Chapter Twenty-Two
Crispin’s thorough treatment gets me through the next several weeks. I barely think of Slade Lewis at all. I’ve been in LA for three months, but I’m confident we’re nearing a tipping point that will allow me to go back to San Diego. Still, to get there I’ve had to buckle down and work through weekends for the past month. I’ve muddled my way through enough financial records to blind a lesser soul, and I’ve untangled the last of the money trail with the help of some forensic accountants. Janis and her compatriots managed to sack a combined 1.3 million dollars from the operating fund, and the housing authority will press charges. People will be going to jail.
We haven’t fixed everything by a long shot—there’s still a ton of work to do—but I don’t hear another peep out of Slade Lewis. When Jack’s number pops up on my Blackberry, I’m almost certain it’s going to be good news.
“I need you back. Chow, Rodriguez, and Evans are coming up tomorrow morning. You’ll show them what’s what and then get on a plane. I just got a call from Greg Wu in Phoenix. We made the short list for the contract. If you want it, it’s yours.”
I’m surprised he’s offered this to me in the wake of Slade-gate, but it’s not for HUD. Maybe this is his way of apologizing. I’ll have to work non-stop for the next several weeks to keep on top of LAHA while preparing for this, which means cancelling my next trip to Kona, but for this, Crispin will understand.
“I want it.”
* * *
It’s four o’clock. Half an hour until the biggest proposal of my career. Jack and I will be talking to Greg Wu about a technical assistance gig for the City of Phoenix. It’s fricking huge, and it’s mine. I’ve been busting my ass for weeks getting prepped for it, and today’s the day. I’m ready.
Rey texted me earlier:
You’re going to hit it out of the court today! Call me when you’re through for a virtual victory toast. ILYK
Oh, Rey and his hopelessly mixed sports metaphors. It’s one of the few things that make me giggle. Crispin had sent one, too:
You’ll be perfect. We’ll celebrate when I see you next week. Miss you.
I’d shoved my phone deep in my purse after receiving them, knowing nothing else would show up on my cell for the rest of the day. I check it now—a tic, a formality—and I’m surprised to see half a dozen texts, three missed calls, and a voicemail from Crispin. What the hell?
To open or not to open? It could be important. I should call him back. But if it’s important, then I shouldn’t distract myself from the call I have in…twenty minutes. I don’t usually get nervous about work stuff, but this has got me jittery. I need to focus. I’ll check when we’re through.
I take up my tablet to look over my talking points one more time when Lucy chirps through my speaker.
“Ms. Burke?”
“Yes, Lucy.”
“There’s a Mr. Cris Ardmore on the phone for you? He says it’s important?”
What? Panic and fury flood me in equal measure as my tablet clatters to the desk.
“Put him through. Cris?”
“India—”
“Why are you calling me here?”
“I tried your cell, but you didn’t pick up—”
“I’m at work. I have my big pitch in…fifteen minutes. I was going to call when it was over.”
“Can you come this weekend?”
“No, I can’t.” I eye my watch. I’d like to go over those notes one last time…
“Please.”
“I can’t, and I don’t have time to—”
“Please. I need you.”
I roll my eyes at his melodrama. “You can need me in a week. Right now I have to—”
“My dad is sick.”
“Your dad is always sick.” The second the words leave my mouth, I’m flooded with regret. Fuck. I can’t believe I’ve said that. I want to take it back, but—
“You can be a heartless bitch sometimes, you know that, pet?”
“Yes.” Yes, I know. And so should he. I don’t know why he’s surprised. But even for me, that was bad. Really, really bad. So bad Crispin doesn’t have anything else to say. I cut him off before he can think of something that will make me feel even worse. “I’m at work. I have to go. Don’t call me here again.”
There’s a pause, a silence stretching out between us. “Maybe I shouldn’t call you anywhere again.”
My heart seizes in panic, but the rest of me is relieved—finally, a chance to get rid of this guy—and pissed—he’s mad at me?
