The Inheritance (Volume Two) Page 5

  “Caitlin,” Neal says, burying his head into my neck, his mouth scratching against my skin.

  “Yes,” I moan, gripping his shoulders harder.

  “I’m close,” he groans.

  I open my legs a little wider, taking him in more. He hooks his hips and hits that spot inside of me, a burst of warmth spreading across my stomach.

  “I’m gonna come,” I say.

  A guttural moan flies from his throat. His muscles tighten across his back. He’s close.

  He comes seconds after I do, my head tilted back, a silent moan rushing through me as my muscles expand and contract. He shudders, his teeth biting on my exposed shoulder before he collapses atop me.

  The two of us collect our breaths, sticky, wet and clothed and wrapped up in one another. Neal rests his head on my chest, his breath ghosting across my clothed breasts, mine skirting across his hair.

  After a few moments his head pops up. “You mind if I stay the night? I would love to go another round without all of this,” he tugs on my dress, “in the way.”

  I don’t even try to bite back my smile.

  Six

  Around nine in the morning Ashleigh texts me, the ping of my cell phone pulling me out of bed. We should probably get going soon. She means back to The Palmer House, to pick up our bags and check out before noon. I text her back: Alright.

  The weight of the night before is apparent in my bones. I’m covered in Neal’s scent, the smell of him thick in my hair and mouth and between my legs, the taste of him heavy on my tongue. He surrounds me, suffocates me, and yet he’s nowhere to be found. Once again Neal’s fucked me and dashed.

  I swallow my disappointment and sense of shock. I refuse to allow Neal to turn me into one of those stupid girls who wear the word “doormat” like a perfect shade of lipstick. Like my mother said after Justin cheated and I sat in my bedroom, drafting the ways I could get him back: “If he’s done it once, he’ll probably do it again. Men aren’t that complex.”

  The smell of eggs fills my nostrils as I cross the hall to the bathroom. Ashleigh must be in the kitchen making breakfast, something I was sure she’s incapable of.

  Standing beneath the spray of hot water I scrub my skin until I’m pink, desperately erasing all trace of Neal. I fill my mouth with water and spit out his name.

  Neal Dietrich.

  He means nothing to me. He’s given me what I wanted and I’ve done the same for him, spreading my legs and lacing my fingers in his hair. One last fuck for posterity. By the end of the week he’ll be nothing but a memory - That guy who took over my father’s business. – nothing more, nothing less.

  My hair’s in a sloppy wet bun when I open my closet door, pieces of sixteen-year-old-Caitlin staring back at me. Her plaid dress with the white collar, four pairs of bell bottom jeans, a black skirt that was too tight and too short (a birthday present from Suzanne who handed it to me with a wink), and a few plain colored tees. I throw on the dress. Very nineties.

  Ashleigh throws a pot in the sink as I round the corner to the kitchen.

  She hasn’t been slaving over an aromatic breakfast, Neal has. He stands between the sink and the stove, boxers slung low on his hips as three omelets cook on the griddle. A bowl of fruit glistens in the sink, doused in cold water, shocking them clean.

  He throws a glance over his shoulder, stubble’s dark and thick. He hasn’t had time to shave.

  “Good morning,” he says, grinning.

  This is the moment where I rub my eyes before blinking comically fast. Am I dreaming or is he really making me breakfast? All that anger I was trying to ignore, dissipates in an instant, replaced by a cool wave of relief.

  “Morning,” I say, hopping on the barstool, on the other side of the counter. “Where’d you get the food?”

  He says, “I don’t know if they have them in Baltimore, but in Chicago we have these things called grocery stores.”

  I roll my eyes, the inside of my cheek pulled between my teeth to keep myself from smiling.

  “Would you mind doing me a favor?” he says.

  “Depends on what it is.”

  From the fridge he pulls a glass of champagne and a carton of orange juice.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Mimosas?”

  “I thought you girls might like a glass.”

