Red Hot Obsessions (90 page)

Thunder sounded, shaking the ground underneath me. A flash of lightning in the distance illuminated the sky, along with a silhouette of Manhattan skyscrapers.

“You should know that in our business, it depends on the job,” I replied.

“I guess you’re right. I’ll have to teach you some tricks, then, to avoid too many shots.”

“And what makes you think I don’t know them?”

His brows rose as he opened the passenger door of his Bentley. “Fair enough. I’ll leave the interview questions for the interview, then?”

“I guarantee I’m quite witty when I’m sober.” I laughed, feeling a new swell of bravery pull me closer to Cross’s side instead of inside the car. He didn’t seem to mind and wrapped his arm around my waist.

“I don’t doubt that.” He squeezed his palm on my hip.

Why did Cross appear to be this normal guy who was actually into me? Did I have the same effect on him as he had on me?

“I don’t usually mix business with pleasure, but you should know that this position is... unique.”

“Meaning you’d want the ‘hooker’ profession to be treated seriously.”

“Very seriously. Beyond anything you’d expect, which means playing out the role like you’re in the running for an Oscar.”

I stepped closer until his tangy breath mingled with mine, and I brushed against his front feeling his enticing curve against my belly. His eyes clouded as both his hands held my hips steady. When he inhaled, his sculpted chest touched my breasts and I pressed in, asking, “How am I doing so far?”

“Not bad, but you’re forgetting this isn’t an interview.”

Of course it wasn’t. This was all me; me and the tequila. My body ached in all the right places, ready to be touched and caressed by his manicured hands. But he wouldn’t hire me if I pushed it too far.

Keep focused, Allie!

“I can guarantee you I haven’t forgotten. Now, are you going to drive me home or not?”

His brows narrowed as he motioned me into the car. Had I said something wrong? Was he expecting me to jump in his bed tonight? No, that wasn’t his style. He wouldn’t touch me when I was drunk. But I knew I would have Cross sliding between my legs sooner than he thought—before he hired me.

I can’t!

Sure you can
, the devil grinned, wringing his hands.
Consider it a done deal.

Shivers ran through my body and I made a mental note to count how many shots I’d had next time.

If I didn’t detach my feelings, I’d be lost to Cross’s charms. What woman wouldn’t be? And that, I couldn’t allow.

Through the silent drive home, my vision blurred. The spinning in my head drowned out the past, present, and future. Aware of the car’s clean interior, my only goals were to hold the contents of my earlier supper in my stomach and to keep the world from spinning. Cross had never asked me for an address, which didn’t surprise me. An apology loomed on the tip of my tongue for acting over-confidant and drinking too much, but I couldn’t get the words out. Everything would spill if I opened my mouth.

He parked in front of my apartment and paced around the car to open the door before I had the wits in me to step out. I cursed at the tequila in my mind again.

“Good night, Allie.” Tristan leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. The gesture was too affectionate for an employer. But then again, he wasn’t my employer just yet. How I wished I were sober! I wanted to charm him and show him the woman I was underneath the layer of protective alcohol.

My breath stilled as he touched the small of my back, motioning me toward the steps. “I hope to see you soon.”

Soon is not quick enough, I thought.

“Good night, Mr. Cross.” I stepped inside, and he closed the door behind me. With a deep breath I leaned my back against it. The first drops of rain fell, hitting the roof like golf balls.

I stood there for a few minutes, but it seemed hours had passed. My hand touched my cheek where Cross’s kiss lingered, as I wondered how in the world I would manage to work for Tristan Cross without getting too close, risking my career – or worse, jeopardizing my mother’s safety.

CHAPTER 3

It had been two days since Cross drove me home, and I couldn’t have been more thankful I had a week’s worth of vacation to get my shit together. Laura had taken an extra shift at work, so she’d only stop by to sleep and change into fresh clothes. My two days of hangover-curing left me locked up in my apartment. By Monday morning I was sick of drinking my mother’s tomato juice concoction and rolled out of bed to open the drapes. The high noon sun shone through. I regretted wasting a weekend, but the tequila had washed away the pain. It drowned the past that guided my life, and for a moment at least, I could pretend to be normal and happy and lost to Cross’s hypnotizing dimple.

