Mangled Memory, page 21
He makes several turns in the morning sunshine, our course uncertain.
“Coffee first, that is, unless you’re abstaining.”
“I’m never abstaining. And you’re being weird.”
“How so?”
I don’t answer him. It’s obvious. I don’t know why I’m being so agreeable other than I have no other choice. And I haven’t had my coffee.
He pulls into my favorite little place. In fact, it’s the same place I came yesterday morning before the world blew up.
“Anything special you want today?” He must see the look on my face, because he reaches up and brushes a thumb just under my marked cheek. “Be right back, Princess.”
Staring out the side window, I don’t stop the tears rolling down my cheeks. Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours ago, and—well, I guess things were equally as shitty, but I didn’t know it. Blissful ignorance.
Would I rather things be horrible and live not knowing?
Or know with no way to do anything about it?
Swiping the tears from my eyes, I rearrange my features. He’ll see no sadness from me anymore. I may have no agency, but I can control what they see. Hell, I can control what everyone sees. New goal. Fuck them. Live my best life, at least in appearances, until I can figure something out.
Shoulders back. Chin up. Tears dried. I’m me again by the time Christian returns, two large cups and a brown paper bag in hand.
“Cinnamon roll latte,” he announces and passes the cup across the console. “And a couple of goodies.”
The bag contains my favorite sweet comfort foods. A huge cinnamon roll with thick frosting. A cranberry orange muffin with crunchy sugar topping. A white cupcake with white icing. And a Rice Krispies marshmallow bar. A quick glance to the man in the driver’s seat finds him watching me.
“What?” His eyes are intent on my face.
Shaking my head, I offer a quiet “Nothing,” knowing it’s anything but. I sip my coffee and manage to hold in my moan as he pulls out of the parking lot, heading north.
He drinks his coffee in silence as the inviting aroma of the drinks fills the car where conversation should normally be. The silence annoys me and I figure I might as well eat to keep my mouth busy. There are so many things I want to say, but so few I want to hear, so I grab the cupcake and dive in. Sweet almond flavor and sugar dance on my tongue, and I don’t even care if he witnesses me doing a little dance in my seat from the taste.
When a small smile plays on Christian’s lips, I realize my mistake. Oh well. I’m living my best life, remember? That includes cupcakes and coffee and being chauffeured wherever it is we’re going on a workday, bruised face and all.
I’m gob smacked when he turns into the bank parking lot. He throws the car in park and turns to me after unbuckling. “You’re pissed. More than. And rightfully so. But you don’t know the whole story. You didn’t ask either. That said, I would’ve told you. But since you’re hellbent on not believing me, I figured I’d show you instead.”
He gets out of the car and stands at the hood, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
I check my reflection in the mirror, resigned to the old, mismatched outfit, hair that hasn’t seen a brush, and the shiner on my face, wondering what they’ll see when the ward and her master enter the lobby. Saying fuck it, I shove the last of the cupcake in my face, unbuckle and grab my purse and coffee. Let’s do this shit.
Whatever the hell it is.
Christian holds the door open to me in silent invitation that I’m to enter ahead of him. He walks close to my side but doesn’t touch me the way he has over the last several months. He neither leads nor follows. My steps slow since I don’t know why we’re here or where we’re supposed to be going.
He leans down to murmur in my ear. “Go ahead. Find someone. Ask your questions.”
My face turns so quickly, our lips brush. My eyes go wide and I take a step backward, all the while captivated by his eyes and the sultry, downright sexy look he has lasered on me.
All right. This is doable. I turn toward the counter and greet a teller. “May I speak with one of your personal bankers please?"
She nods and turns toward the office doors behind her and speaks with an older woman, who stands and returns with her.
“May I help you, miss?”
“Can we speak privately?”
She nods to a door to my right and leads the way into the private, dark wood-paneled room with a table and chairs. She carries a tablet with her. Christian is the last of our trio to enter and he closes the door with a quiet snick before seating himself at the head of the table, leaving me across from… “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m Dorinda Wallace.” Deep lines near her eyes crinkle when she smiles. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m Ayla Barone. Can you tell me my balance—” I chance a look at my husband, before adding, “And how much I can withdraw today?”
Dorinda looks to my husband, whose eyes never leave my face, before she turns to me. “Absolutely, Mrs. Barone. May I see your ID?”
I pull out my purse, grateful that Christian had the forethought to bring it. I grab my driver’s license and slide it across the table to her.
She lifts her tablet and snaps a picture of it before typing something on the screen. After sliding my license back to me, she turns the device my way and points to the figures on the screen.
“In this account”—she uses a stylus to indicate which one she’s discussing—“this is your balance.” She moves the stylus down as she moves through the accounts and their astounding balances. “Each can be transferred, though it usually takes twenty-four hours. To withdraw in cash, we request some time, but we can do ten thousand from each account today without any challenge. May I ask—” She pauses looking between the two of us. “Is there something we’ve done to warrant your decision to terminate our relationship? We’d love the opportunity to make it right and continue our business together.”
“I… No.” I pause. “There’s nothing you’ve done. And I’m not interested in terminating the relationship. I would like ten thousand, though, from each of the accounts listed here. “How long will that take?”
