Enemies & Lovers Page 4

  Jesus, this is not the same sweet boy I knew years ago. Well, screw him. He doesn’t get to come in here while I’m dealing with cleaning out my dead mother’s stuff and yell at me. I fold my arms across my chest and give him a hard look. There is no way I’m going to let him talk to me like this.

  He steps forward, narrowing his eyes into thin slits. “I asked you what—”

  “Who are you?” I ask, harshly.

  There’s a slight flinch back to my question, but he recovers quicker than I’d like him to. Because of course he does. Rich, white boys always get the upper hand. “I highly doubt you’d forget who you lost your virginity to, unless all us men just blur together for you Radcliffe women after a while.”

  Heat flashes through my body and I swear my scalp feels like it’s tightening and crawling off my head at the same time. “Nope, you must have just been extremely forgettable, I suppose.” I sneak a peek at the window. How bad would going down a mountain in the snow with my car be right now? Probably not as dangerous as staying in here trying not to claw Vaughn Montgomery’s stupid smirk off. And that’s what he was doing, smirking at me. Smirking like he didn’t believe he was easily forgettable to lose my virginity to. It wasn’t, but it was useless even thinking about the issue.

  I thought it hurt before, when I realized all those years ago that I’d never be able to see the Montgomerys again, but this is worse. Seeing him and hearing his voice, his harsh tone, it’s making my insides sore. Why does he hate me so much? I’m not the one that did anything wrong.

  I could pretend I’m not me. I could just ignore the giant mammoth of a man snarling in the middle of the room and finish packing up my mother’s belongings and be finally done with the Montgomery family once and for all. I clear my throat and make my way over to the dining room table and the small box of my mother’s things. It always enraged him to be ignored.

  I can feel his eyes on me, they heat my skin and make me wish I could step out of myself and just disappear. He’s glaring at me, trying to intimidate me, and there’s no way in hell that’s going to work for him. There was a time, long ago, when I would have cared about his feelings and his thoughts, but no more. I’m completely finished with anything that have to do with the Montgomerys. I hate my mother for this, and the thought of her—of hating her—makes tears prick at my eyes. I need to get out of here. I feel like I can’t breathe. God, why did she have to go and do this?

  My phone buzzes in my fist and another flash of warmth rushes through my body. I slip the phone onto the table and a swirl of vertigo hits me. For a brief second, I had forgotten about the texts. I grab onto the edge of the table and fight the sudden urge to sit down. If I don’t stay here and find the paperwork I need, my career is over. Even if I email the headmaster of the school, my reputation is not getting out of this unharmed. How am I supposed to leave and find the offshore bank account information at the same time? A thousand scenarios flip through my mind, but I can’t see my way out of this. I can’t leave without what I came for, but I can’t stay much longer either. I don’t know what to do. If I could just find the accounts…

  The bastard is still behind me, watching my every move.

  “Turn around,” he rumbles.

  I don’t. I start packing my mother’s stuff. A bunch of cotton shirts, all size medium. An apron with No bitchin’ in my kitchen written across the front pocket. A pile of folders I flick through quickly, that are nothing more than recipes and bits and pieces of her life here. I slow down and focus on each item, trying to figure out why she chose this life over being with me.

  “Claire.” His voice has lost its venomous tone.

  Caught off guard by its softness, I peek back over my shoulder. Such a stupid thing to do. Something in his steel-gray eyes make me feel like the floor is falling away from my feet. My entire body lights up like I’m fifteen again. I turn my back to him quickly and throw the next object in the box. I think it’s a small statue of an elephant. I hear it crack when it hits against something else in the box and I almost lose it.

  He takes a step closer to where I’m standing. My mouth goes dry. I feel too vulnerable. I’m rummaging through dead people’s things trying to find money that isn’t mine to give it away to someone I don’t know. Sweat breaks out across my forehead. Jesus, this makes me feel like a criminal somehow. I’d be horrible if I ever had to rob a bank. My head turns and my eyes flash up to his again. The way he’s watching me is unnerving, and something else fumbles out of my trembling hands.

