Close Enough to Hurt, page 8
His smile shifts, eyes gleaming with interest. “Count on it.”
He likes the flirtation, that much is clear. It makes me nauseous, but as predicted, that’s proven the quickest way into his good graces, so I’ll have to keep it up.
When I’m clear of his home, prickling tension seeps out of my shoulders and neck. That was too close. Besides that, it’s exhausting pretending to be someone else.
A glance at my burner phone shows it’s close to midnight. As I lock my townhouse door behind me, my real phone chimes from the kitchen with a text. Daniel, maybe? Letting me know his date with the heiress was a resounding failure?
Not Daniel, but Gabrielle, of all people.
This sounds strange, but I got a weird feeling just now, like you were in danger? Or some kind of trouble? Text me when you can and let me know I’m paranoid.
I blink at the string of words on my screen, grasping at a response. Willing away the ache in my throat. How could she possibly know?
Then again, how could she have known when I broke my arm on the playground in second grade? Or the time a drunk driver almost made me wrap my car around a tree my junior year? Like Mom and her tarot cards and crystals in the back of her salon, Gabrielle’s always seemed tuned to a different frequency. She’s always looked out for me. If there were any justice in the world, I’d have been able to do the same for her.
As it is, I’ll have to do my best with my version of retroactive restitution. Not that I can tell her what I’m doing. She won’t approve. In fact, she’d be horrified. My parents too. It’s in the past, Dylan. Let it be. It’s only me who can’t let go of the way this sonofabitch cracked our family open and dragged us through hell, shattering the future my brilliant sister should’ve had.
Her full ride to Cal, gone. My parents’ meager savings, gone. Eaten by legal fees and medical bills, the cost of surviving.
Moving out of our home in the redwoods when the death threats to my sister came. We couldn’t afford to stay anyway, and if there hadn’t been money to send Gabrielle to undergrad to begin with, there sure as hell wasn’t money to send me. Years later, she got her psychology degree at Cal Poly Humboldt by way of several grants, but mostly loans.
By some miracle, my parents remained together through it all, though I don’t know how. Any marriage could’ve cracked under the strain. I cracked under the strain, hearing everyone cry through thin walls when we should’ve all been asleep.
I shake it off and type, You’re not paranoid, you’re a good sister. Doing fine in the city but thank you for checking in anyway. Just sleepy.
Get some rest then , she answers. Little night owl. Thanks for letting me know you’re okay.
I stop fighting the tears, then, and let them come. My heart won’t ever be quiet on this. The hurt runs too deep, a canyon dividing me before and after. Only an act of God could seal the gap. There’s nothing to do but lean into the path I’ve chosen, full of wrath. Like a thermophile, I’ll find new sustenance from the heat of my hatred.
A quick glance through my window reveals a dim shape on Brent’s balcony. I might’ve known.
If there was ever a sight to dry my tears, harden my resolution, that’d be it.
In the bathroom, I peel off my eyelashes and remove my heavy makeup, brush my newly whitened teeth.
With the lamps in my bedroom on, drapes open, I peel my tank top overhead and let it fall to the floor, leaving my lacy bra on. Then I slide my jeans off my hips, exposing my skimpy boy shorts, angling my body so he’s sure to have a view of my second-best end, if I do say so myself.
He’ll wonder what he did to be so lucky. Marvel at the gift that dropped from the sky into his waiting arms. He’ll keep wondering until I drive my knife into his neck and twist.
Not literally, of course.
Though never say never.
The thought brings a smile to my face, relaxes me enough to yawn. I crawl into my expansive king bed and use the remote to turn off the lights.
I’ll be hearing from Brent soon. I all but guaranteed it.
While I’m looking at my phone, ready to send Daniel a text, let him know I’m no worse for wear and tell him the brand of Brent’s alarm system, a typing bubble appears from him.
It’s so late—though it’s not unheard of for him to text at odd hours, the poor insomniac. I stare at the hovering bubble, wondering what he has for me.
The bubble disappears into the ether.