“We’d need an hour or so. Would you like to wait here or would you prefer to come back?”
“I’ll stay here. Thank you, Ms. Wallace.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Barone. I’ll need a few signatures when everything is ready.”
“Of course.” I nod. My of course was a bluff. All of this is. What the hell am I going to do with fifty thousand dollars in cash?
27
sheer spite and annoyance
Christian
Dorinda Wallace looks like she swallowed a lemon, peel and all, and is trying to find a way to avoid it getting stuck in her throat as she leaves the room.
The metal door latch hitting the strike plate in the frame is loud. I’m left with my wife, who I look to, waiting for her to meet my gaze. She doesn’t make eye contact and has a similar sour look on her face.
I thrum my fingers on the table. “Any idea how you plan to transport fifty thousand dollars out of here to the car?” I’m baiting her. One envelope will do it. “Or where you plan to stash it in our house?” I can’t help the humor in my voice. “Princess, you have a will of steel. I love that about you. You can make a plan out of sheer spite and annoyance.” More to myself I add, quietly, “I love that about you too.”
Her eyes whip to me. “She didn’t ask you. She didn’t even look at you, really. I was waiting for one of you to say something to stop me. You suck as a warden.”
I stand and lean toward the woman who infuriates me, intrigues me, and who turns me the fuck on. “My love, I am not your warden, and you are not my ward. You are my wife. That entitles you to half of everything of mine and me to half of everything of yours. At least where our finances are concerned. Our businesses are not combined for tax reasons, but legally, you have rights to that too.”
“I— Uh… What?”
“Do you want to discuss this here?” I point to the cameras in the room. “I would prefer to do so at home. But you’ve been consistent in not believing me. Would the public nature of this help? Or would you prefer to do this at the house? Would it help if your brothers came as witnesses?”
“My brothers?”
“Same mother. Same father. Male. You know the concept.”
“Shut up.” Her eyes have humor and relief in them as well. “We may need the muscle for boxes of money.”
“You can cancel the transaction.” I retake my seat, stretching my legs out in front of me.
Suspicion lines her features. “You’d like that, huh?”
“Ayla, I want you to listen to me. More so, I want you to trust me. If that won’t happen without the piles of dollar bills—”
“Oh, please tell me it won’t be in ones.”
The bark of laughter that escapes me isn’t my norm. Or hasn’t been since September. “Raiding their stores today may come in the manner they have it available.”
She stands and walks to the door, poking her head out, but saying to me. “I feel foolish. This was…”
“This was something you needed. They don’t need to know why. You can cancel it or ask me to. Or let it play out. Your call.” The look on her face is everything I needed today. It is an ask and her saving face at the same time. “Want me to go fix it?”
She shakes her head no, but mouths yes at the same time.
“Which is it?”
“Please,” she whispers.
“Oh, I love when you beg.”
The growl she releases as I walk out of the room is enough to make me laugh.
“Excuse me,” I ask the same teller we first encountered. “Would you get Ms. Wallace for me?”
The teller does the same as before, returning with the bank manager who looks a bit haggard and worn. “Ms. Wallace, my wife needs less than she originally indicated. Would you mind reducing the amount to twenty instead of fifty and pulling it from our main account? Hundreds would be preferable, but fifties would be fine if that’s easier for you.”
She looks to the room where Ayla is surely pacing before returning her focus to me. “If twenty is better for you both, I will get that done immediately.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your assistance and your willingness to be flexible.”
“Of course, Mr. Barone.”
I return to the room. Ayla stands and throws her purse onto her shoulder, scratching her coffee cup with her thumbnail as she moves.
“We’re not quite ready.”
“We’re not?”
“No. It’ll be a few more minutes.”
“For what?”
“You’ll see.”
She plops back down in her chair still scraping the cup with her thumbnail, her focus solely on the corrugated cuff. For several minutes she looks between the cup and the door. I could put her out of her misery, but I don’t. When the door opens, Ms. Wallace returns and sits in the seat she occupied prior. She slides an envelope across the table to my wife.
“Twenty thousand dollars, Mrs. Barone. Your husband mentioned that you determined you needed less. I hope it’s okay that we made the adjustment without coming back to you.”
Ayla flips her gaze to me before settling on the bank manager. “That’s fine. Thank you. Plans changed, so, yes, it was okay.”
The woman turns the tablet back to my wife and asks her to sign for the withdrawal. She does and places the envelope in her purse, draining the dregs of her coffee before tossing the cup in the garbage. Ms. Wallace leads the way out and extends a hand to Ayla and then to me before we leave the bank.
I open her car door, waiting for her to move the bag of sweet treats out of the way and get settled, before rounding the trunk and starting the car.
She’s got a chunk of muffin halfway to her mouth when I pull out of the lot. “Why are you stress eating?”
“What am I supposed to do with twenty thousand dollars?”
“Anything you want.”
“What I want is my freedom back.”
“Anything but that.”
My words might as well be a nuclear bomb.
My wife—whose feisty spirit mirrors her fiery hair—doesn’t get it. Everything I do, absolutely everything, is for her. To protect her. To show my adoration. To give her the life she deserves.
