Sweet Ride, page 7
With the visit from whomever that was at the loft, the things he’d said about Thorne. Sure that guy was wacked but there is a connection there. Am I so needy I was so easily used? When I got to work, I did what every self-respecting girl does after she meets a guy.
Googled him.
Thadeus Maxum Avery.
I saw his full name on the copy of the New York Times that sat on the kitchen counter next to the donuts. So I type it in and there it is in a Detroit News article from five years ago.
Felony for manslaughter. Convicted of providing the murder weapon that was used in the murder of one and serious injury of another.
I wonder who they were; the article doesn’t give me the names. What was the last thing they said to their loved ones that day? What hopes and dreams did they have for the future?
“Cecelia.” Dr. Stinson’s gruff tone tells me he’s none too happy about my abrupt departure last night. I’m surprised he’s here on a Saturday, usually it’s only the other dentists that help out that work weekends.
“Yes?”
“The next time you walk out of here like you did last night, you won’t be coming back.” He snaps his tongue over his teeth and holds his eyebrows in a look of disappointment. “You know I take a chance even having you here. Paying you like I do. I’ve been good to you, haven’t I? Looking the other way when it comes to your status. Not asking too many questions. Hmmm? Gratitude is not out of order here, Cecelia.” He stuffs his hands down into the pockets of his lab coat and flashes a condescending smile.
“Yes. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. And thank you.” And it won’t, because last night was a crazy, stupid, endorphin-filled binge and I’m all about the morning after right now. The ‘I’ll never do THAT again’ tag line is playing over and over in my mind. “I need this job. And also my apartment, my room, was near that explosion last night. I don’t have a place to stay. So, yes, I’m sorry, please, it won’t happen again.”
The pathetic tone in my voice only darkens my mood more. I’ve struggled for so long. There is always more week than paycheck and I’m tired. In my soul I’m tired.
The next hour rolls on as my head starts to pound. I’m in a consulting room, listening to a sweet, eighty-seven-year-old woman from Cuba trying to tell me all about the pain in her tooth.
One of the associate dentists, Dr. Robertson, comes in and I explain and translate between them. I like Dr. Robertson. She’s told me why she left private practice for this clinic, accepting rock bottom wages. She’s a good woman, in this for the right reasons, doing what she can for people less fortunate than herself. Dr. Stinson, on the other hand, doesn’t actually see patients, oh no.
I slide my stool back as Dr. Robertson starts to work, the quiver in my belly still there as I think about Thorne. His mouth on me, the way he filled me up and spoke to me in such elegant vulgarity. There is a buildup of tension immediately as I picture his face, hear the lust in his voice.
A soft knock on the exam room door and my co-worker, Sasha, peeks in.
“Hey,” I whisper, rising from my rolling stool.
“Hey, CeeCee, um, there’s a delivery here. I think it’s for you... It’s addressed to Cecelia Peabody. Is that you?” My name as far as everyone here knows is Cecelia Thompson.
My heart stops.
NINE
THORNE
This meeting is about to send me back to fucking prison.
It’s been hours of back and forth between the attorneys and I’m ready to tear the walls down.
It’s a mediation that should have taken an hour at the most, but leave it to the damn lawyers to fuck up something simple. The terms were set when we walked in, so we were supposed to agree and sign. Now, we’ve gone back to fucking square one. We sued Sweet Tastes on two counts. First, they copied a good portion of our branding and logo. They argued it was their design first, which should have been laughed out of court, but they’re backed by a fuck-ton of money. And then there was the second count. Sweet Tastes used the recipes (sold to them by a former employee) and the exclusive donut names for ten of our trademark flavors.
To tell you the truth, that second one pissed me off more because our customers shouldn’t be subjected to the substandard, greasy shit they churn out at that place. Anyway, the case should have been simple. It should have been shut-them-the-fuck-down. It shouldn’t have turned into this shit storm. But like I said, they’re backed by a fuck-ton of money from ConAgra Foods.