I send my message and wait and wait. And wait.
No reply comes.
CHAPTER
8
GOOD MORNING, SUNSHINE! I’m swamped with meetings this morning, but if you’re available, I’d love to take you out for lunch, show you around the neighborhood.
A text from good ol’ Brent, the last person I want to talk to, greets me when I wake up. I groan and flop back on the pillow. High-thread-count sheets or no, I don’t need a mirror to know I look worse for wear—I stayed up stupid late thinking about Gabrielle and wondering what Daniel typed and erased, then typed and erased. The chickenshit. Just hit send!
Still, obvious interest from Brent plays to my advantage. That’s why I’m here, for God’s sake. Not to sit and drive myself bananas pondering the contents of Daniel’s indecipherable mind.
I sit up, wipe the loathing off my face, and type a suitably chipper reply.
Hey neighbor! I’d love that. Still unpacking this morning, but maybe later for dinner?
That ought to buy me more time to get myself ready, get my backstory straight. Get my meds lined up so I can search his home while he’s occupied.
There’s a long pause. I might’ve overplayed my hand, tried to make things more “serious” than Brent’s aiming for. I nibble on a hangnail, wincing at the sting.
Dinner it is. What kind of food do you like? We can leave from my place. 6 PM.
Well, look at him trying to take my opinions into account. He must really want in my pants. I snicker and type.
Six is good. And I’m open to anything!
There. Let him read into that however he will. I bet he’ll like the high-maintenance look + low-self-esteem + nonassertive vibe, because he’s a worthless sack of shit.
Looking forward to it. Wear something nice, Brent says. Nothing too revealing.
Of course he’ll tell me how to dress myself, like I’m a child. My grip tightens, causing the plastic case to creak. God, I hate him. I’ll be lucky if I don’t stab him before I’m done fucking him over.
I throw the burner phone on the bed, only to pick my other phone up when a text arrives.
Dinner at my place tonight? Daniel asks. I’ll cook. I managed to infiltrate his security and want to show you how it’s done.
I bite my hangnail, wondering why he’s not spending time with the heiress.
You work fast, but no can do, I reply. I have a hot date with Brent. I add several vomit emojis in case he doesn’t read my internet sarcasm.
There’s a pause and I smile, imagining his gears turning.
You don’t waste time, Lady Justice. When will you be free, then?
Not sure. I’ll keep you posted? I don’t mean to be coy, but I don’t know how quickly things will move with Brent and need to keep my options open. I imagine he’ll try the charm offensive and try to add another notch to his bedpost as quickly as possible, and that suits me too. The less time spent with him, the better.
Okay.
My, my. The “okay” with a period at the end? Stern Daniel is a force to be reckoned with. I should stay focused and not go out of my way to make time for him, but it doesn’t stop me from typing a placating message anyway.
I plan to cut things short tonight, so I’ll try to swing over later.
How will you cut it short, exactly? he asks after a minute.
If I don’t tell you, you’ll have plausible deniability.
All right, he says, but for the record, I’m happy being your accomplice.
I sigh at my phone and Daniel’s general direction. Why does he have to say things like that and melt my cold heart into a sappy puddle? I can’t afford softness. To slay the ogre, I’ll need my armor well intact, thank you very much.
Still, I can’t deny that the possibility of seeing Daniel tonight puts a spring in my step as I slip into my new uniform of ripped jeans, camisole, and heels.
The first order of business will be shopping. Delilah needs a cocktail dress for dinner. Something to knock Brent’s head sideways, dull his senses, direct his thoughts where I want them. Brent might have wealth and the blessing of good looks and generations of privilege on his side, but I have weapons of my own too. With luck, they’ll be more than enough to do him in.
* * *
At six PM sharp, I leave my home and walk next door, stilettos clicking on the pavement. My jade-green, long-sleeved, knee-length sheath dress with an open back and sheer black stockings do not at all fit the definition of “nothing too revealing,” and if Brent has anything to say about it, he can pound sand. Or meet the end of my knife, currently strapped to my lacy garter belt.
