Her Wicked Heart (13 page)

“Peace offering,” I say.

He nods and takes the bottle. He takes a long drink, but I feel his eyes on me the entire time.

And then he coughs.

“Fuck,” he says, laughing. “This shit’s even worse than the last one. How much does this crap cost?”

“More than you want to know.” I steal the bottle back.

“Jesus. They should pay their customers
to drink that crap. Not the other way around.”

For a while, we just pass the bottle back and forth, taking swigs and saying nothing. Finally, when the bottle is half empty, I take another shot.

“Why do you do it?”

He shifts slightly. “Do what?”

“Pick fights.” I nod in the direction of his arm. “If you came all the way down here from Chicago for this opportunity, then why are you so determined to get yourself fired?”

“I didn’t get fired.”

“You know what I mean.”

It’s his turn at the bottle, and he takes a long drink. Finally he says, “Have you ever been angry? And I don’t mean pissed about some idiotic thing that someone said or your pizza being late or something. I mean really
angry.
At the world. At everything.”

His question so closely echoes the mess of emotions that I’ve been dealing with these past few days. I was right, then, back in the theater when I wondered if he was suffering from the same sort of internal madness that I am.

I look at him. He looks exhausted, defeated, but I suspect the upbeat, playful Ward is still in there somewhere.

“Why are you angry?” I say.

He gives a single shake of his head. “I’m not sure it even matters anymore.”

Slowly, I sink down onto the ground in front of him. “Of course it matters.”

One side of his mouth lifts. “When you get to the point that you’re angry at everything, does it really make a difference how or why it started?”

“You’re not angry at everything,” I say after a moment. “If that were true you’d be a lot more serious. You wouldn’t laugh about nasty expensive wine. You wouldn’t continually tease me about the, uh, unusual circumstances that started our little acquaintance.”

That gets a slightly better smile out of him, but no response. I lean toward him.

“You know it’s true,” I say. “There are a few happy places inside your head, aren’t there?”

This is the first time I’ve seen his injuries so close, and even in the moonlight my heart twists. His swollen eye looks so painful that I can’t stop myself from reaching out and touching it gingerly.

His hand flies up and catches mine.

“You don’t want to do that,” he says, his voice breathier than it was a moment ago.

“Are you angry with me?” I ask.

“For poking at my bruise? A little.”

“That’s not what I mean.” I take a deep breath. “I mean about the other night.”
For running away from you.

He still hasn’t released my hand, but I can’t bring myself to pull my fingers away. His grip tightens slightly, and a jolt of warmth shoots up my arm.

“Are you angry with me?” he asks.

“I asked you first. And I don’t care if that argument is cliché.”

He smiles at our old joke.

“I’m not mad if you aren’t,” he says finally. Then he drops his hand and sits back against the hedge.

I draw my fingers back, though I want to reach out and touch him again. “I’m not mad.”

“Good.” He nods, but his smile from a moment ago is gone.

“See?” I tell him. “You aren’t angry at everything.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“Actually,” I say, sitting back on my heels. “I seem to remember you saying that everything was simple. That it was our heads that got in the way.”

He smirks. “That was a very different conversation.”

“The advice still applies. And it’s bad form to give advice that you refuse to take yourself.”

“What about you? Did you take the advice you’re throwing so cheerfully back in my face?”

My gaze drops down to the wine. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

I glance up again just in time to watch that knowledge sink in on his face. My finger dances along the mouth of the wine bottle.

“I called him and made it clear that things were over between us.” Somehow, saying it out loud makes me feel worse, even though I know I did the right thing. I’ve acknowledged it. Now it’s real. Guilt tugs at my stomach.

“If it’s over, then why are you out here with stolen wine again?”

His question catches me by surprise.

“What, aren’t I allowed a mourning period for my…” What? Pseudo-relationship with Ian? I take another drink. “Or maybe I just get off on the risk.”

That gets a chuckle. “Good girls often do.”

“How do you know I’m a good girl?” After all, I
did
throw myself at him before I even knew his name.

“You’re a good girl. Trust me.”

“But how do you know?” There’s more emotion behind the words than I mean there to be. “You hardly know me. I might look like a ‘good girl’, but maybe I’m a terrible person on the inside.”

“For what? Stealing wine? That doesn’t make you a terrible person.”

He wouldn’t be so flippant if he knew who I really was. If he knew I was one of those self-serving “rich fucks.”

I grab the end of my ponytail. “Sometimes people look like they’re good from the outside, but on the inside they’re actually selfish assholes.” Like heiresses who volunteer in the name of “activism” and “generosity” when they’re really more concerned with assuaging a guilty conscience or putting on a good face for the tabloids. Or people who claim to be ashamed of their ridiculously large house, only to have a complete breakdown the minute it’s taken away from them.

Ward gently pulls the wine out of my hand.

“It’s easy to get screwed up after losing a parent,” he says after a moment.

I shake my head. “This isn’t about my father.” No, I was screwed up even before his death. I’ve spent the better part of my life trying to figure out how I felt about my family’s money. Trying to figure out one poor, spoiled rich girl’s place in the larger world.

“Confusion is a normal part of the grieving process,” he says. “Christ knows I’m still figuring shit out.”

“It’s
not
about my father,” I tell him again, getting annoyed. “I know how I feel about that.”

“Addi—”

“Please. Please, I don’t want to talk about it.”

