Love, Chloe (9 page)

He always smelled good. I leaned against his shirt and inhaled the familiar scent, an expensive one that was custom mixed for him. My feet were dragging along the floor. I frowned, confused, and lifted one, catching it on something and Vic grunted. “Stop kicking me.”

I giggled. “I’m not kicking you.” The wind hit my face and I burrowed into him, my feet off the floor, someone carrying my legs and I saw a familiar face open the door—Jake, Vic’s driver. Vic ducked into the car and I was helped inside, my body falling back into the hard warmth of his chest.

Words spoken, a blur of them between people,
so
many people, and Vic shook me gently. “Chloe. Chloe. Where’s your purse?”

Purse? Through the blur, I remembered my money.
Losing it all
. I shook my head. “Don’t have it.” I wondered how he was there. How many beers I had had from that bucket. Had I called him? I must have. I reached for my jacket pocket, feeling the hard outline of my phone.

The door shut, the cold air gone, and I gripped at the front of his shirt, pulling myself tighter to him, his arms wrapping around me. “What happened?” he asked, looking down at me, our eyes meeting.

“Nothing,” I whispered, closing my eyes. I might have been drunk, but I knew one thing—if I told Vic about the money, he’d give it to me. I’d already sold the man’s earrings. I didn’t need another IOU hanging out there.

“Did someone hurt you?” His voice was louder and I winced, my head shaking.

“No. I fell. On the street.”

He pressed a soft kiss on my forehead, his eyes searching mine. “Come home with me tonight.”

The seat beneath me was heated, the Rolls silent and smooth as we moved through the city. In his arms, in that spot, I could have stayed forever. I shook my head. “I can’t.”

I expected him to fight me on it. To take me to his home, damn any of my opinions to the contrary. But he didn’t. For once in our relationship, he listened to me. Maybe it was because he had another girl waiting for him, a date or fuck interrupted. Maybe he felt sorry for me in my pitiful state. Whatever the reason, he and Jake carried me up to Cammie’s, her yanking open the door, the worry on her face clearing as she gathered me in her arms. She lectured me for not answering my phone, drowned me in bottled water, and then put me to bed, her touch as comforting as my mom’s had once been.

I shouldn’t have called Vic. I shouldn’t have been that weak. But in that moment of vulnerability, I’d needed to be taken care of. And Vic … he’d always done that for me. He did it better than anyone.

Chanel must be constipated. That was the only thing I could figure, because she’d been trying to poop for three blocks now. The major issue was that I thought her first squat was
the
poop of the walk, and I’d bagged and trashed that niblet of poo, so now, anything that was squeezed out, I had nothing to pick it up with. Which left me standing there, as she went through the poop squat, looking like a Fifth Avenue asshole.

We finally made it back inside the house, my knee aching, a constant reminder of last week’s mugging. I still couldn’t believe I’d been mugged. Four years in the city and it chose the worst possible moment to occur. And since that night, nothing from Vic. I didn’t know whether I was glad he wasn’t pushing the mistake of my weak moment, or if I was hurt that his
I’ll love you forever
had such little weight. I undid Chanel’s collar, her butt hitting the thick carpet as soon as she reached it, dragging herself by her front paws, a long smear of brown leaving a crooked trail behind her. I groaned, setting her leash on the foyer table, and about jumped out of my boots when there was a deep chuckle from behind me.

“Sorry.” Clarke’s hands came up in surrender, and I held a hand to my chest, embarrassed.

“I thought you were in Vegas,” I said.

He grimaced, his head shaking a little. “No. When at all possible, I try to avoid the condom business.”

I had to smile at that. I’d been surprised that Nicole, as high-handed as she was about everything, had gone.

“Nicki loves it,” he followed up, as if in answer to my thoughts. “She’s a god there. They do a better job of kissing her ass than I do.”

“Yeah?” I said faintly, not wild about the thought of sharing the space with him for three days. I’d had big plans for that stretch of time, my Netflix queue already packed and ready for watching. I’d envisioned locking my office door and having a movie marathon with Chanel, broken up with naps and runs downstairs to use the cappuccino machine.

“Don’t worry about that,” Clarke nodded to the carpet stain. “One of the girls will get it.”

“Okay.” He rested his hands on his hips and I noticed his hands. Long fingers. Thick thumbs. I’d read, on
Cosmo
somewhere, about thumbs. Thumbs and their correlation to
other
body parts.

I picked up Chanel, needing to escape before my thoughts about Nicole’s husband turned completely inappropriate. “I think Chanel is constipated,” I blurted out, and any imagined sexual tension dried up with the words.

“Oh.” He didn’t seem worried. “Look in her medicine cabinet. There’s some medicine there. Nicole gives it to her when she’s stopped up.”

“Great.” There was an awkward moment of silence between us, then he stepped back.

“Well,” he said. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

I nodded, watching him leave, one hand fishing in his pocket for his phone. I looked down, into Chanel’s face, and wondered where in the world a Pomeranian’s medicine cabinet would be.

I was on my bed.
Mine
, pulled out of storage, and deposited in my new apartment. Freshly washed Serena & Lily sheets underneath me, Tegan and Sara playing on my iPhone, a candle lit. There were cardboard boxes everywhere, and I couldn’t find my hair dryer if my life depended on it, but I had privacy and a real bed and
no
chance of listening to Cammie’s orgasms, and that was all that really mattered.