“Maybe you shouldn’t. You don’t get to be angry about this. You’re the one who fucked up. Don’t make this my fault retroactively because you don’t like it when I’m mad at you. You know you’re not allowed to call me here, and you need to respect my rules. I don’t ask for much—”
“No, you don’t. Because you don’t think you deserve much.”
“Would you shut up with this India-hates-herself bullshit? I happen to think I’m pretty great. I’m smoking hot, I’m smart as hell, I make good money, and I’m a damn fine lay. I like the way I live. It’s worked for me for a long time. Now you’ve come along, and you’re fucking it up. Royally.”
“India…”
Rage colors my vision when he says my name. Suddenly I hate—hate—hearing it come out of his mouth. I knew this was a bad idea. Worse than bad. I am going to end up in pieces, and I can’t afford to lose myself for another year and a half. I have shit to do. I knew letting him say my name, letting him in, was a bad idea. It’s given him power over me, and all I can think of are the million ways he can hurt me.
“Oh, no. Don’t you ‘India’ me. Privilege revoked. Don’t ever call me that again. Actually, take your own advice and don’t call me. We’re done.”
I slam the phone into the cradle on my desk and keep slamming it down, over and over. What have I done? I want to call him back, apologize, and ask him to forgive me. I want to yell at Lucy to get me on the next flight to Kona to be with him. How sick is Mal that Crispin would break all the rules? I should…but I can’t. I have a call with Greg Wu in five minutes, and there’s a five-million-dollar contract hanging in the balance. I cannot be Girl with Boyfriend Trouble. I must be India “Soulless” Burke. India “Ruthless, Driven, Take-No-Prisoners, Just-Try-to-Stab-Me-Through-the-Heart-Crispin-Ardmore-Because-You’re-Not-Going-to-Find-One” Burke.
I force myself to stop beating my phone against the desk, blink back the tears that are threatening to spill, and rest my head in my hands to give myself a little pep talk.
It’s over. One less thing to worry about. It’s better this way. Easier. Rey will find you someone new. Someone who’s way less trouble. He’s been trouble from the start, and you shouldn’t have let it get this far. Look at you—you’re a mess. This is what happens when you care about people, when you have feelings. That stops here and now. Get your shit together, Burke, and put on your face. It’s game day, and you are going to win.
By the time I’m through, I’ve calmed down. Yes, this is for the best; better it happened before it got any worse.
“Lucy!”
“Yes, Ms. Burke?” Her disembodied voice wafts through the speaker. She sounds sympathetic. It makes me want to rip her throat out. Humiliation cuts through me, along with more rage at Cris. My fucking assistant heard that, you asshole.
“Can you do your fucking job for once and get me a goddamn cup of coffee without me having to ask?”
“Apparently not, Ms. Burke, but I’ll get you one right away.”
Ugh, Lucy is having feelings too? Talking with Greg and Jack will be good. They’re my people; we understand each other. And it’s a good thing, too, because it’s go-time. I pull up my notes on my tablet and punch in the numbers for the conference call on my phone. Greg and Jack are already there. I put my feet up on my desk and take a deep breath.
“Gentlemen, let’s get down to business.”
* * *
Days pass in a blur. I work, I try to sleep, I work out, and that’s about it. No matter what I do, I can’t escape this ache. My personal cell rings, and I don’t pick it up. He calls Rey, and Rey calls me.
“Cris called again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. It’s not the first time I’ve screened your calls.”
“I know, but they’re not usually this persistent.”
“No, they’re not. Probably because they only wanted you for sex.”
That hardly makes me feel better. I wish Crispin—no, privilege revoked—Cris only wanted me for sex. That I can do. It’s all this other crap that messes everything up.
“He’s worried about you.”
Of course he is. When I’m the one who should be asking after him, after his dad. It’s on the tip of my tongue because, surely, Rey knows. But no matter how badly I want to hear that Mal’s fine and Cris’s life has gone back to its regularly scheduled programming of surfing, cooking, and occasionally earning a living, I can’t bring myself to ask. A clean break is what’s called for here. So I break it.