I must sound pretty pathetic
because he drops the subject. I’m not here for a therapy session. I just want some time to think. Some time away from all those stupid press people. I don’t need any life lessons from self-righteous, hypocritical Ward. Honestly, there’s only one thing he can offer me right now that I’d actually want.

I glance over at him. He’s looking at me—
into
me—and I wonder how much of the truth he sees in there. How much of the real Louisa Cunningham. I can tell he doesn’t know what to say from here, how to comfort me or convince me to open up to him. But that’s okay. I can show him what I need.

I lean forward again and gently brush my lips against the purpled skin beneath his eye. I hear the sharp intake of his breath, but he doesn’t move, even when I move to the other eye. I go to his nose next, kissing the place where it was broken.

When I sit back on my heels again, his eyes have darkened. The intensity of his gaze sends alternating waves of heat and ice down my spine. All the nerves in my body seem to have woken at once. But he doesn’t move toward me.

“What?” I tease. “Not enough wine tonight?”

He just keeps looking at me. “Are you sure about this?”

“Do I seem unsure?” Right now, it doesn’t matter what he thinks my name is. It doesn’t matter whether he understands me or not. It doesn’t matter why I’m upset or why he hates Carolson or any of the rest of it. I’m exhausted and there are strangers all over my house and he’s here, looking perfectly tempting in the moonlight.

He reaches out and touches my cheek. Fire races across my skin.

“You’re too good for this,” he says softly.

This time I can’t refrain from laughing out loud. “We’re not having this argument again. I promise, I’m not half as good as you think I am.”

“And as I’ve told you, stealing the occasional bottle of wine isn’t exactly a ticket straight to Hell.”

“Is that the worst you think I’ve done?” I ask lightly. “What, should I pick a fight with one of the housekeepers in order to prove myself? Sleep with one of their boyfriends and then throw them through a window?”

It’s supposed to be a joke, but I can tell right away that it hits him the wrong way. He pulls back from me and pushes to his feet.

“You should go,” he says.

I scramble up beside him. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”

“It doesn’t change anything.”

I cros
s my arms. “I don’t get it. Are you mad at me?”

“Of course not. Not at all.” He rubs his face. “Listen. You’re too good for me, okay?”

“So this some sort of self-punishment thing?”

That hits a little closer to home. Something tender flashes in his eyes before it’s replaced by an emotion closer to annoyance.

“Look,” he says. “I’m doing you a favor here.”

“I get it.” I reach down and grab the wine. “You’ve changed your mind about me. That’s fine. But I wish you had the balls to just come out and say it rather than giving me this crap.”

“That’s not…” He makes an exasperated sound. “Is this what you want? An angry asshole who fights and fucks and will take advantage of some chick who’s clearly going through some shit?”

“You’re not taking advantage of me,” I insist.

“That’s not the point. The point is that this is a bad idea. And not just because of…”—He waves his hand—“whatever you’ve got going on. Because of my shit, too. You’re not the only one with problems, you know.”

That stings, but mainly because it’s the truth.

“I tried to talk to you about Carolson,” I say. “But you told me to drop it.”

“And you don’t want to talk about your father. I get it. You don’t know me. And I can’t imagine the impression you have of me right now is very good. So just trust me. I’m an asshole.”

I scoff. “I think I can decide that for myself.”

“Just like you let me decide whether or not you’re a terrible person?” He shakes his head. “Let’s just stop this now, okay?” Apparently he’s not willing to wait for me to go. As soon as the final word leaves his lips, he turns and stalks away.

But I guess I’ve completely cracked because I can’t just leave it at that. I’m angry and it all just bubbles out of me.

“So that’s what this is now?” I call after him. “A competition of ‘who’s the worst’?”

He stops but doesn’t turn around.

But I’m not done. “You think you can just call yourself an asshole and that excuses everything. Well, guess what? I’m an asshole, too. I let a sweet, trusting guy believe I had feelings for him because I was afraid to be alone. I’m estranged from my only living relative because I’m too ashamed of the mess I’ve become to speak to him anymore. I’ve spent most of my life pretending to be this selfless, generous person when in reality it was all just a show. I don’t look at anything or anyone except to figure out how I might use them to make myself feel better.” I throw my arms wide. “So there you have it. I’m just a selfish bitch.”

He’s finally turning back toward me, but I can’t bear to look at his face. I don’t want to see his reaction to my words. It’s too late to stop them. Everything that’s been lingering just beneath the surface of my skin these past few days comes rushing forward—the guilt, the pain, the anger.

“It’s all a lie,” I say. “All of this. Everything I do. It’s all a lie. And I’m alone at the center of it. So don’t you dare act like you the only one who—”

Suddenly his hand is on my cheek, tilting my face upward, and before I have the chance to say another word, he’s kissing me.

Heat explodes through me even as my mind struggles to shift gears. But it doesn’t matter. A hot, wild energy pulses in me, and all the anger and pain I was finally expressing rushes toward this new outlet. My fingers clutch at Ward’s shirt and my mouth, hungry and eager, falls open beneath his.

For a moment, our lips grapple with each other, and then I wrench my head away.

“Asshole,” I breathe into the night air.

Something flashes in his eyes, but I tighten my grip on his shirt and pull him down to me.

“You horrible… despicable… asshole…” I say between my attacks on his mouth.

His hand slides to the back of my head and twists almost painfully in my hair. His lips are just as aggressive, his body responding to the energy of my own.

“You terrible… selfish… bitch,” he murmurs against my lips.

His words awaken a strange, mad joy in me. I press against him, and it’s not until he groans that I remember his injuries. I jerk back.