Close Enough to Hurt, page 6
“Jesus Christ, that was quick.” I wipe a sweaty palm on my skirt. The landlord must be desperate to fill the vacant property. Still, the sooner I can move in, the better. The jig is up in two weeks unless I manage to convince Rhys to keep his discovery to himself.
The idea of cutting a check for several, several grand, however, makes me queasy. I still haven’t gotten a reply from Dr. Chang, either. At this point, my vengeance process has been one hundred percent selfishly motivated and unilateral. Before I get too far ahead of myself, I need to get her on board.
In my car, I dial her number and wait.
“Dr. Chang.”
She sounds tired. I wonder how she’s holding up at home, whether someone is still following her.
“Hi, Dr. Chang, it’s Dylan. Have you had a chance to check your email?”
“Sorry, no.” She sighs. “I had an interview this morning.”
“Yeah? Good vibes?”
I hear her frown. “They cut it short when they found out about my previous place of employment. It’s like I’m wearing a scarlet P or something. Ridiculous.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “But the good news is, I have a plan.” I give her the brief and wait for her reaction.
“This sounds …” She trails off.
“Awesome?”
“Risky,” she finishes. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but getting so close to him might leave too much room for error.” She pauses. “You don’t know him as well as I do. He likes to play Mr. Affable, but he’s a shark. He gets off on it, the mind games, trying to control everyone.”
I sit in my car, sweating in the greenhouse it’s created but still cold.
“All you’d have to do is not respond one time to whatever alias you’ve chosen, and he’d put two and two together.” Evelyn hums, a small, anxious noise. “I really can’t have my name getting back to Brent on this. I have to think of my family’s well-being.”
“I understand your concerns,” I say, “but I don’t do sloppy work. Your name will never get back to him. You have my word.”
There’s a long pause. “Is there another way to do this?”
“None so viscerally satisfying.”
Another long pause. “Then I leave it in your hands. Do what you think is best.”
“He’s already set himself up for a fall,” I say. “Hubris is the oldest story in the book, and the most predictable. All I have to do is see him through to the natural consequences of his choices.”
Evelyn snickers. “You think he’d appreciate that, with the Greek mythology namesake.”
“I have a feeling the irony will be lost on him.” I smile at my newly angelic reflection in the rearview mirror. “I’ll check in with you when I’ve set up shop in my lair.”
“Good luck, Lady Justice.” This time, her voice sounds less strained. “Give that bastard hell.”
I laugh, startled, and nod, even though she can’t see me. “I’ll do my best.”
CHAPTER
6
NOAH WAS RIGHT about one thing: the next part of my transformation must be my clothing. If I’m going to look the part of vacuous tart, the flowy thrift shop tie-dye duds I live in most days when I’m not on the clock will have to go.
I turn toward my favorite boutique out of habit, then pause. I have a good rotation of work wear, but high-powered professional won’t be Brent’s taste. Too much equal footing for his liking. Better to pretend I’m living on someone else’s money.
Rather, I’ll be a … newly minted heiress myself, with socialite aspirations. Not too far up in the one percent club, such that Brent could double-check my background, but high enough for me to afford to live next to him. Potential arm candy if he plays his cards right. The skewed power dynamic will grate on me, but I can’t imagine a better carrot to dangle in his stupid, punch-me face.
Hours later, wearing my new armor—a slinky black camisole, skintight jeans I can barely squeeze into, stilettos, oversized shades, outrageously expensive handbag—I drive to the property manager’s office to sign the lease and put down my deposit. Then I head home with the rest of my lavish loot. My credit card statement is going to put gray in my hair when it grows in, but maybe some of this can be a tax write-off. The interest I get from men, however, tells me I’m on the right track. Brent’s not going to know what hit him.
Even so, I feel gross and fake, dressing for attention. I frown into the sunset, winding my way back to Sausalito for one last night in my real home. One more night of a lowered guard before I jump into the lowest rung of hell.