“Tell him I’m fan-fucking-tastic. Tell him whatever it takes. I don’t want to talk to him.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “Do you not?”
“Shut up, Rey. Shut the hell up. You’re not making this any easier.”
No, not easier at all. Just taking the heart that’s been ripped out of my body and shoving it down my throat. Isn’t Rey supposed to be on my side?
“Maybe it’s not supposed to be easy.”
“Do you want me to stop talking to you, too?” Tears are pricking at my eyes, choking me. Goddammit. He knows I would never, could never, but I hope he’ll take the hint to drop it.
“No, of course not. I liked you together, that’s all.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
My spring is left with nothing to crush because my internal organs have been hollowed out. I feel like I’m going to die. I haven’t felt this empty since I left Hunter and my parents disowned me.
This is why I didn’t want to get close to anyone. Because this is how it ends: me in a crumpled, jacked-up heap of pieces Rey has to fit back together like Humpty Fucking Dumpty. I should face facts and go back to the way things were. I’m allowed to have professional success and satisfaction, a stimulating and crazy-hot sex life, and the best friend a girl could ask for. I’m just not built for love. We really can’t have it all.
My ruminations are interrupted by Rey. “Hey, what are you doing Wednesday night?”
“Getting absolutely wrecked and going clubbing with you?”
“Sounds good. I’ll see you at eight.”
* * *
With a thunk of the lock, Rey lets himself into my apartment and sets his overnight bag down inside the door. I’m huddled on the couch, not doing anything. I’ve been trying to read my book, but every few pages, I come across a line that would make Cris laugh his delicious, butterfly-inducing laugh and I have to stop. I think about reading my news magazines, but if I saw one of his comics, I might die. Maybe I’ll have Rey go through them for me. Let him leave kindergarten-cut, empty squares in the pages—Cris redacted.
Rey dumps himself next to me, the weight of him a familiar comfort on my couch. I lay my head in his lap and close my eyes while his fingers knead the nape of my neck.
“Still want to go?”
“Yes.”
“Want to have a good cry first?”
“Yes.”
I burst into tears, and Rey scoots me up until I’m sitting on his knees. He lets me exhaust my tears on his chest and doesn’t offer platitudes about how it’s all going to be okay. It will be, eventually, but I’m in no mood to hear it. What I am in the mood for is Rey ruffling my hair and rousing me from my heart-broken stupor.
“Picnic’s waiting. Get in the shower. I’ll pick you out something pretty to wear.”
He tips me off his lap and smacks me affectionately on the butt as I head down the hall. Fresh out of the shower, I find clothes laid out on my bed: black leather pants, barely-there crimson halter top, and spiked heels. Excellent.
When we pull up at Picnic, a cut bouncer helps me out of my car, and Rey palms my keys to a valet. There’s a line snaking halfway around the block, but we get in, no problem, with a nod from a Secret Service-looking guy with a clipboard.
“Thanks, Tony,” says Rey.
We get a wink and a nod in response, and I welcome the burst of warm air that hits us as Tony holds open the door. The club is crowded for a weeknight, and clothes have already started to come off. I admire the fit bodies of men moving effortlessly to the beat, and the balls of the less-cut who are working it like they’ve got something to prove. There aren’t many women here and even fewer men who might find me fuckable, but I like it that way. Rey’s admirers drift over after we’ve gotten our first round, but instead of turning on the charm to get laid, he focuses their attention on me.
Soon I’m being coddled by half a dozen gay men sympathetic about my break-up. I get a lot of “oh, honeys,” several brightly colored fruity cocktails, and eventually invitations to dance my cares away. On the dance floor, the pounding beats, the sweaty masculine bodies—moving skillfully, enthusiastically, but with no prurient interest against mine—and the half dozen drinks I’ve imbibed let me forget for a while. I’m asleep on my feet by the time Rey wrangles my drunk ass into my Mercedes. Presumably he takes me home because I wake the next morning with less of a hangover than I’ve earned and a note next to my bed:
ILYK. Call me.