“Look.” I raise my hands and everyone looks my way. “We’ve been in here jacking off for too fucking long.” Adding to my frustration is the fact CeeCee hasn’t texted me.
I asked her to let me know when she left and by 9:30 AM I started calling and texting her and got no reply. Called my driver and he said she never called him for a ride anywhere, so I started to calm down, even smirked a little thinking she must have decided not to go in to work after all.
If I’m being truthful, I’m also fucking tired. That girl had me on the edge of something I’ve never experienced before and the intensity of it left me sleepless.
Content, but sleepless.
I laid with her, cradling her next to me all night, with images of my baby growing inside her swimming through my head. Thoughts of the simple things I’ve always dreamed of. A family. A wife. And my possessive nature protecting them until I take my last breath.
I think of the way her pussy spread apart when she took my cock last night. The way her eyes lit up and widened as I slipped inside her.
A perfect fucking fit. We both came so hard, our bodies shook against each other. I’ve never had an orgasm like that before. Inside a woman, flesh to flesh, and with CeeCee, it was soul shattering. I felt like I gave her part of me, something I can never give again.
Even sitting here now, thinking about it, I’ve got a hard-on. I don’t bother excusing myself, and I stomp out of the room. I’m not sure if I need to go stroke off, thinking of the way her tight walls clasp around me, her noises. Jesus, her noises. That’s enough to make my balls draw up right there.
But I decide otherwise. I take the elevator down and hop on my bike. I need to find her. My head will not let me think of anything else until I know she’s safe.
“Where did she go?” The poor receptionist at the front desk looks at me like I’m holding a gun to her head. Yeah, I’m ashamed to say I know what that looks like.
“I...” Her voice shakes as the fucking asshole from last night comes into view.
I aim my eyes his way. “Where’s CeeCee?”
He rolls his eyes. “Gone. Again.” His snarky tone and self-absorbed manner make me want to shove a foot in his ass.
“Where?” I’m a man of few words right now, but someone else better start spilling their guts because otherwise I’m going to start breaking bones.
“How the hell should I know? I don’t care where she’s gone.” He’s acting tough, but he still steps back when I move toward him and his voice goes up a notch. “Look, she got a courier delivery, said she had to leave and I said don’t come back.”
“Going where?” I snarl, my eyes going from the poor, scared-shitless receptionist to the asshole who’s heading down a road he does not want to find the end of.
“She didn’t say.” The receptionist’s eyes are pleading, and I almost feel sorry for her. But not for him.
“I told you. Envelope. Gone to the airport. That’s it. Now get the hell out of here before I call...”
I don’t hear the end of his sentence because my ears are ringing. I’m already turning, heading away from them, back to my bike. The airport. Where the fuck is she going?
“Sir.” Some TSA supervisor is giving me yet another warning to step back or I’m going to end up spending a few nights in some airport pseudo-jail. “We’ve been over this. You need to exit the airport and be on your way.”
The other four of his comrades flank me. My head is pounding. Fists at my sides.
I’ve been here almost two hours. This is my third run-in with the TSA and they are done playing with my ass. Sure, I’ve spent nights in worse places, but this isn’t going to help, so I tell myself to calm the fuck down and make a tactical retreat.
I spin on my heel and head out the doors into the warm night air. It’s a stunning evening for October. The cool met with a breeze that hints of the warmth of the summer still. The smell of airplane fuel and cigarette smoke don’t for a second dim the memory of her scent.
Her flavor lingers on my lips and for a split second, I wonder if she was just a dream.
TEN
CEE CEE
It’s been almost a month back in Jamaica, tending to my father. He is doing better but I’m doing worse. Much worse.
Horrible in fact.
The letter I received at Dr. Stinson’s that night was from my dad, informing me that my mother had passed away. Just like that. No details. No emotion. Just a plane reservation for me to depart immediately and return home. I could have thrown it away, but it felt like the universe was speaking to me.