An old song comes on, one I haven’t heard in years. One heartbeat later I’m awash in memories, driving with Gabrielle in our parents’ beat-up Mazda. Singing at the top of our lungs on a fine midsummer’s day before she headed south for school. I didn’t want to tell her how much I’d miss her when she moved. I kept the secret close to my chest like a losing hand of cards, determined to bluff my way through her departure.
I should’ve told her.
But I didn’t. So now I’ll die on this godforsaken vengeance hill.
I wipe my cheeks with my palm.
Then, on a whim—or really, giving in to the impulse that’s dogged me all goddamn day—I turn and head back to Daniel’s apartment. It’s the later side of evening, and he should be home from work and visiting his mom. Hope flares in my chest as I park in front of the building, the last day’s light reflecting off the glossy, geometric windowpanes. LEED construction, no doubt, complete with the gorgeous rooftop garden overhanging the edge of the building.
My heels click across the smooth black marble in the lobby. I smile at the doorman I saw the other night, but it’s clear he doesn’t recognize me. “Hi,” I say. “I’m here to see Daniel Haas, apartment 408.”
The elderly doorman gives me a skeptical look—to be fair, I do look like an escort—but reaches to call the man in question anyway.
As the doorman dials, Daniel appears in the lobby, filling the stairwell’s doorframe.
“Good timing,” I say.
He stops midstride, eyes widening, blinking when he recognizes me. “Dylan?” His brows knit together in concern. “Your hair …?”
I grin and make a small circle, careful not to lose my balance in the ankle-breaking heels. “What do you think?”
“Well, you definitely look different.” Which is Daniel-speak for Woman, what have you done?
Not the reaction I was hoping for, to put it mildly. Then it strikes me, how hurried he looked coming downstairs. Like he had somewhere to be.
“Sorry for not giving you a heads-up I was headed your way.” I fidget with the ends of my sandy hair. I was really hoping to have this conversation in private, but here will have to do. “I wanted to stop by and, um, apologize for being a jackass this morning. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but you have so much going on and I’m so sorry for being a jerk.” I force myself to be brave. “I know we left things on a crappy note. It’s been weighing on me all day.”
“I forgave you before I left your boat,” he says, looking amused. “But you do a good grovel.”
“Well, I do try to own up when I’ve fucked up.” I laugh, relieved. “Which happens a lot more than I’d like. But hey, you got a haircut too!” It’s alarmingly attractive on him, shorter up the sides and longer on top. Approximately three men have the bone structure to pull it off, and the others are Cillian Murphy and Manny Jacinto.
But he’s not even paying attention, fussing with his polished cuff links. He looks sharp in another tailored three-piece suit in charcoal, with cognac wing tips on his feet. Between that and the haircut, he’s all angles, like the facets of diamond. For real, how dare he? Why must he always look like he stepped out of another dimension full of beautiful things?
“Anyway, no need to apologize,” he says to his shoes.
“Why won’t you look at me, then?” I sound more petulant than I’d like.
He looks up and his expression softens, releasing the tautness around his eyes and mouth. “Really, you don’t need to be sorry, Dylan. You’re doing what you think is right.” He leads me to the artsy velvet chairs in front of a fireplace and folds his long body into one, indicating I should do the same.
I sit opposite and cross my legs and arms, a little peeved with him, then annoyed because I’m peeved. I was working so hard to be magnanimous.
He studies me in earnest, taking in the hair and clothing. My new costume. His glance slips from my face to the line of my cleavage, more visible than usual with my new, low-cut silk cami.
Like any self-respecting she-devil, I lean forward on the pretense of listening.
His gaze snaps away, a frown marring his face. He speaks to the gas fireplace. “Like I said, it’s none of my business how you run your operation. I shouldn’t have butted in where I wasn’t wanted.”
“Sure, but you know I respect your opinion.” I wave to him. “If you have doubts about my harebrained plan, feel free to spit them out.” I give him a cautious smile. “But do it now, or forever hold your peace.”