  This feels way too dangerous. What if he grew up to be a lunatic? What if he finds out I’m trying to get his father’s back account information and he chops me up into little pieces? Ten years ago, I would have said Vaughn would have never hurt a fly. But with the way he’s looking at me right now, my heart should be exploding in my chest and I should be dropping dead any second.

  I want to explain that I’ll be out of his hair in just a few minutes—that I just need to go through the rest of my mom’s stuff to find some of her financial papers or something, but my mouth doesn’t seem to want to work. The truth is I don’t want to talk to him, I’m way too embarrassed by the whole situation. I want to pretend he’s not here and find what I need to get on with my life.

  He shifts his body and now he’s next to me, leaning his weight against the table, facing me. He smells amazing. Whatever expensive cologne he’s wearing is worth every penny he’s paid for it. I can’t stop myself from taking full deep breaths of it.

  I suddenly, desperately want to look up at him, to study every line and nuance of his face. I want to see how he’s changed and to learn what kind of person he’s turned into. It’s confusing but understandable. I mean, how can I not want to see him, to gawk at him for a few moments? This was someone I thought I once loved. He was the boy I lost my virginity to, the boy I foolishly thought I would end up marrying.

  How naïve I was then, how naïve we all were.

  I sought him out twice on social media over the last ten years, trying to sneak a peek into the life of a boy that was once my whole world. There was always a beautiful girl on his arm, smiling next to him for the camera. It’s warranted, of course, he’s absurdly gorgeous. Just from the quick peeks I’m sneaking I can tell he’s a thousand times better looking than when he was a teenager. Because of course he is. Chiseled perfectly as if by a sculptor commissioned to create the ideal of a flawless man. Precise, perfect features, angular and hard. Soft dark hair and expressive, slate-gray eyes that would concentrate on you with an irresistible possessiveness, able to talk you out of your deepest secrets. His build is powerful with broad shoulders and the sort of muscular arms and chest that stretch the fabric of his designer dress shirt and make you instantly fantasize about what he’d look like with it gone.

  For his sake, though, I hope his personality is nothing like his father’s.

  A cheater. A liar. A womanizer.

  It’s right after this thought I realize Vaughn and I are standing face to face, eyes locked on each other’s. Silence raining down around us, heavy and suffocating, promising to stretch into eternity.

  He swallows. I watch the bob of his Adam’s apple and try to ignore the growing tightness in my chest.

  “Claire? I don’t understand. What’s really going on here?” His dark gray eyes flick down past me to what I’m boxing up. “What are you doing here?” His voice is no louder than a whisper.

  I can’t answer him. I feel so guilty, like my mother’s sins are stained to my skin. It makes me feel filthy. My eyes well with tears. I can’t do this—I cannot break down in front of him, but the pressure is building. My mother killed herself because she couldn’t live without his father. I have nothing to say to make this better. There’re no words to make the weight of this any lighter. The explanation stalls on the tip of my tongue, they are disgusting hateful reasons, that I cannot bear to say—because if they come out and Vaughn hears them, there’s no coming back, there’s no redemption. I pay for their indiscretions, l
ike I have in the past. There’s what they did to me and my life, over and over, even in death. I’m not someone who falls apart easily, but right now it’s too fresh of an open wound and he’s here to witness and rub his salt deep inside me. This humiliation is unbearable, it can’t be seen or touched, explained or put to words, it’s felt deep with the shattered pieces of my broken heart. My eyes glance to the pictures of them on the wall. I want to smash each one with my fist, again. Instantly, his gaze follows mine and darts around the room, over the pictures, flittering past the things that were kept hidden of them for so long.

  “Oh my God—” he doesn’t say anything else for an excruciatingly long time, but I can see the exact moment he realizes, the very moment he knows our parents’ sins. He stops breathing for a second, his body stills and tenses, then his eyes brimming with unadulterated hatred rain down on mine. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Does your mother live here? With him? They were together? All this time? And you lived here with them?”

