Sugar on the Edge (14 page)

“So… um… listen, buddy. We’re going to have to clean it out,” he says sadly, and I grip the edge of my desk as darkness clouds my vision. “What do you want me to do with Charlie’s stuff?”

My eyes flick to the photo of Charlie on my desk, and his smile fails to warm me. I think about all of Charlie’s things in his room. His octopus stuffed animal and his little red fire engine hat that had a light and siren on top that he loved to wear wherever we went. His little tennis shoes with Velcro straps and purple dinosaurs on them.

“Son?” my dad says gently. “What do you want me to do?”

I blink hard, trying to focus. Giving a little cough, I try to clear the emotion from my throat, but it doesn’t work. “Pack it up… give it all away to a charity or something,” I rasp out.

My dad is silent for a brief moment, and then he murmurs, “Okay. I’ll call you again in a few days to check in on you.”

“Okay,” I say absently, my mind already shutting down from this conversation. “Cheers.”

But then I abruptly call out to him, “Wait.”

“Gavin?”

“Just wait… don’t give it away. Hold it at your house if you don’t mind. I’m not ready…” I start to say, but then my voice cracks.

“I understand,” my dad says with only the grace that a parent can show to a child in pain. “Don’t worry about it, okay?”

“Okay,” I tell him.

We talk for a few more minutes, then my mum jumps on the phone to say hello. We carefully skirt around talking about Charlie, and when we disconnect, I’m relieved the conversation is over.

Setting my phone down on the desk, I scrub my hands over my face, and then through my hair, where I scratch at my scalp. I feel itchy all over and resist the urge to scratch at the skin on my arms. I wait for sadness to seep in, but as I look back over at Charlie’s photo, I feel anger surge through me.

Hot, acidic, burning, lava-like anger builds, roiling and racing through my body. I want to hurt someone… lash out at them. Make them feel what I feel, so maybe if by sharing the burden, it will hurt me less.

I briefly think about Savannah downstairs, obliviously immersed in her own little world, and the urge to break her cleanly in half to alleviate some of my own misery takes root. I could walk downstairs right now and with a few seductive words have her begging me for it. I could bend her over the couch, fuck her hard, and then tell her to get the hell out of my house because she wasn’t any good.

Yeah, that would crush her… demoralize her beyond repair probably.

And I’d feel good for a few minutes after, I’m sure.

But then I think about having to see the pain in those soft, brown eyes and the anger turns directly inward at me, punching me in my stomach with the force of a nuclear bomb.

Hurtling out of my chair, I grab the edge of my desk and pull upward as hard as I can, toppling it over and sending my laptop and Charlie’s photo crashing to the floor. I don’t give a moment’s thought to neither the laptop nor the precious manuscript I had been working on, but immediately run around the overturned desk and grab the frame that holds Charlie’s picture. The glass is shattered, causing dark, fractured spiderwebs to obscure his smiling face.

A knock sounds at my door, as I pull the picture in tight to my chest.

“Gavin… is everything okay?” I hear Savannah call out.

“It’s fine,” I tell her, and my voice catches. Clearing my throat, I call out again. “It’s fine. Go away.”

“Are you sure?” she asks hesitantly.

The anger flashes hot, and I yell, “Sod off already. I said I’m fine.”

She doesn’t answer me, and I can hear her footsteps fall softly away from the door. Leaning back against the wall, I bang my head against it once.

Fuck… when will this ever end?

It’s amazing the way people will fawn all over you when you’re paying $140,000 in cash for a car.

Here’s your Perrier, Mr. Cooke, with a slice of lime.

Can we run out and get you some lunch, Mr. Cooke?

Is it warm enough in here for you, Mr. Cooke?

Can I strip you naked and ride you hard, Mr. Cooke?

Okay, that last one didn’t happen, but the receptionist that sits behind her black, lacquered desk and gushed over him for ten minutes before asking for an autograph most certainly was asking that in her mind. I could see it in her eyes.

To give him credit, Gavin takes it all in stride, waving most of them away with an impatient hand. He gave the autograph to the bleached-blonde receptionist, but barely spared her a glance and assured everyone he didn’t need anything but his car.

I watch as Gavin goes through the paperwork, signing and initialing wherever the salesman points his finger. I can’t fathom what it’s like to have that much money, yet he never acts entitled or better than everyone else. Sure, his house is huge, but he told me on the drive up here that he would prefer something small like the little two-bedroom flat he had in London, but that he didn’t want anyone near him. He didn’t tell me why he felt the need to buy a brand new Maserati Quattroporte, especially when he never goes anywhere, but I didn’t think to question him on that.

Besides, he worked most of the way up here as he said he would—laptop propped on his lap—and I listened to my music through my ear buds so as not to disturb him. There really wasn’t any opportunity to do much talking.

Gavin had sent me a text Wednesday night, telling me what time to be at his house. When I showed up this morning, he met me out on his front porch and barely grunted a hello, but he did order me out of my car, insisting we’d take his rental to Raleigh so we could leave it there.

