The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men (26 page)

"Get out of my house,
now
!"

One of the dogs let out a distinctive bark that seemed to perfectly echo Alice's calm yet alarming intensity.

It was definitely time to go. And my pulsing, red hot cheek couldn't have agreed more. I quickly rose and reached for my bag. "If that's what you want," I said obligingly.

"What I want?" she repeated, the revulsion dripping off her tongue, but her voice never rising past the level of a simple indoor conversation. The combination was staggeringly intimidating. "You think any of this is what I
want?"

I put up both my hands, palms facing out, in what I prayed would come across as a peaceful gesture. "That's not what I meant. I'm sorry. I know that this is shocking news. . . ."

"No," she stated firmly, walking toward me menacingly. Her composure was slipping at an exponential rate. "What's shocking to
me
is that
you,
a complete stranger, think that it's
your
place to walk into my life, fuck everything up, and then act like you're doing me some kind of favor.
That's
what's shocking. I think you need to get off your high horse for one second and take a good long look at your life, because whatever
good
you think you're doing here is a delusion. One that you've obviously created for yourself to help you deal with your own fucked-up issues. You're not helping people. You're destroying them. You're meddling where you shouldn't be meddling. And all the while, you're trying to plug some kind of emotional leak that's so deeply rooted in yourself, you can't even remember where the hole was to begin with."

By now she had backed me all the way up to the front door. I could feel the cold, hard metal of the doorknob jab against my spine. But that didn't stop her. She was still coming closer, the space between us shrinking with every ominous movement of her body. The fury in her eyes had completely transformed the innocent, unassuming person who had answered the door only a few minutes ago. She had become something else. A creature, almost. Talk about a wolf in sheep's clothing.

I could just see the headlines tomorrow morning:
FIDELITY INSPECTOR HACKED TO BITS AND FED TO DOGS
.

My hand made contact with the doorknob, and I twisted it hard. It opened and I pulled it toward me, closing the infinitesimally small gap between us even more. "I'm so sorry to bother you, Mrs. Garrett," I sputtered. "I'm just gonna . . . you know, go."

In the crowded space between her, me, and the doorway, I somehow managed to spin around and squeeze through the narrow opening that had appeared behind me. The moment I was outside, I expected the door to hit my ass as it slammed behind me. But when I didn't hear anything, I snuck a quick glance over my shoulder as I hurried down the tulip-lined walkway.

Alice was just standing there, the door open wide behind her. Her eyes followed me all the way back to my car. For a minute, I feared that she might be memorizing my license plate, taking mental notes on the make and model of my car. And then as soon as I was gone, she'd call in a favor to one of her Mob connections. At this point, I wouldn't put anything past her.

I threw the car in gear and peeled out onto the street. I didn't need to steal a glance in my rearview mirror to know that she was still there, watching me like a mother bear who had just chased a predator from her den and was now making sure I didn't come back.

But she needn't have bothered. There was no way in hell I was ever going back there.

By the time I pulled into my garage later that night, my cheek was still throbbing. I had spent the rest of the day wandering around Brentwood with an ice-blended caramel macchiato pressed to the side of my face in an effort to alleviate some of the burning sensation.

But it really wasn't the impression Alice Garrett's hand had left on my skin that was bothering me. It was the impression her hurtful words had left on my mind:

. . .
you're trying to plug some kind of emotional leak that's so deeply rooted in yourself, you can't even remember where the hole was to begin with.

And it's true—these were not words spoken by someone in a calm, rational frame of mind. These were words spoken by a spiteful woman who had just been given the shock of her life from a complete stranger . . . whom she had just slapped.

But like my bruised cheek, they stung nonetheless.

No . . . they burned. Burned deeper and more painful than any words had ever done before. And believe me, I've had
many
insults thrown my way in the past three years. It kind of comes with the territory. I've been glared at, splat at, bribed, attacked, and even condemned to hell on a few occasions. This is definitely not the kind of business to go into if you're a fan of flattery.

But this was different somehow. This was personal. This hit home.

Or at least the home I thought I had. But walking through my front door now that night had fallen and Alice's words were still haunting me, I wasn't even sure where my home was. Or who was supposed to live there.

When I looked at myself in the mirror nowadays, the reflection wasn't the same hopeful, determined person who had moved into this place three years ago. And it wasn't the same person who had fallen in love inside these very walls, despite her persistent efforts not to. It was someone else. Someone who had suddenly become lost along the very path she'd always thought would get her where she wanted to go.

And then there was him.

He was gone.

His stuff was gone.

Even his smell was gone, despite the fact that I'd refused to call the maid service in almost two weeks in a desperate attempt to keep his memory there as long as I possibly could.

But it was fading fast.

