Love, Chloe Read online

  “I understand. I’m very focused on my career right now. I won’t be a problem.” I forced a smile and hoped it was convincing. I knew what they were worried about. And that girl, just a few months ago, was me. But ever since losing my money, ever since moving in with Cammie, ever since working for Nicole… I’d gotten pretty boring. I had, fortunately or unfortunately, grown up. Was staying in more than going out. I was what they wanted. And I was desperate for the apartment.

  They asked a few more invasive questions. Did I eat meat? What was my opinion on the United States’ involvement in the Middle East? Was I involved in any charitable organizations? Did I have a 401(k)? Did I understand that there would be absolutely no pets of any kind allowed in the apartment? The last question—the only appropriate question out of the whole bunch—gave me the first hint that I was passing the ridiculous interview. The deal was sealed five minutes later, when they passed me the keys, along with a three-page list of rules for tenants.

  I would move in on the fifteenth. And even though it was my third apartment since moving from Miami, it felt like the first time I’d really be living here. Maybe it was my name on the lease. Or the hours of work behind my deposit. But I knew one thing: it felt good. Scratch that. It felt great.

  New York City better get used to my face. I was here to stay.

  I didn’t understand why they wouldn’t call. At the very least, parents should call on a girl’s birthday. She shouldn’t spend it huddled in a corner of a crowded bar, pretending to be happy. She should be able to have one real conversation with someone who understood the pain of losing everything. She shouldn’t have to smile over cashmere gloves from her best friends when all she really wanted was her cell phone bill to be paid.

  The man bent over, a loop in hand, and peered down at the earrings. He nodded, pushing them aside, and reached for my watch, a sixteenth birthday present from my father. I chewed on the edge of my pinky, my nails nude for the first time in years. I’d tried to paint them myself, the result a disaster—dark purple polish that looked like it’d been applied by a child, as much off my nails as on.

  “You have a receipt for any of this stuff?” The man peered at me, suspicion in the worn lines of his face, the contents of my jewelry box dotting the velvet surface before him.

  “No.” I raised an eyebrow, my look daring the man to accuse me of theft. The man was selling Casio watches, for God’s sake. He should be tripping over himself for my pieces.

  I hadn’t brought everything. I’d keep a pair of diamond studs that my parents had given me for my high school graduation. Kept an emerald pendant that had been my grandmother’s, along with a handful of other sentimentals. But everything else, sadly, was here. In this dimly lit pawnshop in Midtown, one with a huge sign screaming their inventory of jewelry. An upscale jeweler had been my first stop. But they only sold on consignment, wanting a hefty sixty percent cut, and I had needed cash now. So there I was, in my first visit to a pawnshop, and hopefully, my last.

  “I’ll give you four thousand.” The man rested his hands on the glass display case, leaning over my things.

  “What?” I stared down at my pieces, several of them worth that alone. “That’s ridiculous.” Panic welled in my chest and I swallowed hard, vowing not to lose my cool. I pointed to Vic’s earrings. “Those earrings were easily ten grand, and I just got them last month.”

  “This is a pawn shop.” He looked at me as if I were mental. “This ain’t Tiffany’s. I got to make a profit, and price things low enough to sell.” He lifted up my watch, a diamond-studded Tag. “Not many of my clients are looking for pieces like this.”

  Glancing at his other inventory, I believed the man. I held out my hand, asking for the watch, and he handed it back. I studied the face of it, thinking of the day I received it, then glanced back up at him. “Five thousand,” I said, sliding the watch on my wrist and fastening it. “Without the watch. That’s more than fair.”

  “Forty-five hundred. Cash.”

  “Okay.” I nodded without looking at him, thinking of the apartment I so desperately wanted. I didn’t have to sell these to make the deposit, but doing so would mean the difference between bare bones living and some security.

  With a price agreed upon, the rest was quick. He inventoried my items, wrote out a receipt, and counted out a stack of hundreds. I pulled my wallet out and passed over my license, then returned it to my jacket pocket. Watching him count out the bills, my chest loosened. He put it all neatly in an envelope, one too thick to fit in my other jacket pocket. I stuffed it in my purse, carefully zipped it shut, and was out the front door, steps quick and happy, feeling rich for the first time in months.

