The Inheritance (Volume Two) Page 7

  Neal's dressed casually tonight. Grey tweed slacks with a white top and black tie, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The muscles in his forearms flex as he reaches across the table for his beer, fingers stretching around the glass as he throws Chris a grin.

  There are plenty of women on the balcony, all of them beautiful and slim. Tanned skin glowing beneath the light show as they swing their hips to the music, throwing their long hair over their shoulders, lips pursed and parted, a twentieth century mating call.

  Neal and Chris and the rest of the men look, eyes zeroing in one or two of the women over the rims of their glasses, but no one stands to touch. This time of the night is dedicated to business. One of the men checks his watch. When are we getting to the pleasure?

  The bouncer steps out of the way and swings the short glass door open. “Ashleigh and guest,” he nods to me and I bite my cheek to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Guest. “Have a great night.”

  The sea of women parts when Ashleigh and I step into the VIP section, shadowed eyes and glossed lips narrowing in our direction. Who the fuck are the new girls? Ashleigh ignores them in favor of waving her arm overhead, catching the attention of Chris and Neal. Neal smiles at her, the corners of his mouth tugging lightly, before his eyes flicker over her shoulder and fall onto mine.

  His smile spreads into a grin. My breath tightens in my chest.

  “You made it,” Chris shouts, throwing his arm around Ashleigh’s bare shoulders. He pulls her into a hug, lips sliding over the shell of her ear, eyes flickering towards me. “Caitlin,” he says. “You’re still in town.”

  “Yeah, I’m here for a few more days.”

  Chris nods. “How about a drink?” He’s speaking exclusively to Ashleigh. “VIP means we have our own personal bartender.”

  Ashleigh pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. A small attempt at acting coy. “As long as you’re buying.”

  The women watch as Chris pulls her away to the right, a small silver bar set up in front of a lone bartender.

  I’m left standing in the center of the balcony, awkwardly clutching my purse, pointedly ignored by the women around me as Neal watches from the couch.

  What am I meant to do? I can force myself into a group of women, opening my mouth wide as I pretend to laugh at a catty joke. I can lean against the bar, my elbows sticking to the countertop as I sip a colorful drink, mindful of the way my back arches and my ass sticks out. I can march over to Neal, bypass the bent legs and coffee table full of booze, and drop on his lap, one arm thrown around his neck as the other plays with his tie. Hello handsome. But I’m none of those girls.

  I push through a small cluster of chatty women and lean against the glass railing, eyes cast to the dance floor. Hundreds of bodies blindly moving to the beat, grinning as wide as the brim of their glasses.

  I’ve never been the sort of girl who enjoyed going to clubs. BU is surrounded by ancient bars with six types of Sam Adams on tap, burgundy booths tucked along the wall, local music low enough you can hear yourself think. Clubs require too much effort. I don’t mind dressing up but once you’re inside alcohol is required to handle the crowd, the smell, the music, the groping.

  (I wouldn’t mind being groped by Neal.)

  Behind me, Ashleigh laughs loud enough to burst through the music, drawing both my and Neal’s attention. Chris has his nose buried in her neck, his lips blowing cool air against her skin, a tickling sensation that has her pinching his arm and throwing back her head.

  Neal and I share a glance. Crazy right?

  There’s a certain pull in the pit of my stomach. That should be us. Neal’s hand trailing down the small of my back, his lips grazing the shell of my ear, my laughter floating from my throat and into the air like a bubble, popping in time to the light show. But we’ve already said our goodbyes and there’s no use drawing it out for one more night. I’m here for Ashleigh, her wing-woman, though by the looks of it, she doesn’t need much help from me.

  “You’re avoiding me.” Neal’s voice snakes up from behind, his head bent in close.

  I contain the smile tugging at the corners of my lips. “I could say the same for you.”

  “No. You can’t,” he says, standing next to me. “Because I’m the one who came to you.”

  I can smell him, his signature scent piercing the thick cloud of sweat. Spice and musk that pulls me back to the night before, Neal’s hands in my hair, his teeth sinking into my neck.

  “I thought we were never going to see each other again,” Neal says, eyebrow raised as if to say, I knew that was a lie.

  “Ashleigh invited me.”

  “I didn’t know she had that sort of authority.”

  “Neither did she. What are we celebrating?”

  “Chris was promoted this morning.”

  “On a Saturday?”

  “J.M. Wheeler never sleeps. The company, I mean.”

  I laugh. “And what was he promoted to?”

  A small grin tugs at the corner of Neal’s mouth. “That, I can’t tell you.”

  I raise an eyebrow, a million questions floating through my head. I pick one. “I need to ask you something morbid.”

  “Is it about your father?”

  “Yes.”

  He waves his hand. Shoot.