I headed into my bedroom and creaked open the top dresser drawer. I pulled out the familiar blue velvet box and popped the lid. The diamond inside sparkled with the same unparalleled brilliance. It was amazing how it never dulled, even though the love behind it was gone.

As I carefully removed the ring from the box and slid it on my finger, I half expected the power and intensity of it to overtake me and knock me off my feet. But it was just a ring. Just a piece of jewelry. Constructed in a factory somewhere by an underpaid worker who knew nothing of my life.

Maybe a diamond was just a diamond. Maybe it didn't mean anything. How could it represent anything if it refused to stop sparkling? If its essence refused to dwindle away just as his had?

And the hole he had left behind—not only in my heart, but in my house—was still gaping. I was so foolish to think that I could ignore it. That I could
talk
myself out of feeling it just by insisting that I was better off without him.

Maybe Alice was right. Maybe I was just trying to plug some kind of emotional hole that was slowly draining me of life. How unsettling it was to think that a perfect stranger had been able to see through me with such clarity, while my own outlook was so terribly opaque.

The thought sent shivers to my body, and I returned to the living room and plopped down on the couch, reaching for the afghan under the end table. I wrapped it tightly around me, as if I were swaddling a newborn baby, and fell ungracefully onto my side, curling into a ball.

My house was a mess. Dirty laundry scattered throughout, coffee mugs and cereal bowls strewn about the coffee table, dust settling on the furniture. It was a scene that normally would have made me hyperventilate. But right now, I didn't mind the clutter. It seemed like an appropriate extension of the clutter in my mind.

I pulled my legs tighter against my chest and buried my face in the soft yarn of the blanket.

And that's where I found it.

The one place where Jamie's smell still lingered. Nearly two weeks and a thousand secret tears hadn't washed it away. Maybe yarn was more resilient like that. Maybe it clung to scents better than any material in the world.

I breathed in deeply, trying to use his scent to conjure up other memories in my head. Like his face, his hands, his hair, the way his arms felt when they wrapped around me.

There were no tears. It was almost as if this kind of sadness was beyond crying. Beyond all conventional reactions to pain.

There was just . . . emptiness.

I woke up the next morning with the worst hangover of my life. I hadn't drunk a drop of alcohol, but the emotional indulgences that I had partaken in had left me with a far worse headache and overwhelming sense of nausea.

I lifted my head just enough to peer at the clock on the cable box. It was nine in the morning. I hadn't moved for twelve hours straight.

I didn't want to go to work. For the first time in my life, I felt there was no point. If I was really just trying to "plug some hole" in my pitiful existence, then why ruin other people's lives in the process? The way I had apparently ruined Alice Garrett's. Because, let's face it, who was I really kidding here? I wasn't helping people. I wasn't "waking" them up from a bad dream. I was putting them in one.

Todd and Joy Langley would still be married if it weren't for me.

Darcie Connors would be holding a brand-new baby in her arms.

Alice Garrett would still be blissfully happy. Maybe she'd be blind to the truth, but she'd still be happy. And what's wrong with being happy?

I was happy once. And it was amazing. And now it's all fucked up. And that's what I did for all those people. I fucked up their happiness.

I had no desire to go into the office, but my sense of obligation finally pulled me off the couch. I had a ten
A.M.
meeting with a potential new client and another one later that afternoon. Both appointments felt like thorns in my side. Nails in my coffin. Whatever.

I could call them all off and hide out in this house for the rest of my life, or I could fulfill the commitments I'd already made.

I dragged myself down the hall, into my bedroom, and into a pair of sweatpants and a questionably clean T-shirt that I found crumpled on the floor of my closet. I didn't even bother showering or putting on any makeup. My usual motivation to look presentable and well put together was buried somewhere beneath the rubble of all my destructive thoughts.

I trudged through the front door of the agency dressed as though I were on my way home from a slumber party, with a cup of Starbucks coffee in one hand and my oversize sunglasses covering the ugly purple bruise that was starting to form around my left eye.

Hadley noticed my new "look" right away. She studied me curiously from the door as I mumbled some kind of greeting and then breezed right by her on my way to my office. I collapsed in my chair, spilling the coffee down the front of my T-shirt. I made a half-assed attempt to wipe away the stain and then simply shrugged and took a sip before resting my head against the back of the chair. I guess now there was no question whether or not the shirt was dirty.

It didn't take long for Hadley to appear in the doorway, a blatantly concerned expression plastered across her face. She approached my desk slowly, almost tiptoeing, as if she were afraid the slightest movement might startle me. She was completely silent. Not a word. And as she inched closer, I picked up my head and watched her, wondering what she might do. What do you even say to a sight like me?

Hadley studied me for a minute. I could feel her eyes on me. And I was already planning out in my head what I would say to her if she mentioned my current state . . . or ensemble. Nothing.

I simply wouldn't reply. It was none of her business, anyway.