Breakfast tasted better than I had thought it would, and strength slowly returned to my limbs. With the laptop on the kitchen table, I googled Tristan Cross. The few photos I found were clearly publicity shots of Cross in business suits—uncomfortable and out of his element. Part of me wanted to run downtown across the George Washington Bridge and beg him to hire me on the spot. He probably would, but that wasn’t my style. I had some work to do before I applied, on my own terms.

I grabbed another Eggo and a green pro-biotic shake. The waffle was a ritual from childhood. Without syrup or peanut butter it tasted bland, but it reminded me of what had to be done. Every morning, the stupid Eggo refocused my goals. Its smell rekindled memories of that day thirteen years ago when
he
destroyed our little family.

***

My mother was washing the dishes by the sink, humming under her breath. I felt guilty for not helping her clean up the kitchen, but she’d insisted I not be late for school. She always made the waffles from scratch, which meant a bigger clean up. As much as I didn’t want her late for her morning mass, I couldn’t resist watching her when she thought I’d left. I had left, but came back for a book I’d forgotten. I leaned against the doorframe enjoying the peace my mother found. Her hips swayed as she moved across the kitchen, her seven-month bump sticking straight out. I didn’t interrupt her. I didn’t want her worried I’d be late for school, because I knew if I ran fast enough I’d make it. Still, she’d worry if I said anything, so I just watched her in a rare moment of happiness. My mother didn’t need an additional burden. Not now. She put on a brave face for me every day, but I could see the pain in her eyes and the ever-growing lines underneath. They weren’t wrinkles; they were paths of worry, fine lines that grew as she struggled to raise one daughter on her own and carry another one to term.

A shadow passed by the kitchen window and I held my breath. My stomach gurgled and goose bumps covered my arms. I didn’t know anything about instinct yet, but I wish I had. The knock on the back door echoed with insistency. My mom dried her hands on the apron, narrowed her brows, and paced to the garden opening.

“Hello, Dave. What brings you by this morning?”

Millie, our chocolate Lab, barked outside.

Mr. Wright was the town’s chief of police. Everyone knew him as the prominent man, able to quiet hundreds of people at once with his deep voice in City Hall. Respected by all, he helped my mother sell Dad’s tools from the garage. We’d sold a lot of stuff the past few months. The money would come in handy when my sister was born. Still, I didn’t like him. Mr. Wright was mean to the kids in town. He’d yell when we walked across a front lawn instead of using the sidewalk. His breath always stunk of homemade cigarettes. And his house was always the scariest for Halloween. Besides, I’d always thought this man had something in for my mom, but he wouldn’t dare make a move while my dad was alive. The way he looked at her when my father wasn’t watching couldn’t be a coincidence – like he wanted to grab her and run away. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I remembered the expression all too clearly.

My father and Mr. Wright had been best friends since high school, and that’s why we trusted him. This morning, though, a weary shade covered his face. His neck tensed as he tightened his fists, arms hanging at the sides of his hips. Something was wrong, I could tell, and so I flattened my back against the wall in the hallway. I promised myself to make sure he left. I didn’t like him with my mother there all alone. Not today, not any day.

He closed the door behind him, and the click of the lock sent shivers up my spine. I lowered myself to the floor, lying down, and barely peeked from underneath where they wouldn’t expect me looking, in case they turned. He rolled up his sleeves tauntingly slowly, and then stepped up to my mother and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek—not an uncommon gesture in town. She backed away, but the kitchen island blocked her behind. And it wasn’t the type of greeting kiss, once on each cheek, that everyone was used to. His lips widened and his hands took the side of her waist as he laid the lingering smooch. I imagined the sticky saliva left behind on my mother’s skin. Gross!

“I’m expecting company, Dave.” Her tone held a hint of a warning, and I slowly stood up and took a step back as if I were her, needing distance from this man.

