
running
?”