  He swipes his arm across the table and the box of my mother’s belongings crashes down, spilling all its contents across the floor. “How could you?” he rages, spinning around wildly. “How could you do this, again?” He slams his palms on the table. “What is wrong with the both of you?”

  And here I am again, thrown back into the gutter, lower than dirt, even more worthless than the shadow of Libby Radcliffe that’s held me captive for years. It’s here where I can hear my heart, my soul, everything I am made of straining under the weight of all the sins I did not commit. And I don’t know how I’m going to survive through this hell once more.

  Chapter 5

  Hello, Claire.

  Since sending her on my little treasure hunt, Claire hasn’t answered my texts. Oh, Claire, this makes me feel a bit uneasy about our relationship. A bit stabby. I hoped she would be more pliable to our situation. I thought she was when she ran around her tiny row-house apartment she lives in this morning, taking off work, making her little bereavement plans. Crying and crying. I truly felt I had her under my control.

  I stood just outside the open window to her kitchen and watched her eat her cereal, just as it started to snow. She took one bite then forgot about the rest as she stared down at the table. She’s one of those women who leaves her windows wide open, even when the snow came in, fat flakes melting as they hit down against her curtains. It never crossed her mind someone might be lurking; watching. I’m quite surprised Claire’s never learned to have a better sense of safety or privacy. Anyone could just peek in and watch her. Climb in and hurt her. Drag her out and take her. Hasn’t she ever watched a horror movie? All sorts of horrible things are possible.

  I watched with bated breath as her friend walked her to the car this morning, tears in her eyes. The friend’s eyes not Claire’s. Then I stood in the cold, beneath the windowsill while her friend ate the rest of Claire’s unfinished breakfast and left the dirty dishes in the sink. What sort of friends do you keep, Claire? She flipped through a few pages of a book Claire was reading then tossed it to scroll Instagram. Her profile is public, so I heart the idiotic picture she just took of Claire’s book pretending she actually read it. Ah, the greatness of social media: the never-ending pursuit to prove to a few hundred followers that you’re not a lonely, shallow loser and you have a perfect life. Be jealous of me, please. It’s the only way I can feel better about myself. The friend stayed until she got a text that someone was there to pick her up. She left, locking up the front door. They both left the windows open. Those windows are always open. So, I climbed inside. Again. Who wants to stay outside in the snow?

  Not me.

  A few hours later, the ground is pristine and white. The tree branches in the front yard bend and creak with the weight of the snow. I sit in the kitchen sipping the coffee I made from your last scoop of grounds. It’s watered down and tasteless, but it’s the only thing keeping me awake. Maybe if you’re good, Claire, if you do everything I ask of you, maybe I’ll splurge and buy you a Keurig. What’s that worth to you, Claire?

  The GPS on her phone tells me she’s an hour away, somewhere in the mountains. Oh, Claire, are you too afraid to come home in the snow with your car? That thing is a death box. Didn’t I hear once the Radcliffes only drove Porsches?

  If you’re not home by nightfall, maybe I’ll stay here tonight and sleep on your bed, Claire. Under your covers. Between your sheets. I’ll wait for you.

  I sit back on her couch, kicking up my boots on her coffee table. Bored, I grab her laptop and wonder what secrets I might be able to find. It’s old and heavy. I don’t even need a password. It’s open to her AOL account and I read through all of her boring emails. I click open her file marked passwords and write them all down on the small notepad she keeps next to her empty refrigerator. When I get hungry, I crunch on ice cubes. I don’t want to waste her last pack of Ramen.

  What in the world is taking you so long, Claire Radcliffe?

  Fine, Claire, while I wait, I’ll pull up my favorite porn site and empty myself all over your pillows.

  Once,

  Twice,

  Three times.

  Chapter 6

  Claire

  I force myself to stay quiet while Vaughn storms through his father’s screw shack. He looks in each room with wild fiery eyes. I hear his disgust when he enters their bedroom and the shatter of glass as he throws one of their framed pictures against the far wall. He slams every door behind him as he stalks around. I kind of don’t blame him. It’s exactly what I did just before he barged in here.