After that night with Thorne, the way I fell so quickly, made so many mistakes, then found out more about who he really was...I felt stupid, and I felt like history was repeating itself. It just made sense that I should go back home this time, back to where it all began. I think I scared myself straight onto that plane.
When I held out my boarding pass with my forged state I.D. to the TSA agent, I thought I was going to pass out. Lucky for me, he must have been having a good day because he actually smiled at me and told me to have a good flight.
I felt bad about leaving without a word. To Thorne but also Mrs. Takashima. It’s cowardly but when I get scared I just run.
But then on the flight I kept thinking maybe I’d made another huge mistake. I mean, for all that, Thorne had treated me right. My head was all over the place, so I figured I would come down here, work through the painful history I had with my dad and go back and face Thorne with a clear head. Ask the right questions. Be an adult. Maybe let the gravity of what happened pass. See him clearly without the lust mist that fogged every reasonable thought process that night.
Well, that was the plan, but it didn’t happen.
My father’s been confined to a wheelchair for many years. He’s in the advanced stages of liver disease and now his kidneys are failing as well. Doesn’t keep him from drinking mind you. You’d think livers were a replaceable organ the way he acts.
He said, when mom passed away after a massive stroke, he wanted me home. After all these years that little girl inside of me still craved what he had never given me, so I caved to my father’s request, thinking I would rejoin the family and absolve myself of my past sins.
But, absolution did not come.
I think of him every day. Every hour still. Every micro-second is entwined with him. Thorne. And there’s something else, too.
I’m pregnant.
Of course.
I must have been the Goddess of Fertility in a former life.
My homecoming, family bonding fantasy is an epic fucking fail. Telling my father, yet again, that his daughter is knocked up by someone she barely knows will surely have me back out the door.
This morning, my father sent me back to the doctor for some follow up bloodwork. Said they found something the needed to double check. I didn’t want to go, it’s all just a little creepy, but it beats sitting alone in that huge house waiting for my father to summon me to his one of his two chambers for to fill some whim or need. Now, there is a lump in my throat that cannot be dislodged.
I’m not sure what all the doctor appointments are about; my dad just keeps telling me he wants to be sure I’m healthy now that I’m back home. I know they will find out I’m pregnant and then I have no idea what will happen to me.
I am avoiding going back to the house, so I had my driver drop me at the market for a few things. As much as I love my father, I still feel nothing from him. It’s like he’s acting a part. Saying the right things, showing me how different he is, but it just feels contrived.
Maybe I’m just jaded or I don’t understand him. We were never close. It’s unreasonable for me to think that things will change just because I came home.
The wicker basket that hangs on my forearm is full of junk food. The classics from when I was a little girl. And a box of donuts. They will taste like air and cardboard, I’m sure, because I’ve been spoiled.
But I need them.
Stupid fucking donuts.
As I check out and pay for my evening’s edible decadence, I think about just heading to the airport. Flying back.
I don’t know, but flying somewhere. Flying anywhere.
Déjà vu all over again.
Then my self-loathing cuts through me. How am I this indecisive about my life? Why can’t I just know what is right and wrong? Not good and bad, necessarily, but just right and wrong. For me. Everyone else seems to just know, but here I am like a damn flapjack on a hot skillet.
I thank the shop owner as I pay for my goodies and step out into the sunshine. The chatter of tourists and locals tickles my ears as I push my sunglasses along my nose and look up and down the block for my driver and car. It’s strange being back, living this way. Going from my single room over Mrs. Takashima’s grocery to chauffeurs and a mansion by the sea.
A black Lincoln comes into view at a slow, steady crawl up the street. The car itself is not all that uncommon around here; they are what many tourists use to get around instead of the common folk cabs. So I’m not sure the black sedan is my ride, but I step out into the street, ready to wave my hand if I recognize Henri behind the wheel.
