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“No problem.” I’m totally cool with that. “And thanks, Martha.”
“Yeah, yeah. She’ll probably throw me out, but hey.”
We make it to Lainey’s apartment, and I head for the couch when Martha points her silent order, not prepared to risk pissing her off and making her question her decision to let me in. I’ll sit here and be quiet, and only speak when spoken to. Besides, I could do with the quiet so I can prepare for the confrontation that’s on the cards.
Martha heads over to a table that’s splattered with material swatches, designs, and lots of knickknacks—buttons, bows, and all sorts. She gets to work like I’m not here, and I force my brain to think of all the things I need to ask Lainey. I slump back, my hand nervously tapping the arm. Was it all a lie? Did she have any feelings for me? What’s this shit she promised to quit to her sister? Why the fuck did she string me along? How does it feel to know she’s destroyed me? When—
My questions all grind to a screaming halt when I hear the door shut, and I shoot up from the couch in a fluster. And every question I had on my mental list vanishes from my mind in a puff of smoke, my burning up body helping them along. I feel hot. My heart is thrumming. What will I say? What will she say? Was this a massive mistake? What will I gain, except another dose of agony in my already painful heart? And to look at her while she delivers the blow I’ve asked for? Will this be the last time I ever see her?
Claustrophobia closes in, stifling me, and my breathing quickens as I hear footsteps coming from the hallway, getting closer and closer. “Martha?” Lainey calls quietly. Her voice alone stabs at my skin.
And then she appears, and my heart stops in my chest. Her already drained face loses the lasts drops of blood that were supplying color to her cheeks, and she stutters to a shocked stop. “Tyler,” she whispers, locking eyes with me. Since the second I stormed out of Sal’s office, all I wanted to do was see her. Make her face me. Force answers I deserve from her. But now she’s before me, I want to run away from her before she does any more damage. However weary she looks, though, she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I look away, unable to withstand the crushing feelings she spikes and of which I have no control over. Get my answers and go. Just get my answers and go.
“What are you doing here?” She lets her bag fall the small distance to the floor by her feet.
“Was it all a lie?” I ask, part of me desperate for her to say no, but the sensible part willing her to tell me yes. Yes, it was a lie. It would make hating her so much easier.
“You know it wasn’t a lie,” she says quietly.
My teeth clench and my heart hurts more, making me wish she’d answered otherwise. “Why, Lainey? Why’d you do this?”
“Tyler—”
“No,” I shout, darting my angry eyes to her face and forcing myself to look at her, if only so she can see the hurt in my eyes. “I fell in love with you. Everything about you. All of you. Just like the other fucking suckers you’ve enticed into your fucked-up clutches and screwed over.” I stagger back, dizzy with rage.
“It’s not like that.” She looks away like the coward I know she is, avoiding me. “I tried to stay away from you. You have to believe me. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Well, you failed miserably, Lainey.” I march over to her, pissed off she won’t look at me. “Look what you’ve done. Does it make you happy?” When she looks up reluctantly, her welling eyes don’t touch me. “Does your twisted mind relish in it?”
She snaps, shoving me back. “No,” she yells. “I don’t relish in it. It kills me. I hate myself for hurting the one man I never wanted to fucking hurt.” She hits my arm. “You were real, Tyler. Of everything in my life, you were real. Not a job. Not a fucking contract to fulfill.” Her arm swings out again to hit me as tears burst from her eyes, but I block her, knocking her aim out.
“A job?” I ask, homing in on that part of her screaming fit. “A contract?”
“Yes.” She pushes her way past me, running into the kitchen. I go after her, prepared to pin her down to get the information I need. I watch as she fetches a glass and fills it with water, downing it all before slamming it down on the counter. Her shoulders rise and fall on erratic breaths, her hands bracing themselves on the edge of the worktop. “I help women,” she murmurs to the wall before her.