  As if on cue, Ashleigh wanders into the living room from the opposite side of the condo, dressed in jeans and a floral blouse. The door to my father’s bedroom is propped open.

  “Where did you and Chris sleep?” I ask, my lips tightening around a smile.

  “Chris?” she says, sliding on the stool beside me. “I sent him home last night. I slept by myself.” Her voice drops in time with her head, blond hair scraping across the counter, a swirl of yellow mixing with grey and black granite. Last night was probably the first time she slept in my father’s room without him, rolling around in a king-sized mattress that seemed never ending.

  I push the bottle of champagne in front of her. “Neal put us in charge of mimosas,” I say, plastering on a bright smile.

  She glances up at me, a strip of sadness melting away. “I’ll get the pitcher.”

  We have breakfast in the living room, Ashleigh sitting cross-legged on the floor, her plate atop the glass coffee table, fingers leaving behind milky prints. Neal and I sit on the couch, pushed to the edge, dropping splashes of our drinks on the wooden floor.

  My father would’ve killed us if he walked in on the three of us, eating where food was always forbidden, egg and fruit rolling on the couch and the table and his expensive rugs. Staining the fabric. Ruining it. But there’s a sense of joy to be found in our minor destruction, as if I’m slowly stripping away his arbitrary rules. For the first time I don’t feel trapped in my father’s condo. I’m free to do as I please.

  When the pitcher’s drained Ashleigh’s laid out on the floor, her feet and arms spread wide, sparkling eyes fixed on the ceiling. She opens her mouth to speak but all that comes out is a pitchy burp, light and feminine, like the air that’s wrapped around her. Neal and I laugh, our shoulders bumping into one another, the room spinning on its head. I’m admittedly a little tipsy, laughing at every sound.

  “I need to ask you something,” Neal says to Ashleigh once we’ve all quieted down.

  “Anything,” she says, pushing herself to her elbows.

  “It’s a little personal.”

  Ashleigh’s face drops. “Is it about Julian?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Alright, now you have to ask her,” I say. “I’m curious.”

  Neal leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “When’s the last time you had an earth shattering orgasm?”

  Ashleigh’s eyes grow wide. Her blush starts from her hairline and grows to her neck, her skin as pink as her blouse. “I…” Her mouth falls open and she laughs.

  “That is a very personal question,” I say.

  Neal throws me a smile. “I’m asking because, isn’t that what all women complain about? They can never find a man who cares about what they want in bed, someone who can get them off.”

  “That’s true,” says Ashleigh.

  “Then my second question – and you don’t have to answer the first one – is if you found a man who could make you see stars.” He brushes his knee against mine. “Then wouldn’t you find a way to hold onto him?”

  A soft dreamy look splashes over Ashleigh’s face. Her blush dissipating as she drunkenly drifts into her memory. I don’t want to think about it, but the image pops in my head: Ashleigh and my father in bed, him sweating atop her as he thrusts in and out, her body convulsing against the mattress in pleasure.

  She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. “I guess I would.”

  Neal turns to me, one eyebrow raised as if to say: see, you’re insane not to want more of me.

  I pluck the champagne glass from his hand, ready to tell him, I think it’s time for you to go, when his cell phone rings in my bedroom. In my early morni
ng haze I must’ve missed it, sitting on the floor, on the opposite side of the bed, next to a neat pile of his suit, shirt and tie.

  He shuts the door behind him. Ashleigh and I collect our soiled plates and foggy champagne glasses, piling them in recklessly in the dishwasher. Next comes the butter slicked pan, the wide glass jar, the mixing bowl, the cutting knife, and the spatula. I’ve never seen my father’s dishwasher this full. Darlene never cooked and Gina was prone to leaving a mountain of dishes for rot, the smell of stale food wafting through the apartment before a maid was finally called.

  Ashleigh’s hands are slick with soap when she says, “I don’t know if I can sleep in there again.”

  “In my father’s room?”

