Crushed (27 page)

I lick my lips, bracing for what I know isn’t a happy ending for this trio.

“You want to know why it’s all past tense with us?” he continues in a flat voice. “I broke the ultimate guy code, and fell in love with my best friend’s girlfriend. For
years
. And then, because the feelings alone weren’t enough of a betrayal, I had to go and act on it. I made a move on Olivia. I got rejected, but not before Ethan walked in on us.”

I reach out a hand to him, my heart twisting, but he takes a step back.

“You following this juicy saga, Chloe? In the span of thirty seconds I lost two best friends and broke up a relationship.”

“Michael.”

“Wait, that’s not the end,” he says with a harsh laugh. “Olivia and Ethan ended, and I hated myself for it, but I still couldn’t quit the girl. I followed her to motherfucking
Maine,
thinking that, despite our fucked-up history, I might finally have a chance.”

He stares at some place over my shoulder, his top lip coming out to touch his bottom lip, lost in the memory. His eyes come back to mine, and I brace for the finale.

“For ten years, I watched the girl I loved love someone else. My best friend. And when she finally stopped loving him, I gave her time. Gave her time to heal so that she could love again.”

His laugh is harsh. “And she did fall in love again, Chloe. Hard. But not with me.”

Michael leans in, his eyes cold and dark. “Nobody
ever
falls in love with me.”

I bite my bottom lip hard enough to sting to stop myself from saying something I’ll regret. Something we’ll both regret.

Something I’m not even positive is true, even as I’m terrified that it is.

So instead of confessing the feelings that threaten to choke me, I ask one last question. I have to know.

“Your tattoo. It’s an
O,
isn’t it?
O,
for Olivia.”

“Don’t romanticize it, Chloe. It’s not an homage to a past love.”

“Then what is it?”

His eyes lock on mine. “It’s a reminder. To never feel that way again. Now get your shit. I’ll drive you home.”

Chapter 29

Michael

It’s impressive, really.

The way that Chloe and I managed to “mend” our friendship over ribs and cornbread only to blow it up, douse it with gasoline, and light it on fire less than two hours later.

I haven’t heard from her since I dropped her off at her house after fucking her brains out. After telling her my whole shitty story.

It’s been days since she slammed the car door and didn’t look back.

Actually, I don’t know if she looked back. I was already out of the driveway before she made it to the front door.

I know.

I am a total dick.

That’s not even the worst part.

The worst part is that I’ve been checking my phone (a replacement for the one that collided with my wall) nonstop. I don’t even know what’s going on.

We seem to go from just fine to radio silence more often than a friendship should.

Probably because Chloe’s not just a friend.

Not anymore. Not after I sank into her warm, soft body like she was my only chance at salvation.

Hell.

I’m not sure Chloe and I were
ever
just friends. The way we came together like that, wordlessly, perfectly . . .

That hadn’t been a spur-of-the-moment sexual itch.

It had been something . . . important. Something I can’t deal with. Won’t deal with.

My phone vibrates on the dresser, and I leap for it, bracing for the possibility that it won’t be Chloe.

It’s not.

I groan, contemplate ignoring it. Then: “Hey, Mom.”

“Michael.”

She says my name in breathy relief, and the guilt gnaws at me. I’ve only just started taking her calls in the past week, and every time she hears my voice, it’s the same choked-up emotion.

“What’s up?” I ask. Things are still strained between us, but I try to pretend they’re not. So does she.

“Oh, not much. Just getting ready to go to a movie with some friends.”

“Cool.”

She’s been doing a lot of that lately. Guess she has to do something now that my dad’s moved out of the house.

“What are you up to?” she asks.

If this keeps up we will have to move on to the weather.

I glance at the cracked floor-length mirror that a former tenant hung on the back of the wardrobe door. I straighten my tie. “There’s a party thing at the club. End of summer gala bullshit.”

“Oh! How fun! They let employees go?”

For a sec, I want to lie to her. I almost do. Just like she lied to me. But the very thought feels petty and sour, so I tell her the truth. “Actually, I’m going with the Pattersons. As their guest.”