  The wind howled through the early night and I stopped in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, ready to splurge, pulling out my phone to find an Uber.

  The shove was brutal, square in the middle of my back, my phone flying from my hand as I fell forward, my knee hitting the sidewalk hard, a gasp of pain all I could manage as my palms scraped the concrete. My bag, an Alexander McQueen, was jerked away, wrenching my shoulder in the process, my shout of protest taken by the wind.

  The asshole wore a brown jacket and had dark hair. That was the only thing I saw as I hobbled to my feet, my knee screaming in pain, the bright green edge of my purse disappearing as he ran through the crowd, then rounded a corner and was gone.

  I yelled, I pointed, and was ignored, the crowd moving around me, one girl meeting my eyes with a regretful frown as she stepped past. I stared after him, thinking of my money, all of that cash, gone. Just like that. One more New York mugging, like the hundreds that happened every day. It wasn’t worth a call to the police; I hadn’t even gotten a glimpse at the mugger. Stupid me, skipping out of the pawnshop with a giant smile on my face. I should have had Dante drive me. I should have worn sweat pants and a fanny pack. I should have just sold the stuff on eBay like Cammie had suggested.

  “Is this yours?”

  I looked over, to the short man, a stranger, who held out my phone, his eyes worried as he gave me a onceover. I took it from him, smiling as tears pricked my eyes. “Thanks,” I whispered.

  “Are you okay?”

  I nodded. “I’m fine.” I stepped away from him, limping slightly, and looked down to see the knee of my jeans ripped. Waving away his concern, I headed for the warmth: just two doors down, a neon Bud Light sign called my name.

  I never used to drink beer. I preferred wine or champagne, my fancy mouth above something so barbaric as a two-dollar beer. Now, in a booth stuck along the back wall of a burger joint, a bucket of peanuts before me, I tipped back an ice cold Pabst Blue Ribbon. They were the special, I was told by an enthusiastic redhead—a bucket of six for seven dollars. I felt my pocket, reassured by the feel of my wallet, and ordered the bucket, resting my foot on the opposite bench and rubbing my knee while I contemplated the depressing turn my life had taken.

  I could have called Benta or Cammie. Gotten a drinking partner or, at least, a safe ride home. But there was something satisfying about a pity party for one. Something entirely blissful in finishing one, then two beers, while feeling sorry for myself. I understood my problems. They didn’t. They had no idea what any of this was like. And it wasn’t from not asking me. But they didn’t know the questions to ask. We’d never talked about money before, so they didn’t think to ask if I was okay. They bought my food and offered loans and moved on with their lives. They didn’t ask if it hurt that my parents didn’t call me. They didn’t ask if I was lonely.

  The stress over money.

  The worry over my parents.

  How much I missed them.

  How I felt so lonely.

  The fight to keep positive when everything seemed to be falling apart.

  They. Didn’t. Understand.

  I opened a third bottle. The taste really wasn’t that bad. With the salty peanuts, it was almost good.

  He always smelled good. I leaned against his shirt and
inhaled the familiar scent, an expensive one that was custom mixed for him. My feet were dragging along the floor. I frowned, confused, and lifted one, catching it on something and Vic grunted. “Stop kicking me.”

  I giggled. “I’m not kicking you.” The wind hit my face and I burrowed into him, my feet off the floor, someone carrying my legs and I saw a familiar face open the door—Jake, Vic’s driver. Vic ducked into the car and I was helped inside, my body falling back into the hard warmth of his chest.

  Words spoken, a blur of them between people, so many people, and Vic shook me gently. “Chloe. Chloe. Where’s your purse?”

  Purse? Through the blur, I remembered my money. Losing it all. I shook my head. “Don’t have it.” I wondered how he was there. How many beers I had had from that bucket. Had I called him? I must have. I reached for my jacket pocket, feeling the hard outline of my phone.