“Who?” he asked.

“Barb’s joining me for breakfast,” she lied. I knew my mother was in a hurry to make it to the morning mass. I didn’t understand why she felt the need to explain herself at the time; not until I was a bit older, at least. Her diversion didn’t seem to faze Wright.

I opened the storage door under the staircase with care, slower than ever before, making sure no sound escaped, and I hid there. The cracks between the wooden boards were large enough to reveal half the kitchen. My mother and Wright were still out of view, but I could hear everything. And I wish I hadn’t, because the screams and pleading of my mother’s voice would haunt me for the rest of my life.

“See, Peg, I just saw Barb go into church for a morning mass. It’ll be an hour before she comes out of there. You know Father Fray and his long sermons, don’t you?”

“Perhaps you should visit him once in a while and listen, Dave. You’ll think better than to scare pregnant widows.”

My mom was trying to touch a nerve, but when I heard her gasp, I knew he’d stepped closer to her. Her warning didn’t work.

“You don’t have to be afraid, Peg. We’ve known each other for a long time. It must be lonely for you since Ray passed.”

“Don’t touch me!”

The skin-to-skin slap made me jump up. I hoped it was my mother showing Wright she meant business, instead of him putting her in her place, the way I’d heard he had with other women. The fear and conviction in her voice tightened my stomach. I should have stepped out at that moment, something I’d feel guilty about for the rest of my life, but I was only ten, and fear told me to stay hidden under the staircase. I told myself years later he could have killed us both if I’d stepped out.

“Such a pretty face. It hurts me to see you sad, Peg. No one could have predicted Ray would die in a hunting accident.”

I could swear I’d heard him smirk. Years later I’d question whether my father’s death out in the woods had truly been an accident, and I’d research the evidence to prove it wasn’t.

My mother sniffled and my heart stilled. Was she crying because Wright had mentioned my father, or because he’d gotten too close to her?

“You know it should have been us at that prom, Peg. It would have been me standing at the altar with you if Ray hadn’t filled in for my date. I cursed him for my broken leg for years, and now I’ll curse him in death.”

Everything inside me shook. How dare he talk about Daddy this way!

I remembered my father telling me the story of how my parents had gone on their first date to the prom. Fate had brought them together when Dad’s date fell ill and Mom’s date broke his leg jumping off a wagon. It was meant to be!

“And it should have been my child you’re carrying, not his.”

My throat tingled as I held back my tears and shook my head. I’d never heard Mr. Wright say these words before. How could he have been so mad about Daddy? They were best friends. Weren’t they? Daddy always did everything the chief asked him to. He worked late nights and took on the most dangerous jobs assigned to him, even if it meant missing tucking me into bed and kissing me goodnight.

“Leave, Dave, before we both do something we regret.”

I heard my mother pull out a knife from the holder on the kitchen counter. The metal blade slid sharp against its iron casing. I backed into a corner of the dark storage, and my entire body trembled in a crouch. I should have helped her, and instead I was trapped in a rhythm of constant shakes.

A swoosh and a punch later, the blade flew down, clashing onto the tile floor. In that one second I hoped she’d stabbed him. Hell, I hoped she’d killed him.

Millie began barking again, and it wasn’t a happy kind of bark.

“You think a knife will help you, Peg?” Wright’s voice held more determination than before. The click of a gun loading sounded as he got his pistol ready. I imagined him pointing it at my mom. I guess the knife was as useful as a solar-powered flashlight.

“Turn around and lift your fucking dress if you want to live,” he ordered.

After that, I covered my ears. The screaming, the loud thrashing of bodies, and my mom’s constant pleading not to push so hard against the stomach for the sake of her baby were audible no matter how hard I pressed my palms to my ears.

I sobbed quietly, wanting the sounds to go away. As much as I tried to dismiss them, they kept coming through, sounds I’d remember forever. Muffled cries and sobs I would draw on to take my revenge when the time was right. With my eyes shut, my body ceased to work. I think my bladder let go at some point as well. The snot under my nose collected and dripped in streaks to the floor, but I wouldn’t wipe it in fear of what I’d hear when I pulled my hands away.