  “In our room.” She turns on the water and sticks her hand beneath the spray, strips of soap melting away. “I tried,” she says, her throat closing up. “I…I wanted…I want to try.”

  Almost instinctively my hand finds her shoulder, fingers gently wrapping around it as my bedroom opens and Neal reenters the living room. He’s wearing his outfit from last night, sans jacket and tie, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, untucked from his slightly wrinkled pants. Business casual.

  “I have to get going,” he says, expectantly.

  He wants me to pout, amble over to him, my hands flat on his chest and head tilted upward as I say, please don’t go.

  “Alright,” I say.

  Neal smiles tightly, giving Ashleigh a nod. Then to me, “Why don’t you walk me out.”

  As he slips on his shoes in the foyer, Neal asks, “When are you leaving?”

  “Friday morning.”

  He nods and stands to his full height, shoulders pushed back and hair casually flopping about his head. Neal Dietrich is without a doubt the most handsome man I’ve ever been with, and try as I might, I doubt I’ll ever forget him.

  “I guess this is goodbye,” I say, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

  Neal bends down. His mouth catches mine and in an instant, I react. The palm of his hand rests on the back of my neck, my hands gripping his upper arms, fingertips pressing into his shirt as he kisses me softly – all lips and no tongue. He pulls away and sets his forehead against mine, our eyelashes fluttering against one another, his eyes trained on my mouth.

  “You should stay,” he says.

  “For what?”

  A small laugh passes through his lips as he takes a step back. We both know the answer but I’m too stubborn to admit it. I could stay for him. For a summer of Neal, three months of waking up to a hot breakfast made by an equally hot man; of slow sex in the afternoon and a frantic fuck in his office; of maybe – maybe – a shot of something I haven’t felt in a very long time.

  Neal touches my arm. He leans in and presses his lips to my cheek, his mouth grazing over the shell of my ear before, “Goodbye Caitlin.”

  There’s a large part of me that wishes I wasn’t such an ice queen. That I was one of those women who turned to putty in a man’s hands. I have the urge to hug him, but I swallow it like a rock, allowing it to settle in my stomach.

  “Goodbye Neal.”

  He tosses me one last glance as he exits the apartment, the door closing behind him, the lock automatically sliding into place.

  The knot in my stomach violently twists before it unravels and reveals a gaping hole. One that’s been dug out and claimed by the man who just walked out the door.

  Fuck me.

  I think I’m in love.

  Seven

  Love is terrifying. It morphs sane, comprehensible people into addicts, always searching for that next hit. Scratching their arms, chewing their lips, unable to live without a kiss or an embrace or someone to whisper those three little words.

  After Justin I took a silent vow, the same one my mother swallowed after my father left. No man is worth your heart because none of them know what to do with it. They’re clumsy and uncaring, dropping it at every chance, watching it shatter without so much as a second glance or an apology. And the ones that do know what to do? They’re the ones you need to watch out for the most. They’re the con artists, the ones who’ll butter you up and fuck you until they’ve had their fill, leaving you naked and sweating in a pool of your own wetness as they move on to the next, gullible woman.

  Neal has to be one of those, a man modeled after my father who viewed women as party tricks, something to pull out to entertain his friends. Look at this one, she can fit her whole fist in her mouth.

  I wouldn’t play his games and he would tire of my refusal quickly: No, I don’t want to go to dinner with those men; No, I would rather not spend my afternoon shopping with those women; No, another dress will not make me shut-up and smile.

  This is for the best. I belong in Baltimore and Neal belongs here, navigating the world of Chicago finances and politics, dirtying his hands with other people’s money and blood.

  He’ll have no problem finding another woman. Someone pretty and stupid who won’t question his actions and will silently allow him to fuck her over. Someone like Gina. Someone like Darlene. Someone like Suzanne. Someone like Ashleigh. But never someone like me.

  ______

  Martin calls and asks me to meet him at the office. It’s Saturday afternoon and the building is nearly barren, no secretary at the front desk, no cubicles filled with employees, no Neal waiting for me behind his office door, just Martin behind his desk, flipping through a thick file of papers.