But apparently she didn't need to ask. Something I probably should have expected by now. Because when she spoke, all she said was, "He'll be back."

I yanked my chair around to face her. So hard, in fact, that I almost spun in an entire circle. I had to catch myself on the edge of the desk and compensate back to center. I never told her that he had left. I never even told her that he
existed.
I hid it from everyone here. I never even—

"The ring." She nodded toward my left hand, seemingly reading my thoughts like some kind of freaky tarot card–wielding psychic. My eyes darted downward to the hand that was still gripping the edge of my desk. Yes, there it was. Jamie's diamond engagement ring. The one that refused to stop shining. The one that I had slid on my finger the night before and forgotten to take off.

The very one I had forgotten to put back
on
only a few short weeks ago.

"You never wore it before," she explained. "When you looked so happy."

A small laugh escaped my lips. Not because the situation was funny, but because it was so far from being funny that the only thing I could do was laugh. "Right," I said solemnly, understanding her logic perfectly. Even though to anyone else, it would have failed to make any sense at all.

"Maybe if you called him," Hadley suggested timidly.

"No," was my obstinate reply. "He doesn't want to be with me anymore."

Hadley cocked her head to the side in a silent question mark. I could tell she was considering a counterargument, and my eyes pleaded with her to just let it go.

She eventually conceded with a nod and turned back toward the door. "Your ten o'clock appointment should be here any minute," she reminded me, eyeing my outfit.

I swung my chair back to face the window again and nodded absently. "I know."

"Would you like me to postpone?"

"No."

Hadley pursed her lips thoughtfully for a moment and then shut the door behind her.

I pulled up my legs and hugged them to my chest. Then I sat, un-moving, in the silence of my office, watching the waves on the shore and the busy morning traffic of Ocean Avenue. From way up here, the world actually appeared to have some sort of order to it.

But I knew better.

Zoë was right. I
had
crossed the line. This time I had gone too far. I let a twelve-year-old child talk me into testing her father. All because I needed to prove to myself that I had made the right choice. That choosing my work over Jamie was the right thing to do.

God, could it really get any lower than that?

My thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of my intercom.

"Yeah," I replied, barely turning my head toward the speaker.

In a perplexed tone, Hadley said, "Um, the new associate is here to see you?"

I continued to stare out the window as I replied numbly, "What new associate?"

Then I heard something that sounded like a struggle and a familiar voice saying, "Just give me the phone," and then more clearly came, "It's John! I
have
to talk to you. It's very important."

There was another apparent struggle for the receiver, complete with grunts and hissing, and then Hadley was back. "Sorry about that. He says you hired him last week. Do you want me to send him in?"

My head collapsed back against my chair. "Fine. Whatever."

John trudged into my office a few seconds later, zeroed in on my location at the desk, and headed straight toward me with an intensely determined look on his face. "You," he stated ominously, wagging his finger in my direction. "You and I need to talk."

I didn't even turn around. "No, we don't."

"Why haven't you been answering your phone? Or returning your calls?"

Without moving my head, I glanced in the direction of my bag. I suddenly remembered shutting off my phone before entering Alice Garrett's house yesterday. "Oh yeah," I muttered dazedly. "I forgot to turn it back on."

John sighed dramatically. "Not cool. I've been trying to get a hold of you!"

When I didn't respond, he marched over to my chair and turned it around to face him. Then he leaned in close to me, and I could smell the McDonald's McGriddles on his breath. "I'm sorry about showing up here like this, but you left me no choice.
You
have a problem."

I closed my eyes. "I know."

He put his hands on my shoulders and shook them. "No, I mean a serious problem."

I pushed him away from me and stood up, stalking to the far end of the room. "John, I know," I growled. "I'm a terrible person. I never should have ratted out Zoë's boyfriend. I never should have cheated on Jamie. I never should have done anything. Okay? What do you want me to say?"

He furrowed his eyebrows and shot me a confused look. "What are you talking about?"

I groaned. "What are
you
talking about?"

"I'm talking about your associate. The cute blond one."

I swung my head around and stared at him. "Katie?"

"Yes. Katie."

"What about Katie?"

John sighed and removed a manila folder from the green-and-black messenger bag that was strapped across his chest. He dropped the folder on my desk and opened it. From across the room, I could just barely make out what looked like a stack of eight-by-ten black-and-white photographs. The kind that private detectives take to prove that someone is in cahoots with the Mob. I squinted at the photos, trying to make out their contents.

"What are those?" I asked, completely exasperated and having no patience for John's games.

"They're pictures of Katie at the Chateau Marmont," he stated matter-of-factly.

I took a few steps closer. The photographs were almost in complete focus now. "Well, what is she doing in them?" I asked warily.

John watched my reaction carefully, almost as if he was expecting me to faint again and was preparing himself to catch me. "She's walking out of Dean Stanton's hotel room."