So Damn Beautiful (A New Adult Romance) (29 page)

Kendra looked shocked. “For real? Harrison
said he loved you? Shit, that is
huge
, Annie! What did you
say?”

“I didn’t know what to say. He was so . . .
sincere. I tried to tell him that I couldn’t be with him, but he
just wouldn’t take no for an answer. He wants to introduce me to
his parents.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I-I don’t know,” I stuttered. “I care about
Harrison, but I swear . . . what Chase and I have is like nothing
else. It’s like he’s taken this part of me that was frozen for
years and thawed me out.”

Kendra rolled her eyes. “You are delusional
if you think Chase is in this for anything beyond getting his rocks
off. This is Chase Adams we’re talking about! He was horrible to
you!”

“I know, but if you really knew him, Kendra,
there’s so much more to him beyond that tough-guy exterior. He’s
sweet, he’s tender, and there’s a very good reason he’s—”

“Oh my . . . God . . .
Annie
! Is that
a tattoo?” Kendra squealed, pulling my T-shirt up off my belly. Her
eyes were practically bulging out of her head. “That definitely
wasn’t there. So . . . last night?”

I wanted to slap my head for having taken off
the bandage this morning; if I hadn’t, I could at least have played
it off as a cut from dropping my razor in the shower or something.
I wanted to be able to share my happiness with Kendra, but the
cutting judgment in her voice threw me. “Yes, Kendra, I was with
Chase. He tattooed me. We had sex. Are you happy now?” I
snapped.

“Are you serious? Was it even hygienic? I
mean, I know he’s a graffiti artist, but I didn’t think he also did
tattoos. How do you know it was safe? And what the hell is that
design? I swear I’ve seen it around before . . .”

I didn’t want to give up Chase’s tag, so I
ignored her last question. “Kendra, why can’t you just be happy for
me? I’m fine, seriously!”

“The way you’ve been acting . . . it just
isn’t like you, Annie. Skipping class? Cheating on your boyfriend?
I’m just worried.”

“I didn’t realize you were so square,” I said
mordantly. “And look, I may not have everything under control,
Kendra, but I swear I’ll figure out what to do about Harrison. It’s
not like I meant for any of this to happen. I just wish . . . that
I’d followed my instincts.”

Kendra snorted. “Really? ’Cause your
instincts seem a little flawed now. I mean, what would your mom
think?”

That was the clincher. I felt myself suck in
a deep breath of air. “How
dare
you ask me that?” My calm
voice belied my emotions.

“I’m just trying to smack some sense into
you, girl, because I actually
care
.”

“Aren’t you the one who told me I was too
nice?” I snapped. “I don’t get it, Kendra. I don’t get you or
anyone else. There are just too many expectations here to manage.”
I put a pillow over my head. I wanted to zone everything out,
especially my roommate.

Kendra got quiet and didn’t speak for several
long moments. “You are such a self-centered brat, you know that?
I’ve been here for you throughout all your drama with your stupid
gallery internship, your beef with Elsie, and the fact that Chase
Adams hurt your feelings way back when. Do you think
any
of
that comes from a place of expectations? I’ve never asked you to do
or be anything, Annie, and hell if I care whether or not you think
it’s too much for your best friend to ask you to be a decent person
right now.” Before I could say anything, Kendra grabbed her
coat.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m staying with Yannis, because I don’t
think I want to be around you right now,” she said curtly, slamming
the door behind her.

I flinched at the sound. My mouth felt dry,
and while I’d been reeling from exhilaration just minutes before,
Kendra’s little tantrum had put me in a dark place. I hated to
think I’d angered the closest person to me in New York, and as much
as I didn’t want to admit it, I knew there was more than a grain of
truth in her tirade. I’d been completely selfish in the last
several weeks. I’d put this Quentin Pierce project well above all
my other relationships, and I’d screwed over both my best friend
and my boyfriend in the process.

“I’m a terrible person!” I moaned. I was
definitely in need of a good pep talk. My cell phone was dead, so I
walked over to the landline, picked it up, and dialed.

When Mom picked up on the other end, I found
myself bawling uncontrollably.

