CHAPTER
NINE
“Give a girl the right shoes, and she can conquer the world.”
~Marilyn Monroe
For all intents and purposes, I had the apartment to myself for the majority of the day.
It was for the best. I had a lot of baking and drinking to do before I was even close to fit for company.
I was frosting my fifth batch of cupcakes (these red velvet) when the doorbell rang.
My eyes narrowed, and my first instinct was to ignore it. I just had a bad feeling. Nothing I could put into words, just a need to avoid that could be for any number of reasons, not the least of which that I was working on getting stupid, sloppy drunk, and the condition was eluding me.
Nope, I decided. Not answering.
The doorbell rang again, and this time a sleepy Demi came out of her room, gave me a good morning/afternoon wave, and went to open it herself before I could stop her.
I went back to frosting and didn’t look up again until she plopped a large red box on the kitchen counter scant inches from my growing horde of cupcakes. I’d made three flavors—German chocolate, vanilla cream, and red velvet.
“Oh my God,” she said slowly, her big blue eyes wide. “What are all these cupcakes for?”
I looked at her. She was a gorgeous little thing with big, bright blue eyes, masses of dark hair, pale skin, and a rosebud mouth. She was petite but curvy in all the right places. She basically looked and was the Hollywood version of Snow White. “You. Help yourself.”
“You bitch!” she shot back, making me smile for the first time all day. Her calling me a bitch to my face was 100% my influence on her, and I loved it. “You know I have an audition in two days! And red velvet is my absolute favorite!”
I had known that. The whole point of my baking was never to make something for myself. I despised cupcakes. I had the opposite of a sweet tooth. I had a bitter one.
I nodded at the red box. “What’s that?”
“Something for you. Some sort of special delivery from a guy in a suit.”
I froze, my insides coiling up tight. “Not . . . Dante, right?”
“No, not him. I’d have recognized him. It was some guy I’ve never seen before, but he insisted I give the box directly to you and said it should be opened immediately.”
I felt no better. This reeked of Dante, even it that hadn’t been him at the door, though I was still thanking God for that.
“That’s odd,” I noted, my tone deceptively casual.
“The whole thing was bizarre,” she agreed.
I finished frosting the cupcakes, taking my time, smiling when Demi gave in and started eating one, then moaned and raved about how divine it was, but all the while, my mind was on the damned package.
“Is there a return address on that thing?” I finally asked her, avoiding it myself, like that would somehow help.
“Nope. There’s nothing. I checked. No postage. That guy just brought it here. You got a new stalker or something?”
My mouth twisted. “Not a new one.”
“Are you going to open it or you want me to?”
I almost told her to do it, but that felt too cowardly, and realizing that I wanted to be a coward was what finally spurred me into action. I had many, many bad qualities, but I’d be damned before I’d let cowardice become one of them.
With a curse, I reached for the box, tearing it open.
Inside were red shoes in exactly the same style as the ones I’d been wearing yesterday.
But these were Louboutins.
I read the note tucked in beside the shoes before I could think better of it, and immediately wished I hadn’t.
Scarlett,
I know you have a weakness for expensive shoe porn.
And you know I love to exploit your weaknesses.
Enjoy.
Thanks for everything,
D, aka the love of your life
P.S. We still need to talk.
I nearly threw the shoes out of the closest window. I had them free of the box, had moved from the kitchen and across the living room, opened a window, but as I stared at them I just couldn’t do it.
They were so gorgeous. How could I throw away something so perfect?
Shoe porn, indeed.
I hated that I loved it. The note. The shoes. Everything about it tailored perfectly to appeal to my senses and tear out pieces of me in precisely equal measures.
We were over, had been for years, but it didn’t matter. If he had his way, he’d keep me tied to him forever. He was cruel like that.
The shoes, and particularly the note, was an attack disguised as a white flag, and it worked, did exactly what he intended—got to me. Enraged and weakened me both.
He knew me that fucking well.
No one on earth should know a person that well.
Lovers should have secrets.
In fact, they need them.
Some part of you should stay a mystery in every relationship. Enough mystery to keep some distance and a bit of perspective.
Dante and I had gotten together too young for any of that. I’d given him everything, been too smitten and naive to hold back even one selfish part of myself.
Even one essential part of myself.
Never relinquish the keys to your soul to someone else. It gives them too much power.
That kind of power in the hands of a ruthless man like Dante, well, needless to say, it’d taken its toll on me.
