Chapter 14: Surprise Guest

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Amy

I’ve managed to get myself under control by the time I reach the door of Sylvia’s condo. I want to go inside, lie on the couch with my head in her lap and let her smooth my hair. I want my mom. I need to spend more time with her. I wouldn’t be in this ridiculous situation if I kept my focus on why I’m here.

Pushing through the door, a voice meets me, and the blood runs cold in my veins. My mother is sitting in the living room. The lights are low, and she’s speaking in broken strains of French.

“I’m horribly out of practice!” She shakes her head and laughs lightly. “I should have visited Amy more while she was in Paris, but I didn’t expect her back so soon!”

“That makes two of us.” Armand’s voice confirms what my eyes are trying to reject, and I almost run back out the door. “I wasn’t expecting her to leave either.”

Before I can do anything, I’m spotted. Across the room, his dark eyes flicker up to capture mine, and my heart stops. All the sadness and confusion and wrecked emotions I’d been struggling with in the street twists into a hard fist of anger. What the fuck is he doing here?

As if reading my mind, his expression braces. “It seems she’s arrived.”

“Amy!” Sylvia hops up and turns to greet me. “You never told me you met such a distinguished gentleman in Paris!”

“It didn’t occur to me, I guess.” I cut my eyes at him and don’t even attempt to disguise the irritation in my tone. I am so not in the mood for this bullshit right now. “How unexpected to find him in our living room.”

His loud laugh fills the air. “My apologies, fillette. I had to be in New York, and I figured since I was so close—”

Little girl? I give him a bitter smile. “New York and Chicago are not so close.”

“What can I say?” He holds out an elegant palm. “I found myself missing you.”

No shit. I’ve been ignoring his texts for two weeks. God damned, pushy Frenchman. It’s all about his ego. He’s never listened to a word I say, and he’s still not listening to me. If he weren’t such a fucking talented lover, I’d have ended it months before I left Paris.

Sylvia is the picture of hospitality. She can’t help herself, but I wish she would. “How long will you be in town, Mr. Rocher?”

“My plane leaves Sunday...” He winks at me. “But you know how plane tickets are. Easily changed.”

“How lovely!” My mother’s eyes lighten. “Darling, you should take him to the BGCB gala on Saturday. Use my tickets.”

“Sylvia!” My gasp is a knee-jerk response, and fucking Armand is right on it.

A sly grin crosses his lips. “I would be honored to be your escort.”

My mother quickly ascertains her misstep and tries to backpedal. “I’m sorry... I, um, Mr. Rocher.” She gives him a nod, but the damage is done. “It’s past my bedtime.”

She stands and makes a little gesture of farewell. Our guest is on his feet at once, taking her small hand. “Of course. Forgive me for calling so late.”

He kisses both her cheeks briefly, and Sylvia tells me a sheepish goodnight before retreating to her suite. I want to be angry with her, but I can’t. Armand is gorgeous and charming, and I don’t blame her for thinking I would want to be with him. For a while I did.

The room is quiet in her absence, and I’m still in the kitchen, arms crossed over my stomach. He’s in the center of the living room, impeccably dressed in a dark, well-tailored suit, white shirt, no tie. His dark hair is swept back from his face, and something new—a light scruff is on his cheeks.

“Amalie.” I can’t tell if he intends to say my name in the same, husky way he used to when we were fucking, but I’m pretty sure he did. “You never returned my calls. I tried texting you—”

“I told you I was moving home.” My voice is flat, not encouraging.

He strides toward me, light flashing in his dark-brown eyes. “Your home is in France with me.”

“It most certainly is not.”

Dark eyes rake over my body, and I wish I had on more than my filmy, racer-back coral dress. (Again.) I had no idea I needed the power wardrobe tonight.

“We spent six months—six incredible months together, and now you’re saying it meant nothing to you?”

He’s fighting the urge to grab me. I can tell. I’ve been in this situation with men before. Hell, I was just in it with Marcus... Only that time my response couldn’t have been more different.

Still, I know how to handle Armand. Give his emotions a chance to cool.