“Honey? Honey? Is that you? What’s wrong?” I
could hear my mom’s voice, alarmed and rising several octaves above
normal.

“Mom, Mom, I’m fine,” I sniffled. “So much is
happening. I’m in love, but not with Harrison. Kendra hates me. I’m
falling apart.”

“Annie Bear, start at the beginning,
okay?”

I took a deep breath . . . and then told my
mom everything.

Mom had been more supportive than I’d
initially believed she would be, but of course I’d left out the
more salacious details and focused on the hellacious experience of
balancing all these disparate parts of my life—Harrison, Chase, the
upcoming Quentin Pierce exhibit, Kendra, and an ever-demanding load
of schoolwork. Her primary concern was smoothing the feathers I’d
ruffled with Kendra.

“Honey, you’ll do an incredible job on the
exhibit, and boys come and go, but girlfriends are forever,” she’d
said. “And it sounds like Kendra really cares about you.”

I had to admit that it was true, albeit
grudgingly. I knew that Kendra’s self-righteousness was her way of
showing me she had my back. But even if I’d
wanted
to reach
out to her, Kendra was being purposely elusive. She hadn’t answered
any of my calls or texts, and from the looks of her half-empty
closet, she wasn’t coming back from Yannis’s anytime soon.

To add insult to injury, Chase was proving to
be just as distant and unavailable as my so-called best friend. For
the past few days since I’d seen him, I’d tried to get in touch. I
knew he wasn’t the kind of guy you could expect to get into a
detailed conversation with via text, since he almost never looked
at his phone, but all the same, the dead air between us was killing
me. I was desperate to talk to him, but he couldn’t be found at the
permission wall in the Meatpacking District and I didn’t know how
to get in contact with his friends or his brother.

Something seemed fishy and slightly askew. I
had a bad feeling in my stomach as I checked my phone for signs
that he’d gotten back in touch (he hadn’t) and thought about the
girls who’d been draping themselves over him with the kind of
familiarity that made it crystal clear they were more than just
casual acquaintances. I’d willed myself not to care at the time,
especially since Chase and I weren’t even together, but in
retrospect, I couldn’t help but wonder if his silence in the past
few days had to do with those girls.

I shook my head.
You’re not going to do
this to yourself, Annie. Chase has given you no reason to suspect
him!
I told myself. But I couldn’t help but flash back to late
senior year, when I’d discovered sexy texts from Brittany Logan on
Peter’s phone. I hadn’t suspected him at the time, either. So who
was I fooling by choosing to ignore the fact that Chase was a
tried-and-true womanizer?

I willed myself to remember the tenderness in
his eyes and the desire in his entire body when we’d made love the
last two times.
People are capable of changing, especially when
love is part of the equation
, I told myself.
Chase is no
exception.

I almost laughed at my own sentiments.
Clearly,
I’d
changed, but was it for the better? I was
cheating on my “real” boyfriend, I was sporting a graffiti tag as
my first tattoo, and I was currently doing what I’d said I never
would: obsessing over a boy. In the middle of a curatorship that
would probably determine the course of my career.

I was in my bedroom, experiencing a seesaw of
turbulent emotions, when I got the phone call. I frowned as an
unknown New York City number popped up. I picked up the phone.
“Hello?”

There was a moment of static on the other
line, and when the person spoke, the voice was slightly muffled.
“Annie?”

It was Chase.

I felt both ecstatic and somewhat stunned.
“Are you okay, Chase? I’ve been trying to call you for days! Where
are you? Why haven’t you answered? And if you’re not calling from
your cell, whose phone are you calling from?”

I hated to sound like I was interrogating
him, but I definitely felt like he owed me an explanation for the
disappearing act.

“Listen, I can’t stay on the phone too long,
but believe me, I wasn’t ignoring your calls. They confiscated my
phone when I got brought in.”

“
They
? Who is
they
?”

My heart practically stopped at Chase’s
response. “I’m in jail, Annie. At the South Bronx police
department, to be exact.” He paused. “And I . . . I kind of need
you to come get me.”

I swallowed and tried to stay calm. “Are you
okay? Are you . . . hurt or anything?”