“Delilah!” Brent opens the door, wearing a crisp ivory suit and a broad smile. “I’m so glad you could make it tonight!” He steps aside, ushering me across the divide with a deliberate hand across my back. Apparently, he likes the getup, despite his admonition.
He takes a second to scrutinize. “Your hair is pretty,” he says inside, evaluating the loose waves with critical eyes. “But you should go blonder.”
“Not sure how much lighter I could go,” I say. “It’s already pretty blonde.”
“Platinum,” he says, so sure I’ll contort myself to fit his moving-goalpost prerequisites.
“Sure, handsome.” I smile with all the sugar I can muster. “Whatever you think is best.”
He nods, satisfied for the next thirty seconds or so.
I follow him inside his house, through the expansive kitchen he probably never cooks in to the multicar garage. The usual excess appears, several luxury cars so expensive each could house a family for a year. He clicks the button, and a convertible Beemer flashes orange lights.
“So, where are we headed?” I ask.
“Steak house,” he says. “Hope you’re not one of those hopeless vegans.”
I roll my eyes to his back, patience thinning already. “What if I am?” I don’t follow a plant-based diet, but if I did, I would’ve told him to fuck off. Actually, that would’ve happened about five minutes into our conversation the night prior.
He turns around. “You’re joking, right?”
I shrug and smile. Socialite Delilah must play along. “You got me.”
The frown deepens. “That’s not funny.”
“Lighten up, neighbor.” I’m slipping from character, but God, there’s nothing worse than someone with no sense of humor, incapable of the slightest bit of self-deprecation. “I love me some surf and turf.”
Seeming to realize he’s making an ass of himself, he smiles, but it looks like an effort. If I were really trying to win him over, it’d be exhausting, trying to pacify someone with the thinnest of skins. No wonder he treated my sister’s accusation as if it were some deliberately cruel wound rather than, you know, facing the consequences of his own heinous behavior. It’s always someone else’s fault.
He peels out of his garage like it’s on fire. At the steak house, the maître d’ greets Brent by first name and makes a huge fuss getting us settled in a quiet, wood-paneled nook.
Brent soaks up the fawning like an incubus and smiles across the candlelit table at me. “This place has a three-month waitlist for reservations,” he says, as if he’s divulging state secrets. “Unless you’re me. Aren’t you lucky?”
“Well, I hope it lives up to its reputation.” I smile sweetly and place my napkin across my lap, prim and proper. “My last boyfriend’s father owned half the Michelin-starred restaurants in Europe, so fair warning, my standards are high.”
Brent smiles into his wineglass, already filled with his favorite Tempranillo, but his eyes are cold. Like he’s considering ways to dissect me, slowly.
I hide my laughter with a cough into my napkin. He might be cool on the outside, but I’m getting under his skin. The temptation to rile him more is strong, but I’ll have to pace myself. Can’t have him throwing a mantrum and storming off on our first date. When would I get to dump MiraLAX into his drink, then? And search his office while he’s ocupado?
A long slurp of wine later, he leans forward on his elbows. “So. Tell me about yourself, Delilah.” His sharp blue gaze is trained on me, as if I’m the only person in the room. His attention might be flattering if I didn’t know I was about to endure a Spanish Inquisition.
I’m ready, though. All day, I solidified the details of my alleged identity, leaving a digital globe-trotting trail. It’s more work than I need to do, but on the off chance Brent does investigate my background, it’ll be suitably boring.
I take a careful sip of my own wine—Tempranillo for me too, because Delilah likes whatever her man likes—and launch into my spiel. “There’s not much to know, really. My mom died when I was young. My father was a wealthy ex-pat, and we lived all over the place. Europe mostly. When he died”—I look at my lap, blinking hard—“he left me more than enough to pursue whatever I wanted to do with my life. School, art, charity, travel. Sums up the last decade of my life, really.”
Brent buys it wholesale so far as I can tell, nodding along.