“Have a glass of wine,” I say, starting for the refrigerator.

He doesn’t let me get there. He loses the battle with himself and grabs my upper arms, giving me a small shake.

“Look in my eyes, Amalie.” Blinking up to the dark depths, I try to convey the distance now between us. His expression breaks. “How is this possible?”

“It’s possible because I told you from the start. You’re a wonderful person, a good friend. But we were only fucking.”

“What is this, ‘only fucking’?” He throws up his hands, shaking his head. “Who says that and means it?”

“I do.” My voice is quiet, and I’m not sorry. I own my choices, and I resent others trying to push me around.

Turning back, he inspects me for several moments. On his face is a mixture of disbelief and frustration. He wants me to rewrite history for him, be weak.

Yet, if I pinned him down, he would be the first to admit my strength, my fight, is the very thing making him want to possess me. Remove that, and I could clock how fast he’d turn into the typical Frenchman. He’d be cheating on me within a year.

“Listen,” I gently place a hand on his biceps. It’s a dangerous move, as any sign of wavering only prolongs the inevitable. “I don’t mean this to hurt you. I was quite serious when I laid our ground rules.”

His head shakes. “And that’s it. No changing. No matter how close we get.”

With a shrug, I hold my hand out. “I’d hoped we could part friends. We did have a good time together.”

“Amalie.” Dark lashes lower over Muscadine eyes. For a moment he doesn’t say anything. Then his brow rises, and his eyes flicker open. “Let me take you to this... this gala. The BCBG—”

“It’s BGCB, and I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Turning both palms up, he’s pleading. “Your mother already offered us the tickets. I’ll be here until Sunday. We can go, and if you still want me to leave—”

“I will still want you to leave.”

Reaching out, his palms smooth up and down my arms. “Amalie, ma petite.”

A tinge of softness moves in my chest. It’s how he got me the first time. “I’m sorry.” My voice is quiet. “I don’t mean to hurt you. It’s time. That’s all.”

He lifts a hand to touch my bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “I still can feel the softness of your lips against mine.” His dark head drops a bit lower, and his accent thickens the words. “I still remember your taste... un goût de miel. Let me love you, little flower.”

He whispers the last part against my temple, and I confess, my insides warm. I’m only human. Armand was a wonderful lover, and I could be tempted if things were different. If I weren’t still reeling from what happened tonight in the street. If I didn’t still have the bright red mark above my breast, on my hip, on my thighs, left by another lover. A lover I couldn’t seem to keep out of the wall around my heart.

Clutching his sleeves, I push away and go to the door. “I’m sorry. It’s not how I feel now.”

My hand is on the doorknob, and with a sharp inhale, he walks to where I stand. “But you will go with me to the gala? As an au revoir?”

Time seems to tick slowly past. The gala. Marcus asked me to go, but then he took it back. I can’t stop my automatic response.

“Okay.” It’s the worst mixed-signal I could send, but I send it anyway. “An au revoir, and nothing more.”

“One can only hope.” His straight white teeth are revealed with his smile.

Two brief kisses, and he’s out the door. I close it and lean my back against it. I’m not weak, and I didn’t say yes because I wanted to have a farewell date with Armand. Something sick in me wants to see Marcus there with her. I need to know if he moved on that fast—so fast it gave me whiplash. If he’s there, if I see he’s moved on, I’ll have my closure. I can forget him.

Sylvia’s soft voice breaks through my thoughts. “I’m sorry if I put you in an awkward position, darling.”

Shaking my head, I manage to give her a small smile. “It’s okay. Armand’s nice. I’ll be okay.”

“I just thought... He seems very interested in you, and he traveled all this way.”

“He likes to collect pretty things.” Walking slowly into the living room, I add, “And he doesn’t like when his pretty things don’t behave.”

My mother’s eyes search my face. “It was more than that.”

I can’t have this conversation with her, so I say the one thing I know will end it. “Either way, I don’t love him.”

Her posture stiffens, and she nods once. “That settles it then.”

I watch her step into the kitchen, opening the slim cabinet near the stove. A white pill bottle is in her hand. I can’t remember the last time I saw Sylvia taking medicine.