He chews his bottom lip, thinking, then finally shakes his head. A rueful grin curls the corner of his mouth. “Objectively, any guy would have a hard time keeping his mind on the straight and narrow when you look like this. You won’t have trouble catching his eye—”
“I thank you, good sir.”
His smile fades. “Mostly, I just worry, which isn’t helpful to either of us. So”—he leans forward on his knees—“instead, what will you need from me?”
I glow several shades of happy pink under my sticky spray tan. “I won’t know until I see the inside of his house, but if he has a home security setup, and I’m sure he will”—I lower my voice—“I’ll need help disabling it so I can move freely.” I peer into the fire, as if the flames could outline the shape of my future, living a bizarre double life.
Daniel nods, sanguine. “Should be simple enough. I’ll just need to know the brand. Anything else?”
“That’s it for now, but I’ll let you know. Aside from bypassing home security, there’s the issue of payment.” I pop my knuckles, a nervous habit I still haven’t managed to drop. “Of course, normally I’d cut you in for your work, but I told Dr. Chang her case would be pro bono. I can still pay you the usual twenty percent, though—”
He shakes his head, looking amused. “I’ve been donating my cut to the homeless shelter for a few years now, if it makes you feel any better.”
“Rascal.” I smile at him. “Being so self-deprecating about it too. I’d never have known.”
Daniel returns the smile, popping a dimple. He’s handsome in any light, from any angle, but there’s something about him in the soft glow of firelight that does me in, every time.
Dylan, you’ve got it bad. So bad.
The thought hits me with the force of a tsunami.
How long? For how long have I been leaning into the impossible? Months? Years? My heart beats a brisk cadence against my ribs, my brain spins, but no matter how I try, I can’t track the path from tentative friendship to him becoming the most important person in my life. Like water, he was quiet and inexorable, seeping into all my cracks and filling them up.
“Dylan?”
“Yeah what?” I blink back to awareness. “What’s up?”
“I do have to get going.” Guilt softens his words. “You just happened to catch me on my way out.”
I hope my smile doesn’t look as fake as my blonde waves. “Oh yeah?” I gesture to his fancy suit. “Big date?”
“I’m picking her up from the airport.” He looks at his lap, seeming so nervous, I almost empathize. Almost. “Yoon So Ah. The heiress.”
“Got it.” I stand, leaking joy like a crappy air mattress, but keep my smile firmly in place. I’ll have to get used to Plasticine facial expressions if I mean to wield them against Brent anyway. “Well, I won’t keep you. Traffic will be a beast.”
He stands and takes a step my way, close enough I have to crane my neck to see his face again.
“Good luck,” he says, so soft it’s hard to hear him.
“Thank you. I hope your date goes well.” I try to at least sound sincere, if I can’t feel it in my heart. Being an adult is the worst sometimes. “Bye, Haas.”
I walk away, unsteady, like a helium balloon with my ties cut. Drifting.
He catches my wrist with a warm hand and tugs. “Wait.”
I turn and find myself nose to his chest.
He wraps arms around me, pulling me close. The smell of wool and his bright, lemony shampoo fills my nose.
“Be careful, Dylan,” he says. “Be careful.”
It’s a plea.
Finally overcoming my surprise, I wrap my arms around him too, marveling at the gift of his touch. He’s never given it away lightly. Then, because he won’t see me, I close my eyes. Even through layers of clothing, he’s solid, lean and dense. For the shortest moment, I want to tell him about Rhys, but quell the urge. He has enough to worry about already, and it’s not fair for me to drag him into yet another of my problems.
“I will be,” I say, throat tight.
“And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Does that include feeding him lead paint?” I ask his smooth, pale-blue dress shirt. “Leaving a few rusty nails for him to step on?”
Daniel’s laughter quakes against me, tensing the muscles beneath my cheek. “Remind me to never get on your bad side.”