Controlling her is like trying to stop a hurricane from churning. The impossibility is laughable. She is wild and free, smart and cunning, and quick to remind everyone she’s her own woman.
I love that about her. And will protect it at all costs, even if I have to fight her to protect her from herself… or the threats that somehow keep looming.
Ayla
My temper swarms like a kicked hive of bees vibrating inside me. I want to explode. I want to scream and yell, claw and hit. I want to run away just because I fucking can. Hell, I have a purse full of cash and the obvious authority to get more if I need it. I could run away.
If I didn’t think Christian would find me. And if I weren’t so predictable as to go to my brothers’ homes or Halley’s.
It’s not like me. I’m generally a react first, simmer and consider later person. Instead, I need to think. Straight emotional explosion won’t help me now.
I need a strategy.
What about me—about my life—makes people think they can control me? My father. My husband. My mother has expectations, too, even if they aren’t as explicit as the domineering men in my life. My brothers dote and care. I love that they do, even if it is overbearing and, at times, smothering.
I am not weak. I need their love. I need their support. I do not need their protection…
Except maybe from whomever was on the ridge that day.
My words are tentative. “You said you don’t think this was an accident.” I point to my temple.
He nods. “I said I don’t think you tripped and fell.”
I take a swig of his cold coffee as he makes a turn facing the Front Range. “How often did I go to the ridge at Beaver Brook?”
“Since I’ve known you? A dozen times, maybe more. It’s a quick drive, the hikes are fairly easy, and it never takes you long to find what you’re looking for.”
“So I go there enough that I know my way around?”
He nods.
“And can I assume other people know that?”
He nods again. “You mention it enough on your socials and have it tagged at the gallery. Besides, you’ve never been one to horde that information. You make no bones about the fact that anyone willing could get the same shot. Not that that’s accurate.”
“Of course, it is.”
“Princess, it’s not. I’ve been with you plenty and never see what you do. Why the questions?”
“Did you dig into anything regarding my ‘not fall’?”
His lips purse as his Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow. “I did. I still am, actually, but as far as crime scenes go, if it was one, it was ruined by the multiple hikers that day, the EMTs, the evacuation helicopter blowing leaves, dirt, and debris everywhere.”
“Will you take me there?”
His foot hits the brake and the jolt startles me. “Sorry.” He ignores the honks and one-fingered waves from the cars around us. “Sure. You want to go today?”
I stare down at the outfit I should never have thrown on yesterday morning, the one still haunting me with poor choices more than twenty-four hours later. “I need a shower first, and more appropriate clothing, but yeah.”
He turns onto our street and presses the garage door opener. “I could use the same. I’ll get some work done while you get ready.”
I grab my purse and the bag of sweets into the house, dumping his now-empty coffee cup in the trash as I go.
An hour later, I’ve showered and shaved, have my hair in a high ponytail and am rocking sunscreen and mascara when I find Christian chatting with Fitz in his office. They go silent when I approach. “Shower’s all yours.” I hitch a thumb over my shoulder as I turn on my boot to head upstairs to my studio.
I grab one camera before zoning out with a stare at the blue sofa where Christian fucked me with abandon a few nights ago. I pause and make eye contact with the moose as I turn to leave. What are you trying to tell me?
It’s all I think about as I return to the bottom floor to find my husband standing in front of Georgio, coffee drawer open wide, placing syrups onto the counter while putting powders away. “I know you’re there.”
I won’t ask how mostly because I’m distracted by how easy he still makes the process look. Also, because today I don’t care. Let him hear me coming.
“I’m here,” I offer as I reach the bottom step of the huge staircase.
He turns and extends a mug as he places an espresso cup in the sink. “Are you ready?”
I nod once and wonder how long I gazed at the sofa getting lost in my memories. “Sure.” I walk ahead of him to the garage and jump into the passenger seat of the Mercedes.
Once he’s backed out and heading for 470, I follow the thread that’s been weaving in my head. “If I didn’t trip, you think there was foul play.” It’s a statement, not a question.
He takes the onramp onto the highway and bites his lip.
“You’re never reticent.”
“The last time we discussed this, you shut down on me.”
“In all fairness, you’d casually mentioned someone nearly murdered me.”
“Where’s this calm demeanor coming from?”
“I want to be taken seriously. And I want all the facts. I’m tired of being protected from myself.” My temper is rising and the hornets are swarming again. I take a deep breath and try to center myself.
He hands me a Nalgene and nods for me to drink.
“You don’t need protection from yourself. You aren’t a danger.” Very quietly, he adds, “Except perhaps to me.”
I twist in my seat as we cruise north to stare at his profile. “Why am I a danger to you?”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “A thousand reasons, Ayla.” He extends a palm in invitation, and I place a hand in his. He lifts it quickly to his lips, kissing my knuckles, before setting our joined hands on the center console. “Because you’re my weakness. Because there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Because anyone who wants to get to me only has to look at you to know that you’re my Achilles’ heel. I’m not protecting you from yourself, but fuck if I won’t protect you from anything—no, everything—that threatens you.”
