Love, Chloe
Page 30

“Oh please, Chloe,” he cut me off. “There’s obviously something between you two or you wouldn’t have been howling his name within five minutes of me leaving.”
I bit my lip and looked toward the door.
“Just … please.” His voice dropped. “Don’t do anything to piss him off.”
My hand was heavy when I pushed on the trailer door, my exit done without a response. I didn’t know what to say, a hundred different emotions coming as I wove around cameras, stepped over cords, and slunk through the shadows of trailers. I climbed the steps to Nicole’s trailer and said a silent prayer of thanks that she was shooting in Brooklyn. At least I’d have a place of privacy, a moment to recover.
I opened the door to her trailer and stepped inside, my eyes hitting the giant vase of flowers, a mountain of roses and orchids. My hand grabbed the card before my brain had a chance to stop it.
It’ll always be us, Chloe. Our souls are connected for eternity.
I love you.
I sank onto the floor, leaning against the door, the card dropping from my hands, and cried. Wondered, through the tears, how early in the day Vic had ordered the arrangement. Wondered if he had known, placing the order, that I was going to let him touch me, let him inside of me.
Of course he had.
He was Vic. I was Chloe. It was done.
Confession of the guilty party brings a certain amount of trust to a situation. Being caught doesn’t have the same effect. If Vic had come to me during our relationship, and told me that he had slept with his maid—I would have forgiven him, believed his regrets and trusted him not to do it again. It was the deception that killed me, that had carried me through so many weak moments. The affair had only stopped because I had caught him, and forced his hand. If he had stopped it on his own, un-coerced, and been honest … that would have made all the difference.
We would have never broken up. And I wouldn’t be here, working for her, and struggling with this guilt.
I could tell Clarke. I could mail him a letter spelling out his wife’s deceit.
Instead I watched, hoping that Nicole would do the right thing. And I prayed that when he did find out, that I wouldn’t be there to see the moment. I couldn’t stand the thought of looking into his face and seeing that pain.
“This is stupid.” That encouraging comment came from Benta, who was using her iPhone’s camera as a mirror to apply mascara.
“It’s not stupid. It’s smart. If Carter’s there, he’ll see Chloe looking smoking hot.” Cammie winked and handed me a lipstick. “If he’s not, no harm no foul. Just another night out.” Cammie reached over to rub Dante’s arm. He nodded noncommittally.
“Dante?” I pressed from my spot behind him. “Is this stupid or smart?”
His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “His friend owns the place?”
“Yeah. I saw him headed that direction, dressed like he was going out.” I repeated the same facts we’d already dissected ten times.
He shrugged. “Fifty-fifty chance he’s there.”
I sighed. “I know the odds. I want to know if I’m going to look pathetic showing up there.”
He laughed. “Right now? Yes, you look pathetic. But he’s not going to know all this underhanded plotting you guys got going on. He’s only going to see you there, partying. He won’t figure it out.”
“Puh-lease.” Benta had moved on to lip-gloss. “He’ll figure it out.”
“No,” Dante said, stronger. “He won’t. We don’t think like you do. He will see you, want to fuck you, and that will be the end of that.”
“Well that’s just stupid,” Benta grumbled, tossing her phone and her gloss into her bag.
“Men are stupid.” Dante laughed, running his hand up Cammie’s thigh as he made a right turn. “We focus on sex, food, and how to have more sex. That’s all we are about.”
“And love,” Cammie said pointedly.
I drowned out whatever sappy response he gave, rolling down the window and tossing out my gum. Love was what got me into trouble in the first place. Love should be less stubborn. It should listen to red flags and reason. It should learn from past mistakes and guard itself from future ones.
I loved Vic. I thought I would always love Vic. But I couldn’t be with him. Pure and simple, no matter what my libido said—I couldn’t do it. It was stupid of me to fall into his traps, to let him buy his way into BLL, into my daily life, in hopes that he could win me back. Despite what happened last week, I was not winnable. I would not come back. I was single and happy, and tonight, I was moving on. Hopefully with ridiculously hot superintendent sex. Now those were four words I never expected to say.
The prior night, I’d stood at Carter’s door like a total stalker and put my ear against it, listening for a hint as to what was going on inside. Silence. That was what was inside. I almost knocked. I was horny and trying to ignore thoughts of Vic and wanted something, anything. Even if it was just someone to talk to. But I didn’t knock. I stood there for a full ten minutes debating, then I returned to my apartment. Pulled open my top drawer and reached for my vibrator. Wasted forty-five minutes on something Carter could have knocked out in five.
I didn’t want another vibrator night.
Hopefully Dante was right, and boys were naïve, and if we did see Carter, it would seem random and fated—not like the devious plan of three girls and a lot of tequila shots.
Benta pushed at my hand and I glanced over, seeing the flask she offered. I took it with a smile, twisting off the top, quietly stealing a strong sip. Her arms wrapped around my neck and she hugged me. “It’s a stupid plan,” she whispered in my ear.
“I know,” I whispered back.
“But we can be stupid together.” She giggled, giving me a last squeeze and then let go, crawling over the center console to twist the radio dial, blasting hip hop through the car.
The music was loud, their energy infectious, and neither distracted me when my phone rang. I fished it out of my pocket and looked at the display. Vic. I silenced the phone and considered, in a moment of tequila-fueled insanity, rolling down the window and chucking it out. It would have been deliciously dramatic. A clear sign to my subconscious that I was done with Vic. It also would have been as stupid as me chopping off my right arm. I tightened my grip on my cell and stuffed it back in my pocket. Pasted a smile on my face and looked away from the window.
Benta stared at me, her eyes narrowed.
“What?” I gave her an innocent face.
“Do I need to take your phone?”
My hand tightened on my cell for one weak moment. Then I pulled it out and handed it over. “Yes. Please.”
I wouldn’t have listened to his voicemail. Wouldn’t have let, whatever he said, influence me or affect the night. I wouldn’t have, a few drinks later, huddled in a corner of the bar and called him. Told him through tears and alcohol, that I still loved him. That I still missed him. That I wanted him and our old life back.
I was sure I wouldn’t have done any of that. But, just in case, I let Benta hold on to the phone. Sometimes we all needed protection from ourselves.
I’d been to Whiskey Bravo before, knew the relative location of the ladies room and deck, but we got pulled in by the crowd and ended up upstairs, in a dark corner that I’d never seen. There was an open table there, and we pounced on it. My clutch stuck in between my knees, the stool cool against the back of my thighs, an air vent blew right down, flattening my hair in a manner that couldn’t be attractive. But it was a table. And in a hot bar, on a Friday night in New York, you took a seat, wherever it was.