I scoff. “Like you even could. You get a pass for pretty much everything.” I roll my eyes, though he can’t see me. With anyone else, it’s knives out, but not him. “It’s ridiculous, actually.”
We’ve held on for far longer than friends could get away with, but neither of us moves away. Could I freeze us in amber, hold on to the fleeting?
“I don’t know.” He snickers, breath a cool wash over the crown of my head. “Something tells me I’m about to cross the tiger again, traveling this road that’s been laid for me.”
So he senses it too. The precipice. I’m not the introspective sort, but maybe it’s natural to question what the hell you’re doing with your life when a friend is poised to reach a major milestone.
That must be why I feel like an annoying younger sibling he’s outgrown.
I stiffen and pull away. There’s probably a Taylor Swift song for my predicament, but I don’t have the heart to sing it, not even to embarrass him with my tone-deaf vocals.
“Can I be melodramatic and ask for something really selfish?” If I had any decency, I wouldn’t voice the question, but I have the emotional maturity of a goldfish, and am not a decent sort besides.
He nods, eyes crinkling.
“Don’t forget me?”
I sound small and push my shoulders back reflexively, trying to take up more space than my height allows.
His face shifts, myriad emotions altering his expression until he settles on grim resignation. “I should be asking you. In five years, I’ll probably be a chronically sleep-deprived zombie, driving a minivan with a bumper sticker that says I used to be cool.”
I snort a laugh. “Hey, don’t hate on a swagger wagon. And if you do have to trade in, I’ll get you one of those stickers that says Adults on board. We want to live too.”
Finally, he smiles in earnest. It’s like seeing the sun again after the gloom of winter rain, rendering the world in color again.
“Haas … you’re going to be such a great husband; you don’t even know.” I try to be clinical. Matter-of-fact. “And a great dad, if that’s what you and the missus choose. It’s who you are.” Patient, kind, smartest person I know—there’s no doubt in my mind he’ll be an amazing partner and father.
His eyes widen as I speak, and he looks ready to answer, so I rush to vomit out the rest of my words before I chicken out. “As for me, I’ll be your friend no matter what.” I shrug, trying to offer up my undying loyalty casual-like. “Do what you need to do, and don’t worry about me. Okay?”
I turn and leave before he can say anything else, walking into the dusk of a crisp fall night. There’s smoke on the wind, some part of California on fire like always. I’ve lived all over the world, wandered paths that took me thousands of miles from home, trying to escape Brent’s radioactive fallout, but I never could drag myself away from this state for good, toxic particulate matter be damned. My roots run too wide and wild, interlocked like those of the redwoods around my family’s old home.
It’s not until I reach my car that the tears come, streaking my face, ruining my spray tan, lending tiger stripes to my skin.
CHAPTER
7
I WAKE UP HUNGOVER , having downed the rest of my soju the night prior, trying and failing to put a certain heiress and Daniel out of my mind.
“Dumb.” I look at my streaky orange reflection in the mirror over the sink with disdain. I should’ve been doing more research on Brent, collecting as much information on him as possible before moving in. At the very least, I should’ve smoothed out my spray tan so I don’t have garish stripes. Even a nonobservant person can tell my glow didn’t come from St. Barths. For fuck’s sake.
Instead, I let my maudlin tendencies take over, getting stupid drunk and howling at the moon—literally—about the unfairness of it all. I pinch the bridge of my nose. My neighbors must love me. I guess I’ll be gone for a while, so maybe that’ll give them enough time to forget my drunken serenade.
At least I still have breakfast, courtesy of friend-zone-forever Daniel. I inhale another stupendously good muffin and drink my coffee on the deck, trying to clear out the cobwebs. I need to get my head on straight before I crash-land next to Brent. Not the viper’s nest—that would be an insult to snakes, really—but close enough.
Still hungover, I pack my trunk with my costumes and tricks of the trade, then lock up and drive across the Gate again, the last time for the foreseeable future.