I was standing, hands clenched at my sides, glaring at the shoes when my phone started chiming a text at me from the kitchen.
I set the shoes down carefully on the coffee table and stalked to check it.
The text was from an unfamiliar number and read:
Wear them and think of me.
Predictably, it set me off.
And even so, I couldn’t throw away the shoes.
I settled for spending a ridiculous amount of time making it look like I had.
Demi was still the only one home, but she was game to assist me in setting it up. She was a sweet young thing. It constantly surprised me how much she liked to help out with any random plot I was hatching on a daily basis just for the sake of sisterhood, just because her first inclination was to be nice, even after I’d made her cupcakes that I knew weren’t on her diet.
I’d never been sweet, but ironically some of my closest friends these days were. I was finding that my particular flavor of bitter was sometimes best complemented with a bit of saccharine. Go figure.
I recorded a short video on my phone that showed me tossing the shoes out of my bedroom window, one by one with two short flicks of my wrist.
Our place was on the first floor, so it was fairly simple. Demi was outside, crouched low to the ground, out of the shot, a pillow in her arms.
“Are they okay?” I called out as soon as I stopped recording.
“Caught them both with the pillow!” she called back cheerily. “Your ungodly expensive shoes are unharmed!”
I grinned and sent the video off to my new contact, which I’d named: Bastard/Stalker/Liar/Cheater/Ex/TheDevil.
Me: I thought of you while I was doing this. Lose my number.
The smile died on my face at his near immediate response.
Bastard/Stalker/Liar/Cheater/Ex/TheDevil: No worries. I’m almost to your place. I’ll rescue them for you.
I was so caught off guard, not sure if he was messing with me but rattled with even the possibility of having to face him again, that I wasn’t sure how to respond.
I focused on the most immediate concern—hiding the Louboutins.
I intercepted Demi right as she was bringing the shoes back to the front door. I grabbed them from her, throwing out a, “Thank you,” as I hurried back to my bedroom. I stuffed them in the corner of my closet, threw some clothes on top, and rushed into the bathroom.
I glared at my reflection. Why today of all days had I made no effort at all? I’d showered and scrubbed my face clean of makeup the second we’d gotten home from our trip. I’d washed my hair, but then let it dry as is, which meant it was basically a slightly damp rat’s nest at this point.
And my outfit could only be described as quirky. In reality, quirky was kind. I was wearing yoga pants and an oversized cat T-shirt.
At least it was a somewhat combative cat shirt. The cat was sweet looking enough, a big, fluffy white thing surrounded by pink and blue flowers but at the bottom it read in clear black print: I WILL END YOU.
It was really kind of perfect if I thought about it, so I kept the shirt on, switched the pants out for some tiny shorts that showed off my legs, and focused on my hair, dragging a brush through it and doing a quick blow dry, just enough to make it look tousled instead of messy.
I’d just applied the bare minimum of makeup when the doorbell rang again.
I knew it was him. I could feel it in my flesh, just like I could feel my temper bubbling up under my skin, ready for any excuse to ignite.
I was irate that he had the nerve to clash with me again so soon. He’d lost the last round. It had been a clear knockout win for me.
He should have the decency to stay down.
I waited in my room, wondering if he’d go away if I just didn’t answer.
But I wasn’t so lucky, and Demi had the blasted habit of answering the front door.
It was her tentative knock outside my bedroom that jarred me into action. That and her kind voice calling through, “Um, Scarlett, I’m sorry, but, uh, Dante, I mean, The Bastard, is at the front door and refuses to leave. Should I call the cops on him or something?”
“Sic Amos on him,” I called back. It was a lovely thought, but unfortunately, our mutt was incapable of violence. He thought every creature in the world was his friend.
Stupid dog. He should have been a bitter ball of hate. He had, after all, been thrown in a dumpster by some neglectful son of a bitch. Didn’t he know that the world was out to get him?
“I doubt that will work,” she countered through the door. “You know Amos isn’t likely to cooperate. We could just ignore him until he leaves.”
I sighed. It was tempting, but I was not in the habit of taking the coward’s way. Also, Dante was a stubborn son of a bitch. I doubted he’d just go away after coming all the way here.
I’d face him, if only to rub my win from last night in his lying, manipulative, evil, shoe-buying face.
I opened my bedroom door and met Demi’s worried eyes. “I’ll handle him. Don’t worry about it. And eat as many cupcakes as you want. All of the red velvet ones are for you.”
She cursed me for that (even her curses came across sweet, and dammit, even cute) and left me to it.