Even with my sunglasses on, I have to squint to see though the glare of the windshield. It takes me just a moment to realize it’s not Henri so I start to step back when there’s a muffled shout from inside.
“There she is, stop!”
I don’t know why, but somehow I know they’re talking about me, and I turn to flee just as the driver’s side rear door flies open. I stumble, but manage to step back onto the sidewalk without falling on my face. Trying to regain my balance, I glance back to see a man slamming the back door.
I don’t need another second to realize who it is.
He’s on me in three strides, his fingers taking my sunglasses from my face and stuffing them in the front pocket of his suit.
“What the hell are you...?” I’m sure there are a trillion and one other things that would have been more appropriate to say, but sometimes my filter is just flicked off.
Thorne leans down to whisper in my ear. “You can run, but you can’t hide, CeeCee.”
Those are psycho stalker words, right? But they send a shiver through me that tells me what I’ve known every night since I came back here. He’s right and I like it.
I should never have left. He’s in my soul and as much as I had questioned everything about my decisions, now that he’s here I’m exactly where I want to be.
“I’m sorry.” I look up as he settles me under his arm, draping it across my shoulder. The world is spinning, not just in my vision but throughout my whole being, and out of the corner of my eye I see Henri pull the car over and step out. “That’s my ride.”
Another fine, engaging choice of words in this situation, CeeCee. Way to communicate the tirade of feelings that are swirling like a tsunami inside of you. Don’t hold back, say what you really feel.
“You want a donut?” I reach into my basket and hold up the box of horrible donuts for him to see.
He smiles that smile and I swear I’m levitating. Nothing feels attached, let alone me, to the ground or anything else.
“We’re fine, little bird. Let’s go talk.” He squeezes my shoulder. “But don’t ever buy donuts from someone else again, okay?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“I’ll follow you anywhere.”
“You want to see where it all began? The mess than is me?” My words are hesitant but for some reason, I want to take him home. I feel safer knowing he’ll be there with me, even if just for a short time.
The whole drive back to the house, Thorne holds my hand. I’m frozen.
Not sure what to say or if I should tell him about the baby. Ask him how he found me. Why he’s here. But we don’t speak. We sit in silence in the back of the car, and it’s a comfortable silence. When we finally get home, my father’s limo is gone and we walk silently through the main living room and toward the wall of windows.
My father lives in only a couple rooms in the house at this point. His eccentricities have grown since I left years ago. He stays in his office, or takes the private elevator to his suite on the third floor. Since I’ve been here, I have the entire house to myself so I feel safe having Thorne with me. For the first time since I’ve been back, I don’t feel so lonely in this huge house.
I lead him out onto the veranda that overlooks the ocean. My family is old money here on the island. They’ve been involved in politics and business ventures here for a century. I grew up as a princess, but I was still the black sheep. When I left, all I remember is heading to the airport.
Nowhere to go.
I’d just scanned the departures leaving in the next two hours. Flight 2670. To Detroit. Where Philip died. It’s nowhere I’d ever been, but for some reason, it made me feel closer to him.
I landed in Detroit, barely any money, and nowhere to stay. I met a sweet lady as I stood outside the terminal crying. She was my guardian angel and I know now the universe sent her to me.
Mrs. Takashima.
“Come here.” He takes my hand and sits down on one of the long sofas that adorn the stone patio, pulling me into his lap. “You’re glad I’m here.”
It’s not a question, and all I can do is rest my forehead on his shoulder, hoping he will forgive me. I nod a bit against him and wait for him to tell me what I need to hear.
“Baby girl. Listen to me. We may have only had one night together, but you are mine. That’s it. I will come and find you a thousand times if I need to. I don’t care if it doesn’t sound logical. I tried to give you time. Then I realized that wasn’t going to work. So I started searching for you. You certainly know how to run and hide your tracks, CeeCee Baldwin. I mean, Peabody, but I’m persistent.”