  The door shut, the cold air gone, and I gripped at the front of his shirt, pulling myself tighter to him, his arms wrapping around me. “What happened?” he asked, looking down at me, our eyes meeting.

  “Nothing,” I whispered, closing my eyes. I might have been drunk, but I knew one thing—if I told Vic about the money, he’d give it to me. I’d already sold the man’s earrings. I didn’t need another IOU hanging out there.

  “Did someone hurt you?” His voice was louder and I winced, my head shaking.

  “No. I fell. On the street.”

  He pressed a soft kiss on my forehead, his eyes searching mine. “Come home with me tonight.”

  The seat beneath me was heated, the Rolls silent and smooth as we moved through the city. In his arms, in that spot, I could have stayed forever. I shook my head. “I can’t.”

  I expected him to fight me on it. To take me to his home, damn any of my opinions to the contrary. But he didn’t. For once in our relationship, he listened to me. Maybe it was because he had another girl waiting for him, a date or fuck interrupted. Maybe he felt sorry for me in my pitiful state. Whatever the reason, he and Jake carried me up to Cammie’s, her yanking open the door, the worry on her face clearing as she gathered me in her arms. She lectured me for not answering my phone, drowned me in bottled water, and then put me to bed, her touch as comforting as my mom’s had once been.

  I shouldn’t have called Vic. I shouldn’t have been that weak. But in that moment of vulnerability, I’d needed to be taken care of. And Vic … he’d always done that for me. He did it better than anyone.

  16. Well. This is Awkward.

  Chanel must be constipated. That was the only thing I could figure, because she’d been trying to poop for three blocks now. The major issue was that I thought her first squat was the poop of the walk, and I’d bagged and trashed that niblet of poo, so now, anything that was squeezed out, I had nothing to pick it up with. Which left me standing there, as she went through the poop squat, looking like a Fifth Avenue asshole.

  We finally made it back inside the house, my knee aching, a constant reminder of last week’s mugging. I still couldn’t believe I’d been mugged. Four years in the city and it chose the worst possible moment to occur. And since that night, nothing from Vic. I didn’t know whether I was glad he wasn’t pushing the mistake of my weak moment, or if I was hurt that his I’ll love you forever had such little weight. I undid Chanel’s collar, her butt hitting the thick carpet as soon as she reached it, dragging herself by her front paws, a long smear of brown leaving a crooked trail behind her. I groaned, setting her leash on the foyer table, and about jumped out of my boots when there was a deep chuckle from behind me.

  “Sorry.” Clarke’s hands came up in surrender, and I held a hand to my chest, embarrassed.

  “I thought you were in Vegas,” I said.

  He grimaced, his head shaking a little. “No. When at all possible, I try to avoid the condom business.”

  I had to smile at that. I’d been surprised that Nicole, as high-handed as she was about everything, had gone.

  “Nicki loves it,” he followed up, as if in answer to my thoughts. “She’s a god there. They do a better job of kissing her ass than I do.”

  “Yeah?” I said faintly, not wild about the thought of sharing the space with him for three days. I’d had big plans for that stretch of time, my Netflix queue already packed and ready for watching. I’d envisioned locking my office door and having a movie marathon with Chanel, broken up with naps and runs downstairs to use the cappuccino machine.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Clarke nodded to the carpet stain. “One of the girls will get it.”

  “Okay.” He rested his hands on his hips and I noticed his hands. Long fingers. Thick thumbs. I’d read, on Cosmo somewhere, about thumbs. Thumbs and their correlation to other body parts.

  I picked up Chanel, needing to escape before my thoughts about Nicole’s husband turned completely inappropriate. “I think Chanel is constipated,” I blurted out, and any imagined sexual tension dried up with the words.

  “Oh.” He didn’t seem worried. “Look in her medicine cabinet. There’s some medicine there. Nicole gives it to her when she’s stopped up.”

  “Great.” There was an awkward moment of silence between us, then he stepped back.