  “How did he die?”

  Neal’s back, comfortably curved over the railing, straightens. He tries to hide the way his jaw locks up but I catch it out of the corner of my eye, the same way I catch the tightening of his shoulders, the stiffening of his hands.

  “Has no one told you?”

  “No.”

  Neal clears his throat. “I don’t know for sure.”

  “What do you know?”

  He looks at me. “That he was sick. For a good three months. He kept it from everyone.”

  That sounds like my father. Too prideful to admit that something invisible had uncontrollably taken hold of his mortality.

  The music changes. The bass thumps off the walls, the lights fall low.

  “Why do you ask?’ Neal says, leaning closer.

  “Do I need a reason?”

  He smiles. “Of course not.” He stands straight, tugging at his tie, loose around his neck. “We should get you a drink.”

  Ashleigh and Chris sit on the opposite end of the couch, immersed in their own world. Chris’s knee permanently pressed against hers, her hands pushing her hair behind her ear. Even in the low light of the club I can make out her blush, bright red brushing across her cheeks, small apples forming whenever she smiles. She might not be over my father, but she’s soaking up Chris’s attention like a sponge.

  I don’t blame her. Chris looks a little younger than Neal and equally handsome, his blonde hair stylishly undercut, brown eyes bright with green flecks. He hasn’t said more than a few words to me but from the moment he saw Ashleigh he’s been consumed with her, granting her his undivided attention, something every girl is supposed to want.

  An ounce of jealousy pinches my stomach as Neal and I sit in the middle of the crowd, drinks sweating in our hands, men and women propped on either side. Unnamed business associates and their “future wives”. Neal barely touches me, our knees grazing as he’s seamlessly drawn from one conversation to the next, his arms taking over my space, drink dripping against my thigh. He doesn’t even look at me when he throws his apology.

  This is what I wanted. I know it in my gut but it doesn’t stop me from growing irritated after every passing second. I want Neal to whisk me out of this club and back to the condo where he can bend me over the side of my bed and fuck me until I scream.

  One of the men, short with fuzzy brown hair, stares at me from over his drink. He’s three people away, elbows pressed into his thighs as he leans forward to get a better look. Even in the low light of the club he isn’t attractive, but he’s the only man throwing me an ounce of attention so I flash him a smile. How pathetic am I?

  I can feel the confidence growing in his stomach, shining out of his dull b
lue eyes. There’s a smattering of acne on his left cheek that makes him look years younger than twenty-one.

  One of the women separating us stands, whips her hair over her shoulder and stomps over to the bar. Closer now, he reaches over the laps of two men to tap my knee.

  Neal doesn’t notice. No one seems to notice him yelling over the music, “You wanna dance?”

  I pretend I can’t hear him. Every girl-in-the-club’s signature move: the squint of the eyes, furrowing of the eyebrows, lending an ear, “What?”

  “Dance?” he says, pantomiming his version of dancing, an off-beat sway of his arms and shoulders.

  No.

  The woman stomps back from the bar, her bare legs sliding against the knees of the other men. She forces herself between Neal and the man to his right. There isn’t enough room but she makes due, plopping half on Neal’s lap, half on the man to her right, a giggle hot in her throat. Behind her back, Neal and the man clink their beers. Cheers.

  “Sure,” I say to the acne-ridden boy.

  I always thought I was above these sort of tricks. “If you want something from a man you have to spell it out,” my mother used to say, “They don’t take hints.” This isn’t a hint. This is a slap in the face, my hand in another man’s as he leads me to the small area of the balcony designated for dancing, one arm thrown around my waist as he recklessly sways from one side to the next.

  I plaster on a smile and follow his lead, his hip bumping into mine as he presses closer. His fingers wrap around my waist, pressing into my dress as he jerks my hips left then right. I bite back a grimace, small fists forming at my sides. Do not push him away. Do not look over your shoulder.

  I can feel Neal’s eyes on my back, burning into the flesh of the boy’s hand, claiming me as he pushes our chests together.

  “How long have you been with Neal?” he asks, his lips sliding across the shell of my ear.

  I wrap my hands around his arms, forcing space between us. “A few months.”

  A small grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “That’s not long at all,” he says, gaze dropping to my breasts, peeking out of my scoop neck dress.

  “It’s long enough.”

  A small film of sweat covers his forehead like a sheet, the ends of his hair curling in the wetness. He bumps his hip against mine, his hardness poking out of the outline of his pants, pressing rudely against my thigh.

  “Are you guys exclusive?” he says. “I mean, does he let you see other people?”

  “No.”

  His hand travels down, gripping my ass before he gives it a slap. I jump in his arms and his grin widens across his mouth. He raises a sly eyebrow, brown hairs reaching into his hairline. “You sure?”