I wanted to ask him so badly about the noise I heard in his office on Tuesday. It was a massive crash, and I’m guessing it was his desk. Those things don’t just topple over on their own, so I have to assume he upended it. When I went to check on him, he was clearly upset… I could hear it in the tone of his voice, before he snarled at me to leave him alone.

His tone scared me… vicious and pain filled all at the same time. I hesitated for just a moment, feeling like I should push the door open and see what I could do to help, then I remembered that Gavin Cooke is nothing more than my employer. A darkly compelling and extremely sexy employer… but nothing more.

“You ready to go?” Gavin says to me as he stands from the salesman’s desk. He looks so amazing, wearing a pair of charcoal-gray slacks and a long-sleeved, lightweight black sweater. The temperature was supremely brisk this morning, and we both dressed accordingly. I chose to wear a light, wool skirt in brown-and-red plaid with brown tights, paired with a pair of brown Mary Janes and a cream sweater. Living on the sunny beaches of North Carolina, I tend to dress in shorts and tank tops for a good chunk of the year, but when I feel the nip of cold weather, I’m all over the appropriate fashions… wool, tights, boots, and trendy scarves. I only get to experience it for a few months a year.

I follow Gavin outside, the salesman hot on his heels. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take you out on a drive first, to show you all the features?”

Shaking his head, Gavin heads to the passenger side of the shiny black car, that I have to admit, is one of the most beautiful vehicles I’ve ever seen with its gently curved, sleek lines and polished chrome accents. He opens the door and motions me inside. “No thanks. I think I can figure it out.”

“But I need to show you how to transition between automatic and manual,” the salesman practically whines as I slide onto the butter-soft, white leather seat. I’m sure he’s never had someone buy a car completely untested before.

I don’t hear Gavin’s response because he closes the door once my legs are securely in and walks around the front of the car with the salesman trailing behind. When he opens the driver’s door, I hear him say, “Here are the keys to my rental. Someone will be by to pick it up later today.”

He tosses the keys to the salesman, who fumbles them briefly, looking utterly put out at not being able to show off the car.

Gavin slides into the driver’s seat, and he looks so natural doing it. “Thanks for your help,” he tells the salesman, who looks completely flummoxed, and shuts the door in his face. Starting the car, he revs the engine hard, causing the salesman to jump backward a step.

I cover my mouth with my hand so as not to laugh, and Gavin shoots me a sideways grin. Putting his seatbelt on, he says, “Ready to see what this puppy can do?”

“I can see it already put a dent in your wallet,” I quip as I pull my seatbelt on.

He puts the car in reverse, backs it away from the salesman, who gives us a small wave, with a smile now on his face as I’m sure he’s calculating the commission he just made. “It’s just money,” Gavin says.

“Says the person who has it oozing out of his pores,” I say with a snort.

Putting the car in drive, Gavin pulls away from the sales lot and out on to Capital Boulevard. “You sound like you begrudge me my newly earned wealth.”

“Not at all. I think if I had as much money as you, I’d buy this car too. And one for each of my friends.”

Gavin gives a short laugh but it’s genuine, and I realize I don’t think I’ve heard such an easy sound come from him before. It’s nice.

“So, tell me about your friends,” he says casually as we make our way south down Capital back to the beltline. “I’ve already deduced you’re friends with that bartender at Last Call. Not lovers, by the way.”

“Not lovers,” I agree. “That’s Brody, and he’s not a bartender. He was just filling in that night. He actually runs The Haven with his fiancée, Alyssa.”

“You have a lot of respect for them,” he deduces from the tone of my voice.

“A ton. Alyssa is like a saint. She started The Haven a few years back and was working her fingers to the bone to keep it going. Brody has been working with her full time for a few months now.”

“What did he do before that?” Gavin asks inquisitively.

“He was in prison,” I say softly, wondering if whenever I think of Brody being locked away for something he didn’t do will ever not cause me pain.

“You’re kidding,” Gavin says with disbelief.

“No. Drunk driving accident and someone died.”

“That’s awful,” he says in commiseration. “How long was he away for?”

“Five long years.”

We’re silent for a few moments, and I have no clue if Gavin wants to ask me more about Brody or not. It’s a morbid story, which would hold fascination for even the most disinterested person, but he instead asks, “What about your other friends? The group of girls you were with the other night.”

“You know Casey already, but Alyssa was there, and the other woman is Gabby. Her fiancé, Hunter, is Brody’s twin brother and he also owns Last Call.”

“Twin brothers, both engaged to girls that are close friends,” Gavin ruminates. “Will there be a double wedding?”

“No clue,” I say with a grin. “But it was a double engagement. The boys pulled it off and proposed at the same time.”

“Quite the tight little circle you have there,” he muses.

“Not really. I mean… they’ve all known each other for years. I’m new to the group and not as close to them. Well, I am to Brody, but we tend to work a lot together at The Haven.”

“And Alyssa doesn’t get jealous,” Gavin teases.

I snort. “If you knew Alyssa… and if you knew the relationship she and Brody have together, you’d never ask that.”