I haul my ass to the gym, where Adam busts my chops for having been gone for so long.
“You’ve gone soft like a cheesecake, princess,” he berates me as I do my zillionth crunch. It’s true I’m a little out of shape, but no one else would notice. I’m glad Adam does and uses it as an excuse to work me like a draft horse. Another way for me to silence the longing and muffle the ache.
But as soon as Adam’s no longer barking in my ear, it comes back, and every song on the radio on my sticky, sweat-drenched drive to work reminds me of what I’ve lost.
* * *
A few more days pass. Cris stops trying to contact me. I’m half-grateful and half-gutted. I think about calling, emailing, texting, even writing him a letter—which I think he’d like. A lot. And the waiting would be good penance for me.
I draw little stick figure Indias with speech bubbles: I’m sorry. I miss you. I—before I crumple them up and throw them away. I think about getting on a plane, but I don’t. Instead I repeat to myself, “It’s easier this way.” But it doesn’t feel easier. It feels like a slow, painful suicide.
I talk to Rey a lot. I think about asking him to get me someone new, but I can’t afford the time away from work. Besides, Cris has me so tied up in knots, I’d feel like I was cheating on him. I’ve never cheated on anyone in my life, and it wouldn’t count as that now. There’s no contract, and no contract means no cheating. But I feel queasy when I think about being with anyone else, so work it is.
And work I do. I landed the contract with Phoenix, and it’s my baby, the only kind of baby I’ll ever have. Jack is going to have minimal supervision and input. I’m going to run the show. Greg Wu is going to be my new best friend for the next three years. I like him, I understand him, and though he’s tough as nails and ridiculously demanding, I think he’ll be happy with me. They usually are.
I set myself to developing our work plan, scheduling and assigning tasks and due dates, making notes about information I’m going to need. It’s soothing to be the puppet master, to be doing something I understand, that makes sense to me, that I’m good at. I schedule a metric crapton of travel for myself. I don’t care for Phoenix, but the desert won’t remind me of Cris so damn much.
I’m two-thirds of the way through compiling our list of deliverables when Lucy’s voice comes over the speaker.
“Ms. Burke?”
“Lucy, how many ways do I have to say I’m not to be interrupted?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that you have a phone call.”
“I told you to hold all of my fucking calls. Do I need to write you a ddgedgmemo?”
“No, Ms. B urke. It just… It sounded important.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. If I ripped Lucy a new one every time she deserved it, she’d be Swiss cheese.
“Who is it?”
“A Mrs. Mary Ardmore? She sounds upset.”
Shit. Why the fuck is Cris’s mother calling me? No scenario I come up with is good. I’ve never even met the woman. How does she know who I am and where to find me? Hasn’t he violated my privacy and broken the rules enough? When is he going to get it through his thick skull? I don’t want to talk to him. We’re over, and even—no, especially—a phone call from his mother—his mother!—is not going to change that. For fuck’s sake, Cris, give it up. This is excruciating as it is.
But I can’t have her making a scene with Lucy. “Put her through.”
“Yes, Ms. Burke.”
I steel myself before I pick up the phone and do a fair impersonation of collected when I bring the handset to my ear. “Mrs. Ardmore, this is India Burke. What can I do for you?”
“Ms. Burke, I’m sorry to bother you—”
“It’s no bother. What can I do for you?” Despite my words to the contrary, my icy and clipped tone clearly conveys this is a bother and she’d best get to the point. The sooner I can get Cris out of my head and move on with my life, the better.
“I’m sorry, it’s only…”
Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t be so mean. She does sound upset.
“Do you know my son?”
Her voice cracks, and a chill of alarm runs down my spine. “Yes… Did something happen to him? Is Cris okay?”
“No,” she chokes, tears in her voice. “He’s been in an accident.”