“No, I’m fine. I can tell you about it when I
see you, but for now, I need someone to come bail me out . . . and
I was hoping you’d be able to. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I
couldn’t think of who else to call.”

I nodded slowly, trying to focus on the
logistics, rather than on the growing panic in my body. “Just tell
me where, and I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

A half hour later, I found myself at the
South Bronx police department, a gloomy brick building across from
a stretch of noisy highway. My conversation with Chase had been
brief. But from what I’d gathered, the police had taken him in for
some kind of public disturbance and insubordination. He needed a
cash bond of $1,000, which I’d been able to barely scrape together
out of my savings account.

When I got to the front desk, a woman with
bright red hair and too much red lipstick gave me a cursory
once-over.

“I’m here to bail out Chase Adams?” I said
with a question mark in my voice, since the entire process was
something of a mystery to me. I wasn’t even sure I’d ever set foot
in a police station before. As I looked around, I noticed that
almost everything in the front lobby was encased by glass and iron
bars—including the woman who sat behind the counter.

She perused a computer screen that was hidden
from view. “Okay, I see he was booked last night,” she said
mechanically. “Just fill out these forms for me.” She shoved a
clipboard with a small sheaf of papers out through the window’s
small opening, then returned to her computer without looking at
me.

I frowned. If he’d been in jail only one
night, where had he been the other days I’d been frantically trying
to get in touch with him?

After filling out the papers and paying the
bail, I waited for what seemed like hours. Finally, a cop brought
Chase out. His face was haggard, and he looked like he hadn’t
shaved in several days, but his eyes sparkled when he saw me. I
stood up, and as soon as he was close enough, I let him enfold me
in his arms. His heart was beating fast, and his body was
trembling.

“Why didn’t you call me sooner?” I murmured,
clutching him for dear life.

“I called you as soon as they let me,” he
breathed into my hair. “God, Annie, it’s so fucking good to see
you.”

“Can we get out of here now?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I just need to grab my
stuff they were holding. Can we go back to my place? I really need
a drink.”

I nodded. “Yes, but will you promise to tell
me exactly what happened?”

He looked reluctant, but he just sighed.
“Yeah, it’s not a pretty story, but if you really wanna know . .
.”

“I do,” I said, perhaps a little too
harshly.

When we got back to his warehouse, which was
dark and as cold as an icebox, Chase immediately flung open the
refrigerator and took out a full bottle of vodka. He began to
actually chug it, which was an alarming sight. He turned to me and
wiped his mouth, almost apologetically. “I haven’t slept in
forever. You should’ve seen those other guys in the holding cell. I
was worried I’d end up with a dick in my ass if I shut my eyes for
even a second.”

I walked over to him and took the bottle,
which I gently put back in the fridge. “Are you going to tell me
what happened?”

He rubbed his temples for a second before he
began. “I was down by Manida Street in Hunts Point, working on some
stuff. Totally legal. There’s a kids’ center down there that my
friend runs, and he’d asked if I could contribute some kind of
autumn-themed mural. I figured it would be better to work
after-hours. But it’s kind of a rough spot. Graffiti isn’t always
gang-related, but sometimes it tells a story in code. Last night
there was some kind of drug deal going down with this crew that’s
been putting up tags—usually just their name and some kind of lame
moniker—around that neighborhood. So . . . we got into it.

“I usually try to just keep my head down and
stay out of the bullshit, but when they started tagging my wall, I
had to say something.” He picked up a canister of spray paint and
pretended to unleash it on the fridge. “They were throwing up
arrows and hand symbols like they were Crips or something, but I
knew for a fact one of these cats was some trust-fund kid from
TriBeCa who was coming out here to slum it. I couldn’t let them
turn my wall into some fucking monstrosity. So I went over and gave
them a piece of my mind.”

“
Them
? How many guys were there,
Chase?” I asked, feeling worried even though he didn’t seem to have
any visible injuries.

He shrugged. “I dunno. Three? Four? My boys
were there, too, so I had some backup. I wasn’t trying to fight
them, either. I just wanted to talk some sense into them. Make them
show a little respect for the neighborhood they were trashing.”