  He slides a small pile of receipts across his desk, my father’s fortune divided into four parts. Twenty-five percent to my personal bank account, twenty-five percent to one off shore, twenty-five percent to my savings, and twenty-five percent for investments. He prattles on about stocks and the market, assuring me that I won’t have to worry about losing money – “I know that’s a primary concern when people first start investing, especially after the market crashed a few years ago, but you must trust me Miss Wheeler, I know what I’m doing.” – but I can only focus on my swollen bank account. Previous balance: $3,000. Current balance: $675,000.

  What do you do with that sort of money? Buy an island? Spend a whole year on vacation? I can buy back my classroom with this sort of cash. Hell, I can buy the whole school.

  “Miss Wheeler,” Martin says, snapping his fingers. “Are you listening to me?”

  “No,” I say, looking up at him. “I’m sorry. I’m a little overwhelmed.”

  Martin nods. He stands and heads to the opposite side of the room where between two short bookcases is a fridge full of water. He grabs a bottle and hands it to me.

  “This is all very sudden,” he says, taking his seat. “For the both of us.”

  My eyebrows furrow as I take a drink. “My mother said my father was sick.”

  Neal gives me a tight smile. “Of course he was. He suffered from the same illness as my son.”

  His outstretched finger points to the corner of his desk, where a photo of Gilda and Francis sits in a gold frame. They’re in Rome or Italy, Mediterranean ruins decorating the background, Gilda’s cheek pressed into her son’s hair, Francis grinning despite his crossed arms. I feel strange for thinking it, but Francis is very handsome. The same shade of brown hair as Martin, his features stolen straight from his mother. Soft, wide eyes, thin mouth, sharp cheeks.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, taking another drink. “Your wife told me he passed away.”

  “A little over a year ago,” he says.

  The pair of us drift into silence, Martin staring off in the distance, his eyes cloudy with the memory of his son. His eyes are perfectly tilted down, his mouth set in a genuine frown. The ultimate face of mourning. I wish I could steal his expression and slip it on like a mask whenever I thought about my father. It would make me look more compassionate, more likeable. Less like the stone-faced daughter who’s indifferent to her father’s death.

  “How did he die?” I say.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You said he suffered from the same illness as my fathe
r. How did they die?”

  Martin fills his chest with air, his shoulders pushing back against his chair before he exhales and deflates. Shoulders rounding forward, he folds his hands and stares at me, eyes peering over his glasses, lips set in a serious line.

  “I’m not sure I’m comfortable answering that question.”

  I sit up a little straighter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to --”

  “What do you remember about your father?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “It’s a very simple question. What do you remember the most about your father? What stands out when you think about him?”

  I don’t have to dwell on the question for long. “He was always working. I don’t remember ever really seeing him relax.”

  “Because he was consumed by his work. Your father was one of the hardest working men I’ve ever known. But this business,” Martin pauses. “You can’t allow yourself to get too deep into it because soon, you start opening trap doors and stumbling into things you weren’t meant to.”

  My mind flashes to the memory of me in my father’s bedroom, clutching his white shirt covered in blood. A trap door he’d set for no one, especially me to find.

  “I’m confused,” I say, shifting in my seat. “What did he die from?”

  I want a straight answer. He died from cancer of the lungs or he was hit by a bus crossing Lakeview Drive but I can see in Martin’s eyes that he’s a man of riddles.

  “You remind me of my son,” he says. “Plagued by curiosity. Unwilling to take a hint,” he says this without malice, voice light and wispy with a smile. “He was never able to properly swallow the truth and I think, excuse me if this sounds forward, I know neither can you.”

  A wave of frustration runs beneath my skin. I gnaw at the inside of my cheek. “What are you talking about?”

  Martin smiles. “I’m talking about the truth and how you think you want to know it, but in actuality, you do not.”