I can actually hear her smile. “Oh. That’s nice of them.”

I could leave it there. Maybe I
should
leave it there, and just tell her that I’m running late.

But maybe all of Chloe’s annoying candor has rubbed off on me, because I suddenly am damn tired of all my secrets. I miss being the old Michael, who could run his mouth about just about anything. The one who was open and fun. The guy who people liked and who didn’t make girls fucking cry.

The one who was honest enough to tell Olivia how he felt about her.

It might have been damn wrong of me, but it was honest.

“He’s introducing me, Mom. As his son.”

“That’s . . . great, honey. It’s what you want?”

I stare at myself in the mirror. I almost don’t recognize myself in the gray suit. I haven’t worn anything but T-shirts and jeans or shorts in months.

I look like the old me.

Or maybe a new me.

I don’t even fucking know.

“Yeah, it’s what I want,” I say into the phone.

“Does your father know? I mean . . .”

“Yeah, I told Dad,” I say, saving her from the name confusion.

It’s taken some soul-searching, but I’ve decided that Mike, Sr., flaws and all, is my dad. He may be a cheating son of a bitch, but he raised me. He gave me his name. And in his sometimes selfish way, he cares about me.

He’s Dad.

And Tim is Tim.

For now.

“Well . . . I’m glad you’ve found what you were looking for,” she says in that Mom voice.

I look away from the mirror, then look back. Have I found what I was looking for?

It sure doesn’t feel like it.

“I’ve gotta get going, K, Mom? I’ll call you next week.”

I hope she catches the hint.
I’ll
call
you
. Next
week
. Not
you
call
me
tomorrow
.

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I say.

I grab my keys from the kitchen table and head to the car. The Pattersons had offered to pick me up, but that would be just too weird. As much as Tim and Mariana had embraced me in a cautious,
we want to have a relationship
kind of way, I am still sort of watching my back around Devon.

The guy is friendly enough. And I know he is trying. But we aren’t brothers.

I drive the ten minutes to the club, wishing it were a longer drive, and park as far from the entrance as I can. It’s like my sense of self-preservation instinctively knows I might need a quick getaway.

Not because of the Pattersons.

Not because of the inevitable gossip that’s about to explode through the snobby Cedar Grove community.

But because I’m pretty damn sure the Bellamys will be here.

Chloe
will be here.

Thinking of her makes my cock twitch, but worse . . . so much worse . . . it makes my chest hurt.

I slam the car door harder than necessary.

How the hell did this happen? How had I
possibly
thought that I could finally get my hands on her and then expect everything to go back to normal between us?

I know Chloe. I should have known she wouldn’t be satisfied with lighthearted banter and great sex.

She’d want it all. And Chloe Bellamy
deserves
it all.

Which is why I need to keep my fucking distance.

Once inside, I find the Pattersons almost at once. I kiss Mariana’s cheek. “You look lovely.”

She laughs. “Right? I know I’m supposed to complain about having to wear a gown and the heels and having to do my hair, but I love getting all fancy.”

I smile. “It suits you.”

I turn to Tim and he gives me a warm smile. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

“Are you?” I ask, half-terrified that he’ll back out.

“Absolutely.” His voice is solid. Confident.

“Where’s Devon?”

Mariana waves her clutch in exasperation. “Who knows? Probably arguing with his ex.”

“Kristin’s here?”

“Of course, dear,” she murmurs distractedly as she plucks a glass of wine off a passing tray. “Kristin’s mom is on the planning committee. The family comes every year.”

The
family
. Great.

“Drink?” Tim asks.

“Yes,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray my relieved gratitude.

He gives me a knowing look and then orders a scotch for himself, bourbon with a splash of water for me.

The guy knows my drink. It’s . . .
fatherly
. It’s nice.

“Okay,” he says, with more calm and confidence than I feel. “Let’s do this.”

So we do.

I lose track of how many times Tim easily transitions from small talk about so-and-so’s short game to
may I introduce you to my son, Michael
.