The girls and Dante helped me move, the four of us squeezing into a U-Haul and making the trek up to the Bronx to my storage unit. I paid the past due balance, rolled up the door, and rediscovered all of my stuff. The Louboutin sandals I was wearing the night I first met Benta. The leather loveseat Vic and I got to third base on for the first time. It was strange being surrounded by my old things. I felt out of place in them. I wasn’t sure if it was because I no longer needed them to feel complete … or if it was being surrounded by pieces of a life I’d most likely never have again.

The sun came through the window, the room warming and I reached for my phone, checking the time. I groaned when I saw it, sitting up in bed and putting on my heels. I downed vitamins and snagged a banana from the counter, pausing when a knock sounded on the door. Grabbing my purse and keys, I flipped the light switch on the wall and yanked open the door.

I was late to work, a piece of banana in my cheek, unprepared to meet perfection. But there he stood, one hand on my doorframe, his head lifting when I opened the door. Pure beauty, dripping with masculinity. Real dirt on the work boots that shifted on the carpet, real wear on the jeans that hugged his thighs and hips, tan skin and biceps that bulged when he pushed off the doorframe and put his hands on his hips. I stood in place, my jaw hanging, and stared.

“Miss Madison?” His voice was gruff and sexual, the drawl you wanted to hear right before he bit your earlobe, the rasp that, should he moan your name, would combust your panties.

I swallowed. “Yes?”

He stuck out a hand, and my eyes dropped. Strong fingers. Calluses. I couldn’t think of the last time I shook a callused hand. “I’m Carter. I’m the building’s super. You’ve got a leaky shower head?”

I reached out and slid my hand into his. Swallowing the bite of banana, I managed speech. “I know you. The… umm…” I wracked my brain for the name of the hotel.

“New Year’s Eve Party,” he supplied, smiling, and I couldn’t take my eyes off his mouth, his lips with just a tint of pink. Our hands were still held, his palm hot and smooth despite the calluses.

I blinked, pulling my hand back. “Yes.” My eyes drifted over him, this look so different from his tux, hotter in a completely different way. “You work here too?”

“Yep.” He dipped to pick up a toolbox and I remembered the reason he was there.

I stepped back and held the door open. “The bathroom’s the second door—”

“I know where it is.”

Of course he did. He walked through the door, his broad shoulders barely fitting, and I watched him pass by the kitchen, toward the bathroom. “Do you need me to wait?” I called out, glancing at my watch.

“Not unless you want to,” he called back. “I got a key, so I can lock up when I’m done.”

Not unless you want to
. Oh, I wanted to. I wanted to do a hundred different things with that man, the least of which was watch him use his hands on my showerhead. But work beckoned.

“I’m gonna head out then,” I called out. “Nice to see you again.”
The understatement of the month.

“You too.”

I hesitated another moment, then I pulled the door shut behind me.

And I’d thought this apartment was perfect before. I stepped on the elevator and pressed the button, leaning back against the wall and picturing his face. Blue-collar had never been my thing, too many millionaires in this city to bother with anything else. Then again, my tastes seemed to be changing. I might have to dip my toe into that pool once or twice. Just to taste that poison. Just to have it on my skin.

I could feel him in the house. When Clarke moved from his study to the living room, a phone to his ear, his laptop settling on the coffee table, his build hunched forward, I watched. When he stepped out on the balcony, his hand running through his hair, the door left open, the breeze brought in his scent.

My new favorite distraction: trying to understand the man. Three months of working for Nicole had proved that she was cray cray and
not
in a good way. She must be amazing in bed. Or he needed her condom money. Or maybe Raging Bitch was his flavor of aphrodisiac.

I sat at the dining room table and stared at Nicole’s list, one she had emailed that morning, including things like
schedule wax
and
find replacement knob for our dresser in bedroom.
I was so glad I gave the extra effort and made NYU’s dean’s list. So glad I learned Mandarin. When it came time to screw in that replacement knob I’d be sure to curse my situation using it.

“You busy?” Clarke’s question startled me, my jump causing my pen to fly across the table, a long ink mark left on one of Nicole’s linen napkins. I grimaced.

“Sorry.” He wiped his hands on a paper towel, balling it in his fist.

“It’s fine. I’m sorry.” I reached out, across the table, half up in my seat, and grabbed the pen. I felt air on my back, my sweater rising too high and I flushed, sitting back in my seat. “No. I’m not busy.” Or should I be busy? My mind warred over the correct answer, seeing as I was on the clock.

“I’m getting hungry. There’s a Cuban place down a few blocks…”

I nodded. “La Nina’s. I know it.” Vic and I had eaten there, the restaurant small, lighting low, atmosphere romantic. My cheeks flushed at the invitation, then my brain kicked into overdrive. Dinner with Nicole’s husband? Probably a bad idea.

“Great. Got something to write with? I’ll tell you what I want.” He eyed the pen in my hand and seemed to be waiting for something.

Oh
. He wanted me to pick him up food. Duh. Of course he did. I was suddenly mortified, hoping that my idiotic thought process hadn’t shown, my hands fumbling at my notepad, pulling out a fresh page of paper, my mouth curving into a professional smile as I looked up at him. Thank God I hadn’t told him off, given him a lecture on boundaries.

He looked at me oddly. I swallowed hard and tried to speak casually, my voice coming out a little raspy. “What would you like?”

“Arroz con pollo. Extra plantains. And some pineapple soda.” He reached in his pocket and brought out a wad of cash, pulling some twenties and holding them out. “And whatever you’d like.”