One Less Problem Without You (27 page)

She'd told him she was afraid of the guy. When he asked why (Should he have had to ask? Or should he have just shown up,
for once
?), she had told him she wasn't quite sure. Just a weird vibe. He hung up on her. She ended up walking three miles home in the middle of the night. Then he told on her anyway.

It was impossible to explain to anyone. First of all, everyone loved him. For whatever reason, everyone fell for all of his crap. Whenever she
tried
to explain it to anyone, all they did was laugh politely or roll their eyes, as if this were just normal sibling stuff. He was just being an older brother. He was just being a teenager. He was just being a good brother, telling their parents about her sneaking out.

Right.

And now she sat here at his rehearsal dinner, drinking Who-Cares-How-Expensive Chardonnay, wishing she could crack the bottle over his stupid head. She knew she was being childish, but that's what he turned her into. He treated her like a bratty, precocious child, and she got as angry as one.

All of his friends looked like complete jerks, too, she noted. And if her intuition meant anything, she could see where they were all headed. She could see what kind of people they were.

Best Man
:
Looks at gay porn in the bathroom at work, then pretends to be “just not that sexual” with his wife at home.

Best Man's Wife: Cheating on him with no one in particular, but whomever she wants, whenever she wants.

Groomsman #1: Leif's longtime best friend. They buried a rabbit in the ground once. A live rabbit.

Groomsman #2: Kicked a homeless man on a dare—but would have done it without the dare.

Groomsman #3: Is only friends with Leif for the money.

Disgusting. Everything about Leif and the world he had created was horrific.

Diana. Prinny stared at her.

Diana was good. Diana loved Leif and saw nothing beyond what he wanted her to. But she would
.

Prinny got uncomfortable chills thinking about it. She hoped to God it wouldn't be bad. Hopefully he was just a regular jerk, and she'd pick up on it and leave him high and dry when she realized it.

It won't be like that. It'll be bad for a long time. And then it'll be worse. Then it will be over.

She took another swig of wine and stood up from the table. They had taken a limo to the restaurant, which he had rented out, so she couldn't escape yet. But she could at least get some fresh air while that awful, disjointed party sat around getting too drunk and talking about
nothing
.

At least nothing good.

Prinny wasn't outside more than five minutes before the hairs stood up on her neck. She felt him before she heard the door open.

Lo and behold, preceded by the stench of Marcassin Pinot Noir and Lagavulin, Leif had arrived on the front porch.

Why? Why did he always have to follow her? Poking her, prodding her when they were kids; finding a way to do it now, too.

“Good evening, Princess.” He walked over to her on the top step and leaned on the opposite post. Smiling at her, he pulled a cigar from one inside pocket and an expensive lighter from another.

When the air wafted toward her, she could smell that it wasn't, in fact, just a cigar.

“Are you smoking
pot
right now? Seriously?”

Gripping it between his teeth, he put out his arms. “What?”

“You're a grown man, and this is your rehearsal dinner! You're going to get high, like it's some, what, basement frat party?”

“Fuck off,” he said, still with the thing between his teeth. He lit the end.

“Me? I was out here first.”

See? He always made her sound like an impatient little kid.

He inhaled, holding his breath, squinting, and then coughing the deep, unhealthy coughs she'd heard so many times through their walls. In fact, that's why she knew the smell so well. It used to creep like noxious gas from his window into hers. That was one of the deeply inherent differences between the two of them: She might open her window in the summertime to let a breeze in, or in the wintertime to look out and smell the coming snow, and he opened the window so that he could blow smoke outside.

“So, you having a good night?” he asked, as if he hadn't just been a dick.

“Yes, it's very nice, Leif. A seriously wonderful night you've put on for us all.”

He didn't miss the sarcasm. At least he wasn't too stupid to miss her jabs completely. That would be less satisfying.

“You like Diana?”

“She seems nice.” This time she meant it. “I don't really know her that well, of course.”

“She is nice. She's a good cook. She wants to be June Cleaver. And I'm just the guy to let her do it. Though ol' Mrs. Cleaver didn't seem like she had much NC-17 in her.”

“Oh, ew, Leif. God.” Prinny had a gulp of her wine.

“She's not really my type, though.”

“No? I thought your type was ‘willing.'”

He laughed. “Good one, Princess.”

She hated it when he called her that. It had a sick, poisonous undertone when he did. So different from when her father said it. Even though she could do without the nickname all together.

Then she got the vibe. She might have expected it. He was marrying Diana because she was good. Not
too
good. She didn't outshine him in any ways. She wasn't even prettier than he was. But she was good, and the longer he had a history with a good woman, the better that was going to make him look as he got older.

Many men just wanted arm candy, someone to look hot and make them look like they must be good with the ladies. Not Leif. His ambitions were far reaching.

Poor Diana was playing checkers, and Leif was playing chess.

“If she's not your type, you shouldn't marry her,” Prinny said. “Let her off the hook.”

He ignored her and continued his thought. “My type is more blond hair, blue eyes.”

“Creative.” Prinny looked out on the lawn, already wishing there was more wine in her glass. She could escape and go in to get more, but then he'd just follow her there, too. All she wanted was for him to lose interest in the fresh air he was decreasing and to go back inside to the party on his own.

“That sort of old-time movie star look, you know?”

She made a face. “What does that even
mean
?”

“Your mom had what I'm talking about.” He inhaled again, the next part of his sentence coming out from a tight, held breath. “Your mom was smokin' hot.”

Ew
didn't even begin to cover it.

With an icy, nauseating chill, she felt something coming off of him.

He wants you.

She felt like a bag of slimy, wet, diseased, dirty rats had just been dumped on her head. She wanted to throw up, run away, scream, something, anything.

