Love, Chloe
Page 32

I screamed. Hard and loud enough that a thump sounded from above. Three thumps. The kind a hard heel slammed into the floor makes. I stopped screaming and moved to the couch, punching pillows before grabbing a box of tissues and ripping off a handful. I blotted tears, blew my nose, and cursed Vic’s name.
This car was nothing to him; it was a pawn in a chess match where my heart was the prize, and his strategy was so much better than mine. His strategy was born from a lifetime of having everything, including me. His strategy took risks because he had nothing to lose.
My strategy was to play defense and gamble nothing and protect myself, and I did a shitty job of that when I let him push up my skirt and fuck me in Joey’s trailer.
The knock was soft and gentle. I almost missed it, the timing coinciding with an enormous blow of my nose. When he knocked a second time I stood, walking over to the peephole and looking through it. I sank against the door, almost relieved when I saw it was just Carter.
“Everything okay?” he called out.
“Yeah.” I wiped at my eyes. “Sorry about that.”
“No worries. I’ll just remember, come your birthday, that you don’t like cars.”
I laughed.
“What should I do with the card?”
I should have told him to throw it away. I should have told him to rip it into tiny pieces and stuff it down a garbage disposal. “Can you slide it under my door?”
Through the peephole, I saw the playful grin that crossed his face. “No goodnight kiss?”
I smiled, and a fresh stream of tears leaked out. “Not tonight.”
The white envelope slipped underneath the door. “Thanks,” I said quietly.
“No problem. Good night, Chloe.”
I smiled, then remembered he couldn’t see me. “Good night, Carter.”
He turned and left and for a long beat, I stared through the peephole at the empty hallway. Carter would never be able to buy me a Maserati. Did it matter? It felt like my old life was another person entirely. I didn’t want the Maserati out front, not when it put me back with an unfaithful man, back in a life that suddenly felt hollow and superficial.
I bent down and picked up the envelope, running my fingers over the white parchment, my name jotted on its surface in a script that was familiar and one hundred percent Vic.
I ran a finger under the seal and opened the envelope. Pulled out a square card and, with a shaky hand, flipped it open.
This car is fast, like the beat of my heart when you smile. Fierce like your spirit. Incomparably gorgeous, like its new owner.
This is not a bribe or a lure. It is a stick shift, but you’ve never had trouble handling that before.
Enjoy it baby.
Paper-clipped to the back of the card, a folded piece of paper: a car title. I unfolded it carefully and saw my name on the owner’s line, my new address below it.
Typical Vic. The man gave a gift that would be a pain in the ass to give back. My mind spun with all of the issues that having a car in New York would bring. Parking. Insurance. Gas. I couldn’t afford the damn thing, even when it was free. My hands reached for my cell, my fingers dialing Vic’s number, then my brain kicked in and I stopped, and set down the phone, stepping away. I brought my hands to my head and took a deep breath. I needed help. Freakin’ psychological help to stay away from this man. I stepped back to my phone and called the next best thing.
The girls were still at the club. I asked them to come over, and they didn’t ask questions. “We’ll be there in twenty,” Benta said and—eighteen minutes later—she buzzed the front door.
Dante took a stool in the kitchen, Cammie went for the liquor, and I headed to the living room. “What’d he do?” Benta asked, plopping down on the chair, pulling off her heels and tucking her feet underneath her. “Do I need to kick his sexy ass or what?”
“It wasn’t Carter.” I sank into the couch.
“What the F is this?” The shout came from the kitchen and I didn’t move, just closed my eyes and waited. Cammie had obviously found the card. From beside me, I heard the scurry of bare feet as Benta rushed to her side.
“Holy shit, Chloe,” Benta said, her accent strong. “This is big, even for him.”
I heard the screech of the stool as Dante stood. Great, a freaking party around words specifically designed to break my heart. “Smooth,” he muttered and I heard the crinkle of the title as it passed hands.
“It’s not smooth,” Cammie snapped, and one of my kitchen drawers slammed shut. “It’s pushy.”
“And ridiculous,” Benta chimed in.
“And pimp,” Dante said. “And generous. And sweet.”
“It’s Vic,” I said helplessly, watching Cammie enter the living room, her hands steady as she poured me a large shot of Patrón.
“What does that mean?” Dante asked from the kitchen.
“It means,” Cammie said, passing me the glass. “That our little Chloe here is in trouble.”
It’s Vic. The girls understood. Three simple letters that make up a name. Three simple letters that spell
DOOM.
TROUBLE.
TEMPTATION.
I lifted the glass to my lips and downed it.
The next morning I called him.
“Hey babe.” Vic sounded ridiculously cheerful. Carefree. He was probably back on a beach, drink in hand, his yacht floating nearby. I stood on a dismal New York street, rain tapping against the top of my umbrella, a hangover blazing, and stared at my his car. There was a parking ticket, stuck on its windshield, soaked by the rain.
“You can’t do things like this.”
“Of course I can.” The confidence stretched through every syllable and why wouldn’t it? He was right. He could do anything he wanted. In Vic’s world there were no worries, no consequences, no ramifications.
“No, you can’t. I don’t want this car. Send one of your people to come pick it up.” His people used to be my people. His employees had picked up my dry cleaning, grabbed my groceries, driven my drunk self home. It had been the opening act to the rest of my life, a life that never happened. A life that was shattered that one, terrible afternoon.
“The car is in your name, Chloe.” His voice grew harder, more stubborn, the authoritativeness having the wrong effect on me.
“Put your hands on the wall.”
I didn’t question it, had put my hands on the gold-foil wall, my taupe nails digging into the surface when he ran his hands down my back, over the strings of my bathing suit and down to my ass, his fingers pulling my bathing suit to the side. We were in the Hamptons, at his family’s estate, the din of a hundred friends floating up the staircase from downstairs. “Vic,” I said softly, the word becoming a moan as his fingers pressed in between my legs.
“Shut up and face the wall. I can’t see your body another second without having it.”
“Someone will come upstairs,” I protested.
“Then they will see me fucking my girl, won’t they?” The words were as hard as his cock, the push of him taking my breath, my nails sliding down the wall, my fingers gripping the chair rail as he held my hips and eased himself out, then thrust back in.
“Say my name, Chloe. Tell me how much you love it.”
“I love it,” I gasped, my cries rising in volume as he let loose on me.
And I had loved it. I had loved when he’d ordered me around. Had loved it when he took control of my life and made it so easy for me. Had loved everything up until the moment I realized what it cost.