Marry Screw Kill(35)

She takes forever to answer me. “Nothing yet. James is going to be back late, late, late as usual.” Her response doesn’t sound like the toe-the-line Harlow I have come to know with James. I hope a crack is forming in his control over her. It might be wishful thinking, but I want to have hope that she’ll break away from him before it is too late.

“Okay. What’s your favorite choice of pizza?”

“Whatever you want is fine.” Her answer sounds like the kind James would expect—the kind that says she’ll bend to his will and then let him bend her over the table to f*ck her. My fingers grip the phone tighter. It’s like she’s f*cking brainwashed.

“When you were a kid, what did you like? Cheese? Pepperoni?” I ask, trying a different approach.

“My mother and I would order Hawaiian. The ham and pineapple kind.”

I laugh. “Yeah, I like that kind, too. I’ll see you in a few.”

“Thanks, but really, I’m okay with something else.” Sweet thing has no idea she doesn’t need to please me by doing what she thinks I want. I want her to be who she is.

“It’s cool. I want to make you happy.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. See you in a few.” My heart breaks over the concept of wanting to make her happy seeming foreign to her.

I order the pizza and add a few breadsticks into the mix. My stomach continues to roll in empty protest and I plan on eating them on the way back to James’ place. I laugh to myself, imagining how happy he’d be seeing me eating greasy breadsticks in his fancy car. Hey, he gave me the keys to his six-figure set of wheels without any caveats, so eating junk food on the German leather works for me.

I inhale the breadsticks by the time I arrive at James’ compound. I can’t think of a better word to describe the monstrosity spread out on his acreage. His house sticks out like a hooker on 5th Avenue. All the homes around him are modest and sparse. Nothing elaborate like a six-foot fence with a gate fit for the Buckingham Palace.

I pull into the garage, shut off the engine, and grab the pizza off the leather seat next to me. The breadsticks I ate churn in my gut as I start to walk back down the same hallway I escaped this morning. I have to face the woman who laid on the table for my uncle’s pleasure. One thing is for sure, I’m not eating dinner on it—or any meal, for that matter.

I pass through the hallway and stride by the tainted table. I can’t even look at the damn thing. The kitchen is dark, so I search for a light switch. It takes me a minute to find the one for the light over the island. I place the pizza down on the granite top and wonder where Harlow is hiding. Maybe she’s as nervous to face me as I am her.

I remember James telling me about a media room not too far off the kitchen area, so I go in search for Harlow. The faint sound of the TV reaches my ears and I follow it to a dark room only lit by the screen. There’s a big couch in front of me and Harlow sits mostly hidden on it. Her hair appears almost white, in the low light’s glow from the TV.

I take a deep breath and debate whether I should approach her or call out her name. Either one might startle her.

I decide to get her attention first. “Hey, Harlow,” I say, deliberately keeping my voice low. She pops off the couch, and in one quick motion, stands up, facing me. Girl’s quick on her feet.

“I didn’t hear you come in.” No shit, Sherlock. I ease around the couch and see an open wine bottle on the table sitting next to an almost empty wine glass. Drinking alone. Never a good sign.

“Seems like I’m good at coming in without being noticed.” Her eyebrows rise even higher than they did when I called her name two seconds ago. The blush on her face appears a scarlet red. I promised myself I wouldn’t talk about this morning unless she brought it up, but here I am, all foot-in-mouth. What a f*ck up!

“Sorry about that.” I plead with my eyes for her forgiveness. “We don’t have to talk about … this morning.”

She walks forward, drawing closer to me, and trips on her own two feet. I grab her arm to help keep her upright and she looks up at me with sad, red-rimmed eyes.

She’s been crying. Hard.

Hell, my heart aches at the sight of her tear-filled eyes. Drinking and miserable. I can’t bear to witness her like this. It takes all my effort not to draw her into my arms and comfort her at this instant.

“Are you okay?” I help her back down onto the couch and sit next to her while reluctantly removing my hand from her arm. Her skin feels so soft under my fingers, it’s hard to let go. At this point, I’m only a concerned acquaintance in her life. Someone she just met. Though, I can’t think of another woman I’ve wanted to guard from hurts or protect from harm.

She sniffles and buries her head in her hands. Her long, blond hair hangs down and hides her face from view. I shouldn’t touch her again, but my hands have a mind of their own. I take the hair, place it behind her ear, and let my fingers glide over her skin a little too long.

She stills at my touch and peers at me through cloudy eyes.

“Jeez. I’ve had better days. Less humiliating days,” she says softly, and adds a hollow laugh. “How can you even look at me?”

“What are you talking about?” All I want to do is look at you.

“This morning. I’m disgusting.” She buries her head and her soft hair hides her from me again. This time, I get down on my knees in front of her with my hands resting next to her legs so we’re eye to eye.