“Yeah, your mom was
good
.” He dragged out the word in a way that made her feel even sicker. “You look just like her, you know. I've seen pictures. In fact, I've seen a few pictures you probably haven't.”

She shot a look at him. He winked at her and then looked her up and down quickly.

That couldn't be true. How … No, she had to believe he was making that up.

“Yeah, you two look
just
alike.”

His implication made her take a step forward and smack him hard in the face. The cigar, joint, blunt, whatever it was called, fell from his mouth to the ground. He looked at it and then at her in stunned silence for a second before picking it up and putting it back in his mouth.

She was frozen as she watched him. In the blink of an eye, he grabbed her by her shoulders and threw her down the three steps into the grass.

Prinny was so surprised that for a moment she didn't react at all. Then suddenly, like a child who'd skinned her knee, she wished she could burst into embarrassed tears. But she couldn't. She
wouldn't
.

All he did was inhale again and then give a nod at the ground next to her. “That wineglass break? Too bad. Riedel crystal. And good wine. Damn.” He shook his head as if his team had just missed a field goal. “What a waste.”

Another moment passed of Prinny just hoping to God he'd go inside.

And then he put out his cigar and gestured at the glass again. “You should really clean that up. Someone could get hurt.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Chelsea

It was a couple of days before Chelsea was able to recover herself enough to go back to work at the store and several weeks before she could muster the courage to go stand in public again, where anyone and everyone could observe her with or without her realizing it.

The very idea spooked her now in a way it never had before. She felt on display. Wasn't it part of her intrinsic self to
crave
that?

She blamed herself for overcompensating for her humiliation with Jeff that night. If she hadn't been on such a
to hell with men
tear, maybe none of that would have happened.

It was going to be tough to face him again.

She would have liked to stay in bed forever, but that wasn't happening. She couldn't afford that. She couldn't afford to miss work, and she couldn't afford to dissolve into a pool of misery from which she could never climb out.

Besides, she was putting a burden on her co-workers by not showing up. She knew that already, but when she got to Union Station for the first time after her … experience … the first person she saw was Jeff.

“Hey, we missed you!” he said with bright enthusiasm.

He had no idea what she'd been through, and part of her wished he did, while the other part wanted to hide it completely. He had no idea how damaged she was. That she was a different person now than she had been when she'd last seen him.

“Oh, hey, sorry.”

His entire face changed, from open happiness to concern. “What's wrong, Chelsea?”

“Wrong? Nothing. I'm just tired.” God, could he read it all over her face? Was it that obvious? Was he remembering that night, too, her pitiable attempt to ask him out and his rejection?

She wanted to turn and run and never come back. Dye her hair, change her name, start over in another state.

Not New York. Not California. Her acting dreams were diminished. She couldn't even
act
like nothing was wrong now, in front of one virtual stranger. No, she would move to Cincinnati or something and be an administrative assistant in a company no one had ever heard of.

Then
she'd be safe.

Except.

Except she'd thought she
was
safe and it turned out she wasn't after all. Maybe that state didn't exist. It wasn't Ohio.

It might as well be Narnia.

“Chelsea.” He didn't get closer, but something about his energy shifted and it felt as if he did. “There's something wrong.”

“I'm fine.”

“Really?” He said it as if he knew just how big a lie that was.

“Really.”

“I hope … I hope that I didn't do anything to offend you.”

“Not at all.”
Except totally. But that doesn't matter anymore. Much more important things came to matter instead.
She gave a smile so unconvincing that it probably came off as weird.

“Okay, well, we're on together today. So I hope you're okay with that?”

Act normal. Get it together. Be professional. Stop being like this.
“Sure, what's the pose?”

“A painting by some guy named Maxwell or something. Maxfield, maybe?”

“Maxfield Parrish?”

“That's it!”

Once upon a time she had dreamed of stepping into a Maxfield Parrish painting. She wasn't going to let that asshole Lee take that away from her. She was going to dive right into this.

At least the best she could. Because she had to.

They turned their backs on each other and put on their bodysuits, then opened a can of the greasepaint they had to use to cover their bodies.

“Could you get the middle of my back for me?” Jeff asked, looking a little shamefaced under the white curtain of makeup between his skin and the rest of the world. “I forgot the stick I normally use for that.”

Chelsea swallowed. “Yeah.” She didn't want to touch a man right now, that was for sure.

He handed her the paint and turned his back to her.

She took the sponge brush they used and started smoothing it over his skin. And she was amazed at how sensual and yet
not
sensual it felt. The warmth from his body was comforting, kind; it didn't have uncomfortable sexual overtones. There was no sense of threat from him at all. Just his own vulnerability in his smooth, bare skin.

Huh.

She finished and set the can down. “You should stand in front of the fan for a few minutes. I put it on a bit thick.”

“Thanks.” He moved to the fan and stood with his back to it. “So, tell me, what do you plan to do after this?”

Now he was going to ask her on a pity date? Where he could either try to subtly toss in a bunch of hints that he “just wanted to be friends,” or where at some point he would “get everything out on the table” and tell her he just wasn't into her? As if she didn't get that yet?

No thanks. She did
not
have the time or inclination for that.

She bristled at the very idea. “Oh, I'm just going to go home and get some sleep. I'm really tired.” She made a show of yawning, to prove it.

He laughed. “I mean after this job. Are you planning to go onstage or into movies like so many people here, or what?”

She was surprised at his question. It wasn't like it was so easy to just
decide
to go onstage or into the movies. If she could have just
decided
that, she would have done it a long time ago, and she wouldn't have this bullshit job as a statue in a train station.