“Are you still feeling ill?”

Her brow lines, and she doesn’t smile. “Just a little headache. I’ll be all right.”

I watch as she takes the pill and returns everything to its place. She squeezes my arm as she passes me, headed back to her bedroom. It’s the second time she’s complained of feeling unwell, and I don’t like it. Still, I have no reason to press her, so I head to my room to escape this ridiculous night into sleep.

* * *

Marcus

Amy doesn’t return to the office. She calls in and leaves a message with Charity saying she’ll finish our job from home. As usual, the reason is some excuse about Sylvia needing her. I don’t believe it for a second.

Paige and I meet for lunch two more times this week at the busiest high-end restaurants. I give her approving smiles and hold her hand on top of the table, in full view of all the diners. It’s something I absolutely never do, but no one seems impressed by my sudden change in behavior.

The only upside to it all is Troy Cocksucker is at one of the restaurants where we have lunch. Paige meets me wearing a high-waisted yellow skirt that stops well above her knees. Her strappy black heels match the black and white striped crop top that leaves an inch of her tanned torso exposed.

She’s a fan of the midriff, sexy as sin, and if I weren’t still pretty far up Amy’s ass, I’d immediately escort her to the back room and fuck the shit out of her. A big smile when she sees me, and for the second time, I’m amazed at her acting ability. I don’t suppose I should be. As a stripper, she commanded top dollar for her ability to make every man in the room come in his pants.

“You look even better than when I left you in bed this morning!” Her greeting is loud enough for the important ears around us to hear.

I smile through my cringe and catch her elbow, giving her a lingering kiss on the cheek. “You’re stunning as always.” It’s not a lie.

Sitting, she leans to me, smiling and blinking. I follow suit, and her lips are right at my ear. “Good choice for lunch. Our friend is right behind me.”

A nip to my earlobe, and she leans back again, wrinkling her nose. It’s all so playful and coy and such a lie. Behind her, I catch Cocksucker glaring daggers at me, and I almost laugh. Our eyes meet, and mine narrow. You fucking loser.

Paige is nothing more than a prize to him, a hot piece of ass to fill the hours when he can’t be with the woman who doesn’t belong to him. Still, I enjoy besting him—even it if isn’t real.

Karen stopping at our table cuts my satisfaction short. Roland Dickerson is with her. The two have been together since they were in school, but they’ve never married. I couldn’t care less as to why.

“What a cozy pair.” Her tone is so friendly, I look twice.

“Oh, hello.” Paige sits straighter and smiles from me up to her. “Marcus has been so lovely, introducing me to the neighborhood.”

“You’ll have to join me for brunch next week.” Karen’s invitation is perfunctory, as if she’s fulfilling some unwritten obligation. “Natalie and Vivian will join us, of course.”

Paige’s fingers tighten in mine, and I feel her hidden thumb scratching at my palm. One small brunch for bitches, one huge leap for stripper-kind.

“Merritt.” Roland extends a hand, and I half-heartedly shake it. He’s a slimy bastard, not to mention he’s Troy’s partner and close friend, which I don’t get. “I heard you’re working with Amy Knight.”

Karen visibly tenses at his question, but I ignore her. “She’s revamping our website, streamlining our public message—”

He nods. “Haven’t seen Amy in years, but I remember her... well.”

The way he says it, the implication that she’s nothing more than a beautiful face, reminds me of the days when I arranged interviews for Elaine at prospective law firms. They treated her like a little girl, and in the end, she told us all to go fuck ourselves and became a teacher.

“She’s a smart business woman,” I counter.

His pompous mouth twists into an oily grimace. “I’ve suggested using her services.”

“We’re planning to hire her full time.” My answer is too quick, and I feel Page give me a squeeze. Karen’s eyes flick to my face, and her laser gaze evaluates my response. Lifting Paige’s fingers to my lips, I give them a brush. “I have to stop being so distracted and think about work.”

Paige winks, and while Karen’s still suspicious, I think I covered my slip. “Well, we won’t interrupt your lunch date,” she says, leading Dickerson away.