  “Well,” he said. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

  I nodded, watching him leave, one hand fishing in his pocket for his phone. I looked down, into Chanel’s face, and wondered where in the world a Pomeranian’s medicine cabinet would be.

  I was on my bed. Mine, pulled out of storage, and deposited in my new apartment. Freshly washed Serena & Lily sheets underneath me, Tegan and Sara playing on my iPhone, a candle lit. There were cardboard boxes everywhere, and I couldn’t find my hair dryer if my life depended on it, but I had privacy and a real bed and no chance of listening to Cammie’s orgasms, and that was all that really mattered.

  The girls and Dante helped me move, the four of us squeezing into a U-Haul and making the trek up to the Bronx to my storage unit. I paid the past due balance, rolled up the door, and rediscovered all of my stuff. The Louboutin sandals I was wearing the night I first met Benta. The leather loveseat Vic and I got to third base on for the first time. It was strange being surrounded by my old things. I felt out of place in them. I wasn’t sure if it was because I no longer needed them to feel complete … or if it was being surrounded by pieces of a life I’d most likely never have again.

  The sun came through the window, the room warming and I reached for my phone, checking the time. I groaned when I saw it, sitting up in bed and putting on my heels. I downed vitamins and snagged a banana from the counter, pausing when a knock sounded on the door. Grabbing my purse and keys, I flipped the light switch on the wall and yanked open the door.

  I was late to work, a piece of banana in my cheek, unprepared to meet perfection. But there he stood, one hand on my doorframe, his head lifting when I opened the door. Pure beauty, dripping with masculinity. Real dirt on the work boots that shifted on the carpet, real wear on the jeans that hugged his thighs and hips, tan skin and biceps that bulged when he pushed off the doorframe and put his hands on his hips. I stood in place, my jaw hanging, and stared.

  “Miss Madison?” His voice was gruff and sexual, the drawl you wanted to hear right before he bit your earlobe, the rasp that, should he moan your name, would combust your panties.

  I swallowed. “Yes?”

  He stuck out a hand, and my eyes dropped. Strong fingers. Calluses. I couldn’t think of the last time I shook a callused hand. “I’m Carter. I’m the building’s super. You’ve got a leaky shower head?”

  I reached out and slid my hand into his. Swallowing the bite of banana, I managed speech. “I know you. The… umm…” I wracked my brain for the name of the hotel.

  “New Year’s Eve Party,” he supplied, smiling, and I couldn’t take my eyes off his mouth, his lips with just a tint of pink. Our hands were still held, his palm hot and smooth despite the calluses.

  I blinked, pulling
my hand back. “Yes.” My eyes drifted over him, this look so different from his tux, hotter in a completely different way. “You work here too?”

  “Yep.” He dipped to pick up a toolbox and I remembered the reason he was there.

  I stepped back and held the door open. “The bathroom’s the second door—”

  “I know where it is.”

  Of course he did. He walked through the door, his broad shoulders barely fitting, and I watched him pass by the kitchen, toward the bathroom. “Do you need me to wait?” I called out, glancing at my watch.

  “Not unless you want to,” he called back. “I got a key, so I can lock up when I’m done.”

  Not unless you want to. Oh, I wanted to. I wanted to do a hundred different things with that man, the least of which was watch him use his hands on my showerhead. But work beckoned.

  “I’m gonna head out then,” I called out. “Nice to see you again.” The understatement of the month.

  “You too.”

  I hesitated another moment, then I pulled the door shut behind me.

  And I’d thought this apartment was perfect before. I stepped on the elevator and pressed the button, leaning back against the wall and picturing his face. Blue-collar had never been my thing, too many millionaires in this city to bother with anything else. Then again, my tastes seemed to be changing. I might have to dip my toe into that pool once or twice. Just to taste that poison. Just to have it on my skin.

  18. Hunger Fried My Brain

  I could feel him in the house. When Clarke moved from his study to the living room, a phone to his ear, his laptop settling on the coffee table, his build hunched forward, I watched. When he stepped out on the balcony, his hand running through his hair, the door left open, the breeze brought in his scent.