  He ends his secret-sex-palace tour with a loud squelch of his wet shoes in front of me. “So, where’s my father’s whore?” he says.

  I flinch back at the question.

  His lips twitch upward. He’s happy he’s getting under my skin. I shake my head and reach down for the box on the floor. “You Montgomerys never change, do you? Always so vulgar and disgusting.” I start to gather all the fallen items and toss them back into the box quickly. I’ll have to come back when he’s gone. He towers over me as I’m crawling on the floor trying to grab what’s left of the person who gave birth to me. I don’t want to be here any longer. I refuse to submit myself to his wrath. There are too many other things I’m dealing with and his tantrum is the least important.

  I look up when he shifts his body in my path. The way he’s scowling down at me makes it’s difficult to ever think our families could have once been so close—or me and him for that matter.

  I climb to my feet and hug the box to my chest.

  Vaughn steps directly in front of me and grabs the box out of my hands, plopping it dramatically on the table. “I asked you a question. Where’s your mother?”

  “Dead.”

  Vaughn snickers. I guess he doesn’t believe me.

  I stand my ground and glare back at him until the skin around his eyes soften.

  “Shit… Are you serious?” he asks.

  “Someone found her body here two days ago. She’d been dead for a few days.” I point up to the ceiling. “Hanging from a rope on that beam, right there.”

  His eyes snap up to the open beam and back to mine. “She hanged herself?”

  I watch his lips as he asks, hating myself for noticing how much fuller they were since the last time he’d kissed me. I need to leave, like yesterday.

  I push past him and pick up the box once more.

  “And you lived here with them? My father, his mistress, and her daughter? A nice cozy little family, huh?”

  The question makes heat shoot up from the tip of my toes to the top of my scalp. “No, this is… I… they called me to come and get her stuff. I didn’t know—”

  “Yeah, right.” He leans forward. “You and she lived here on my father’s dime, like two kept women. What did you do to keep him paying for you? I certainly remember all the things you did to keep my attention.”

  I slam the box down on the table. Something else inside sounds like it cracks. “This is the first time I ever ste
pped foot in this goddamn place, asshole.” I want to shove the box at him; hit him with it. Slap at him with my bare hands. “How heartless of a man must you be to skip right over my mother killed herself and accuse me of living here with them? How could you think I would ever be okay with what they did? The thought of them being together all this time tightens around my neck like my own noose.”

  He moves closer. His mouth opens to speak, but I don’t give him the chance.

  “And you don’t get to bring up anything you and I both did willingly together back then and slut shame me. Ever,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “That’s all you’ve got to say on the subject, right? That’s all you have to say after your mother ruined my family? I hope this makes you feel really good, Claire,” he barks, throwing his hands into the air.

  “You want to know how I feel? It’s the best fucking feeling in the world, Vaughn. Being able to look at the one person who fucking destroyed me and not feel a goddamn thing,” I screech.

  “Whatever. Are you done here? Can you just leave?” He gestures to the front door.

  “Gladly.” I hate you. I hate all you arrogant, Montgomerys. I hate you all so much that looking at you I can hardly breathe. I rush toward the door and fumble with the knob and the box until it opens and a blast of frigid air blows back my hair.

  I barrel out and onto the small front porch. Vaughn crashes the door closed behind me. I peer over the top of the box and all I see is a thick wall of white. Ah-ha, this must be what a snow squall is—I was hoping it was some sort of a north-eastern snow bird.

  I lower the box and try to get a better view. I’m not sure where my car is, there are car-shaped lumps of snow everywhere. Great, this is prefect weather to match my mood. My insides are a rolling mess of emotions. I’m so angry; at the Montgomerys; at my mother, but mixed in with that there’s this bitter sharp sadness that aches in my chest. Over the last ten years my mother wanted nothing to do with me. She locked me away in a school far away from her and left me there. Alone. All along I thought she was heartbroken my father left her, that maybe I reminded her of their marriage and her mistake. But she wasn’t living her life making amends for what she’d done, she never stopped doing what was wrong. She just stopped being my mother. That’s what she chose.