I didn’t rush to meet him. I didn’t have a problem making him wait. In all our time together, I rarely had.
Of course, I didn’t much dawdle, either. Wasting his time was one thing, but it wouldn’t do to give him the impression that I dreaded seeing him as much as I actually did.
I applied one last precise bit of nude lip-gloss like it was war paint and went to answer the door.
I braced myself for the sight of him, taking one deep breath before I faced him again.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked the moment our gazes clashed.
He looked like hell, wearing the same suit he had the previous day, his golden hair unkempt, his normally precise, perpetual stubble turned to outright scruff.
He looked exhausted and hungover, but also, good enough to eat.
His eyes were taking in the front of my shirt, a smirk forming on his lips as he read it when he replied, “Love the shirt, tiger. Very appropriate. Would you believe me if I said I was in the neighborhood?”
“No. You hate L.A. with a passion. Why are you here?”
“To see you, of course. Can I come in?”
“I’m surprised you recovered and made it here this quick. Must be nice to have a private jet.”
His smirk died and his jaw set. “Do you know how wasteful it is for one man to use a private jet to get around? I’m not my dad. I flew commercial. The only thing wasted was my money on a last minute airline ticket.”
I rolled my eyes. Oh Lord. If I had a private jet, I wouldn’t fly commercial on a bet, in fact, I’d probably fly to New York for pizza on a whim, but then Dante had always seen his wealth as a sort of a hindrance, something to feel guilty about, a bigger weight on his shoulders than it was worth.
Again, that had always pissed me the hell off. As a twenty-seven year old that still lived paycheck to paycheck, it was more infuriating than ever. “If I see you driving around in a Prius, I’m seriously going to barf. Right before I key the hell out of it.”
He grinned. “Can I come in?” he repeated, tone polite, conciliatory even.
“What do you want?” My tone was rude. I was determined that his charm was not going to make me any less hostile. On the contrary.
Because, obviously, I was contrary.
“Same thing I wanted last night,” he replied, face and voice gone very solemn.
“Not likely, stud,” I drawled out, though some part of me quickened at the thought. Or at least at the picture his words brought up for me, a flash of the two of us writhing naked in bed. “Not in the mood. And even if I was, you weren’t exactly impressive enough for another round. One lackluster performance from you was plenty to last me for quite some time, thank you. You aren’t what you used to be, if you know what I mean. Or hell, maybe I’ve just grown accustomed to having better.”
He flinched just the slightest bit, tried to catch himself, smoothed his features into blandness in a blink, but I caught the slip. “I still want to talk, is what I was trying to say,” he added, voice gone stiff and formal now.
I could tell I’d struck the nerve I’d been going for. There we go. Point for me.
I flashed my teeth at him in a snarl thinly disguised as a grin. “Care for a drink?”
Perverse creature that he was, that made his smile reappear. “I don’t think so. Not falling for that again. Not today. That was a dirty trick, you know, but I suppose it was my fault. And as for last night, I’d like to defend myself; obviously I had way too much to drink.”
I eyed him top to bottom, the regard deliberate and insulting. “That’s what every guy says when he’s past his prime.”
“I had a lot to drink. You know because you served it to me.”
“Excuses, excuses.”
“Want me to prove it to you?” His smile was way too self-assured.
“Don’t make me slam this door in your face and call the cops if you don’t leave.”
“Sorry. That last one just slipped out. I really meant it about the truce.”
“A truce?” I tasted the word in my mouth, and it tasted as wrong as it felt. “You call that note you just sent me a truce?”
“The shoes were for the truce. The note was for that cheap shot you took at me last night,” he tried, smiling again, back to his charm routine. “But now that I got it out of my system, I’m back to just wanting a truce.”
“I don’t like you coming to my home,” I pointed out. He knew as much, but it never hurt to point out boundaries when it came to Dante. There was a time we’d been boundary-less, and the results had been disastrous for us both.
“I know. That’s why I tried to catch you the first time at work.”
“Work is not better.”
“Okay. Well. Noted. Now we need to talk. It’s important. Can I come in?”
I thought about it for a while. “I’ll give you five minutes, but then you need to leave me the hell alone.”
“It’s important,” he reiterated, face gone solemn again in a way that made me start to panic.
I hid it well; I am an actress after all.
I gave him a long suffering sigh and, knowing it was a terrible idea, knowing I’d regret it now and later, I let in the man that had broken my heart in so many ways that it would never heal again.