I’m still internally fuming. Amy will not be working for Dickweed, Cocksucker, and Loveshead if I have anything to do with it.

“You okay?” Paige whispers, and when I glance up, she’s giving me an adoring smile.

Right. Head in the game, Marcus. “Feels like you’re all set.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“That only leaves Saturday night.”

She smiles, and I feel a sinking in my gut again.

* * *

Amy

My best friend sits across from me at one of the wooden bars extending from the wall at Lamb and Lady. The room is loud and busy, and I poke at my beet salad with my fork.

“You’re going to have to tell me what’s going on at some point.” C.J. ordered a starter of lamb pizza, and he lifts a thin slice, folds it in half and takes a large bite.

I turn over his statement in my mind, taking a sip of white wine. Carlton and I have been friends since high school. He knows me as well or better than anyone else. If anyone would understand what I’m facing...

The server appears, sliding a plate of lamb empanadas with blueberries and avocados in front of me, and a side of roasted cauliflower with peppers and pine nuts next to my friend.

“Can I get you anything else?” He stands in his black uniform with a little lamb on the pocket waiting.

Despite being one of the top restaurants in the city, the atmosphere is surprisingly loud and casual.

“I’ll have another Italian grandpa,” C.J. shouts. My Chardonnay is only half-finished, so I wave that I’m fine.

Once he’s gone, I take a bite of empanada. “I can’t believe how well the blueberry goes with this.” A small cut of avocado is next, but my lupper (lunch mixed with supper—it was the only way we could get a table without reservations) date isn’t letting me off the hook.

“I saw Karen come after you last night.”

I don’t respond, choosing instead to steal a piece of cauliflower. It’s unbelievably delicious.

He doesn’t let my lack of response throw him. “When are you going to stop letting her get away with that shit? She’s such a troll. I hoped once you were back, she’d feel threatened enough to crawl back under her bridge for good.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Remembering Karen’s words, her cruel accusation, only makes me cringe, and I want to enjoy this nice dinner.

C.J. slides the last piece of pizza in his mouth and sits back as his martini is placed in front of him. The waiter removes the pizza plate and disappears.

“I can’t believe she’s holding onto that,” he says, sipping the cocktail. “I still say you were rufied. That guy has always been a slimy toad, even then.”

A shiver moves across my shoulders, and I deflect as per usual. “I drank too much in high school. You can’t sling accusations like that when I was always so messed up.”

My friend shakes his head. “Everybody goes through phases.”

“Not everybody.” My eyes are on the stem of my glass, my fingers circling the base.

“Some have theirs later in life.”

We’re both quiet a moment. Our thoughts drown in the echoing noise of the brick-and-wood West Loop establishment. We’re not terribly far from Marcus’s office, and I can’t help wondering what he’s doing. As much as I’ve struggled to put him out of my mind, he sneaks back in like a cherished addiction.

Blinking up at my friend, I can’t resist. “Invisibility or flying?”

“Invisibility. All the way.”

“That didn’t take long,” I say with a laugh. “Sneaky bitch.”

“Oh, you know it, girl.” He winks at me over the edge of his glass. “Pervy, too.”

This is why C.J. and I have always been so close. No matter how shitty my life gets, no matter how much the badness presses down on my shoulders, he can always make me laugh.

“Are you going to the gala?” I feel like I’ll survive the night if he’s there.

“Maybe. If I can get the hot little twink I met at Studio O to come out.”

I take a finishing sip of my wine and laugh. “I always took you as more of the Daddy type.”

“I’m vain.” He says, leaning back to button the slim black blazer he’s wearing over a white V-neck tee. “I’m looking for me.”

“I’ll be looking for you.”

“And I’ll be watching you and Mr. Merritt.” He adjusts his fake, horn-rimmed glasses, eyebrows rising. “I know why you choose to be alone, but rules are made to be broken.”

“Choices? Rules? Interesting words from a gay man.”

“A gay man who loves you.”

That makes me smile. “I love you, too.”

I might have come back for Sylvia, but Carlton is a close second reason to stay.