It didn’t take him long to be done, but it felt like forever to me. At that moment, I was the biggest coward in the world. When I should have saved her, I couldn’t. The one time my mother needed my help, I froze as if buried in that darkened hole, held captive by a kidnapper. I hated myself that day, and I promised I’d never let fear take over again. I’d put myself in danger to save anyone and everyone I could. No matter what the price. That was the day I decided to be a cop.

Before Wright left, he warned, “You tell anyone about this, Peg, and I’ll take that pretty little girl of yours until she bleeds on my cock. And it will be all your fault.”

As soon as the door shut closed, I ran into the kitchen to find Mom passing out on the floor. Her skirt and apron were soaked in blood. I covered her with a blanket and dialed 911.

I told her later I’d forgotten a book, come back to get it, and found her there. But I think she knew. I could see it in her eyes. She knew I’d failed her. My mother never mentioned Wright. She never told anyone what he’d done to her. The shame in her eyes was washed over by grief not only for the loss of her baby, but also for the most precious memory of her husband she carried in her stomach. At the hospital, the generous doctors and nurses kept asking if there was anything they could do, but even they couldn’t give life to the miscarried child. Neither of us could hold back the cries and sobs. I crawled into her bed and lay there in her arms every day while she recovered at the hospital; physically, at least. At moments, she’d coo at me like I was the baby, calling me Emma in her dreams. Even her breast milk began to leak.

We buried Emma beside Dad. The little square piece of marble looked odd beside his, but at least he wasn’t alone. A wreath made of fresh daisies I’d picked hung on the cross above her tombstone. My mother stood over the grave for hours, holding onto her swollen tummy as if Emma were still in there. She finally collapsed onto her knees. I will never forget that image. The worst part of the funeral was seeing Wright, the righteous man, standing beside some of the other town’s folk, watching me and my mother. Little did he know my fear of him had passed the minute I vowed to never be afraid of a man.

The unborn child was the last piece of my father that my mother and I had, and Wright robbed us both of that child. He robbed my mother of a daughter, and me of a sister. I often wondered whether Emma would have had my father’s eyes or his blond streak of hair, a birthmark among the light brown locks. I figured her hair would have curled like mine, the way our mother’s did. But now I wouldn’t have a sibling to laugh, walk to school, or share my secrets with. I couldn’t give her my dolls or teach her the alphabet.

My mother was never the same after that. She stopped making waffles from scratch and went through the motions of life for me—the coward who’d let her down. After that dreadful day my mother would jump at the slightest of sounds and wake up in the middle of the night to check the locks. Everything collapsed that day. Wright ripped out our hearts, tore apart our family, and instilled rage I’d never forget. I carried the guilt for not helping my mother through my schooling as a cop, needing to prove myself worthy.

Soon after the funeral we moved to a new town on the other side of the country, on the east coast. I was sure no one knew when we left or to where. My mother only packed a suitcase, took my hand, and called a cab. She left everything else behind, even my father’s car. She walked Millie to a neighbor’s house. I missed the dog, but didn’t dare tell Mom. She had enough to deal with.

After a few bus and train rides, we arrived at what was supposed to be a new beginning – except Wright seemed to have come along with us, in both our memories. So, life after that wasn’t peachy. She lived in constant mourning and fear. He’d taken everything away: my sister, my mother’s strength and love for life, my childhood, and I was sure my father’s life as well.

My mother still lives in a tiny apartment. Never trusting Wright, I’ve moved her over a dozen times since I left for school. He found us twice before, but now I had the means to make sure he wouldn’t find us again. I knew he looked for her. And I’d go to hell and back before I let him find her. She was bolted under ten locks and chains, with a bottle of tequila on the kitchen table.

“It’s the only thing that makes me forget,” she told me when I was older. So I bought her a bottle once in a while if she’d promise me she’d only drink with me, so we could both forget. She kept the promise. At one point I told her I’d make things right, but I think she’d had too many shots to remember.