Here’s the thing about well-heeled rich people: Even when they’re dying to shit a brick over a juicy bit of gossip, they keep it together. They’re polite.

How nice to meet you, Michael!

Michael, all those days on the tennis court, I had no idea!

Tim, you old rascal, we had no idea you had another handsome son hiding away!

Mariana, for her part, is downright impressive. She laughs, she smiles, and it all seems genuine. I think it actually
is
genuine.

As Chloe pointed out, my conception was before her time, so she knows my existence is no threat to her marriage. But it speaks volumes about her class that she doesn’t feel the need to make sure other people know that.

And people are sure as hell trying to find out. The subtle ones ask if I’m still in school, and what year. The more obvious ones come right out and ask my birthday.

But even that’s okay. I have nothing to hide.

Or rather . . . I don’t want to hide anything.

Slowly, I feel months of anxiety sliding away. Maybe Mom was right. Maybe tonight
will
provide some closure.

The only trouble is, there’s a whole other area of my life that’s gaping wide open.

And I have yet to see her.

The entire time I’ve shaken hands, complimented appearances, and sidestepped questions about my future, I’ve kept an eye out for a curly head and bombshell curves.

Curves that I just barely had a chance to explore before I fucked it all up.

But so far, no sign of Chloe.

I wonder if Devon told her that I’d be here, and if she’d bailed.

But that doesn’t sound like Chloe. She’s all fire and courage, not passive cowardice.

Then the crowd shifts, Tim and Mariana excuse themselves to grab another round of drinks, and . . .

I see her.

And it’s no wonder it’s taken me so long.

I’ve been looking for her wild, gorgeous hair.

Tonight it is pin straight and pulled back into a tidy, gleaming knot at the back of her head.

I clench my fingers around my glass. This isn’t her. This isn’t
my
Chloe.

Not that I have a right to any Chloe. But I want to. Badly.

And just as I’m wondering if maybe I still have a chance to be her friend, I see it. The hand that briefly touches her back as a tall head bends down and whispers something in her ear. She laughs.

This isn’t my Chloe at all.

This is Devon’s Chloe.

And even though it hurts, I stand there like a fool and take in the sight of her.

I hate the hair. It represents everything Chloe isn’t.

But even without her hair the way I like it, I have to admit, she’s stunning. And it’s not just because I know what’s under her dress that I can’t stop staring.

The dress is killer. The dark blue fabric hugs her flawless figure all the way from her knees up to her breasts, which are full and perfectly displayed for Devon, who, I’m noticing, is definitely not unaware.

She hasn’t seen me yet. Or if she has, she’s refusing to look my way. I take another sip of my drink, taking in the rest of her. The high, sexy heels of her sandals. The pink mouth. The sultry eyes.

Some other jackass who looks vaguely familiar appears at her other side, offering a glass of wine that she accepts with a smile. She laughs at something he says, and I notice that Devon frowns before moving closer to Chloe.

Again his hand touches her waist.

What the fuck?

A flash of red appears out of nowhere, and I tear my eyes away from Chloe and her suitors to take in Kristin. Her red dress is skin tight, barely covering her crotch, her hair piled up into one of those messy up styles that girls think look careless but actually look ridiculously manufactured. Just like Kristin.

She says something to the newcomer guy, but he doesn’t hear her. I see her frown before regaining her smile. She touches his arm.

This time he does look down, and I can actually see her posing to better display her wares.

He shakes his head at something she says, before turning back to Chloe.

In spite of my shitty mood, I almost laugh at the expression on Kristin’s face. The poor girl doesn’t know what’s going on.

She can’t know that next to Chloe’s genuine kindness, her sickly sweet manners are painfully phony. She can’t realize that next to Chloe’s womanly body, hers looks like a bony twig. She doesn’t understand that while a tight dress might get a guy to take a second look, it’s personality that will hold his interest for the long haul.

Someone should have told Chloe that long ago.

I
should have told her. Because I knew it back when she sat running her mouth that first day on the tennis court. Her energy had pulled me in. And, like a fool, I let myself think it could be fleeting. Temporary.