“And what brought you to San Francisco?” he asks when I’m done. “More charitable endeavors?” The way he says it lets me know how much respect he has for good causes. To people like him, only fools would willingly part with their money. They could own the entire world and it still wouldn’t be enough to satisfy.
“A bad breakup, actually.” I let ice sneak into my voice, enough to put him on alert. “My ex agreed to take SoCal.”
“So you’re on the rebound.” He likes this. Emotionally vulnerable means easier to manipulate. Or it would if I weren’t ready to slip him meds that’ll make him shit himself.
“I wouldn’t put it like that,” I say. “That makes me sound easy.” I giggle and drink more wine.
Brent smiles, pure predation, and obsequiously refills my wineglass. Let him think I’m on my way to drunken debauchery. It’ll make his expectations-versus-reality moment more bitter when the night does not end with me in his bed.
The wine bottle empty, Brent snaps his fingers, like he’s some sort of Mafia don. “Excuse me, can we get a little help over here?” Then he glances at me, as if I’m supposed to be impressed with petty tyranny. I keep my smile in place like an over-Botoxed Stepford wife.
A tall, jacked server in her forties with a bitchin’ bleached blonde undercut materializes and returns with a new bottle, apologizing about the delay. I bite my lip so I don’t pipe up and tell her to take it easy. I’m sure waitstaff absolutely adore Brent. If I worked here, I’d make sure to drop the steak on the floor a few times before dishing it up. I prepare to leave an enormous tip for her trouble.
“What about you? What’s your story?” I ask Brent when our food arrives. “I’m sure I could read up online and learn the basics, but I hope you don’t mind if I ask you instead.”
“My family is mostly on the East Coast. I came out to Cal for school, then dropped out when I was ready to start my company.”
After you were expelled for assaulting my sister, you mean. The revisionist history is revolting. It’s as if she never existed, not even as a small bump on his path toward preordained greatness. Not that I expected him to confess outright, but anyone could see the allegations on his Wikipedia page, under “Controversies.” What a fucking euphemism.
I force myself to smile. Lower my steak knife back to the table. It would’ve been so easy to slam it in the thin skin between his thumb and forefinger. Pin him down and watch him writhe.
I take a deep breath and clear away the red bleeding into my vision. “And you’ve been unicorning all over the place since.” The thready note in my voice could be admiration, overwhelm in the presence of genius.
He laughs, looking pleased. “What can I say? Prometheus has been a dream come true. There’s nothing a strong vision and hard work can’t accomplish.”
Hard work and a shit ton of intergenerational wealth, but I’m just splitting hairs. I dig into my petite filet mignon and use the segue of food to question him further, my phone recording all the while. I don’t know if he’ll answer, but I hope he’ll love the opportunity to brag a little more.
“What’s on the horizon for Prometheus? Anything exciting?”
He considers his rib eye and then looks up at me, wine languor gone. “Who wants to know?”
“… Me?”
He chews his steak, considering. “Well, naturally, we have several new products in the pipeline.” His smile is a sneer, hitching up the corner of his mouth. “But I wouldn’t want to bore you with the science.”
Well, well. Looks like I hit a nerve. The eager way he pounces lets me know he couldn’t wait to take me down a peg.
“Fair. I am an art history major, after all.” I throw back more red, hoping I look like a buzzed wine floozy. He might still confide a few useful details if he thinks I’m too dumb to even condescend to. Just another founder hounder out for his gold.
I wait a few more beats, but there’s no apology for insulting my intelligence. “What should we talk about, then?” I try to keep the bite from my words, but my patience is running thin. “May I have an approved list of topics?”
“Well.” He clears his throat. “You could tell me about your family.”
“There’s no one, really, aside from an aunt.” I’m prepared for this probe into my past. “But mostly me.”
“I have you all to myself?” The abuser in the making lifts a pale brow. No family means fewer people to notice when he pulls me away from them, an ever-widening divide.
“Looks that way.” I smile at his obvious pleasure. “Aren’t you lucky?”
“To serendipitous neighbors.” He lifts his glass. “Though I must say, I feel like I’ve known you longer.”