  An arm reaches over my shoulder, the scent of Neal filling my nostrils as he removes his hand from my ass. The boy’s eyes grow wide with fear as he releases me, a foot of space growing between us as he steps back.

  “Hey man, look,” he says.

  Neal steps between us, his hand wrapped around the boy’s wrist, twisting his arm until his elbow is in the air. The boy’s face flashes from fear to pain, eyebrows pressed together, mouth open in a wail, deaf beneath the rush of the music.

  No one seems to notice but me. The women continue to dance, drinks in one hand, the other pointing to a man on the couch, finger crooking upward as they beckon them over.

  Ashleigh and Chris sit with their knees pressed together, Chris’s fingers pushing Ashleigh’s hair behind her ear, blood rushing to her cheeks as she ducks her head.

  Neal brings the boy to his knees, his parted lips forming rapidly around the words: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again, I’m so sorry, I was just, please, stop.”

  “Let him go,” I say.

  Neal throws me a look over his shoulder. “So you want him to grab your ass?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  Neal drops the boy’s arm. He cradles it against his chest, writhing back and forth in pain.

  “Get up,” Neal says. He shoots to his feet. “Apologize to her.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t. I don’t need or want your apology.”

  The boy furrows his eyebrows, glancing between Neal and me, mouth hanging open. Dumbstruck.

  “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me,” I say to Neal. “I’m an adult, I can handle myself.”

  A vicious smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re right. You handled yourself so well last night. Managing to get yourself cornered in the bathroom.”

  My lips curl into themselves. “Fuck you,” I spit, turning on my heels and storming out of the VIP section.

  ______

  Outside a crisp wind whips through the night, scratching the arms and legs of the club goers lined around the block. It’s the middle of summer but they’re huddled together, casting glances my way from the moment I stepped outside and rushed toward the sidewalk. Taxis slowly pull in front of me, eyes peering through cracked passenger side windows. Need a ride? I shake my head. No thanks. My mantra of the evening.

  This was a mistake. Good things never end on a high note for me. Relationships burn like metal in a car crash and I knew, in the back of my mind, things with Neal would end the same. It doesn’t stop the pull in the pit of my stomach. A sick twist that bends me at the waist staring down Grand, weighing my options. I can head to my father’s condo and drink myself stupid or I can wander aimlessly around the city like I’m sixteen and pissed at my father.

  The club door opens, headache inducing noise filtering out.

  “Get back,” the bouncer says, the line shifting forward, the crowd desperate to be let inside.

  Neal moves next to me, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he rocks on his heels. He’s fixated on my profile, eyes burning into my cheek as he says, “I don’t understand you.”

  “I’m not going to apologize for that.”

  “You shouldn’t have to.” He steps in front of me, heels hovering over the edge of the sidewalk, dangerously close to the street. Our eyes meet and he gives me a small smile. “But I should for what I said in there. I’m sorry. I was out of line but you’re…You’re different from the other women I know.”

  It’s a relief to hear, to know I’m not in the same league as Gina, Darlene, or Ashleigh. That things can pan out differently for me (for us?) if I want them to.

  A taxi speeds by, shattering Neal’s sense of balance. His body’s flung backwards, arms propelled in the air as I grab his shirt and pull him close to me. He stumbles forward, feet stepping onto mine, a pinch of pain I ignore in favor of laughter in my throat. His arms wrap around me and he buries his face in my hair, laughter stifled by the long brown strands.

  “I almost died,” he says, partially pulling away.

  “You did not.”

  “I did and it would’ve killed me, again, to leave this earth without you accepting my apology.”

  An uncontrollable grin spreads across my mouth. “I accept your apology.”

  Neal smiles. “Good. Do you want to head back inside?”

  I pull away from him. “That’s the last thing I want to do.”

  “Then what should we do?”

  My eyes light up. “Surprise me.”

  Ten

  Neal brings me to his brownstone on the Gold Coast, a few blocks away from my father’s condo. Three stories tall with blond brick and double black doors with matching crystal knobs, it’s more domestic than I thought it would be.

  He kicks off his shoes in the foyer and I follow suit, neatly placing them on the shoe rack next to a large potted plant. He drops his keys in a silver bowl full of loose change and business cards, dark socks sliding across spotless cherry wood floors.

  “I didn’t expect your house to look like this,” I admit.

  “What were you expecting?” He says, leading me past the living room to the open kitchen – stainless steel appliances mismatched with the traditional brown cabinets. A renovation undone.

  “A loft,�
� I say. He pulls a bottle of wine from the cooler beneath the island. “With one bedroom and a pool table. A place I couldn’t imagine raising kids in.”

  Neal smiles. “You can imagine raising kids here?”

  My mouth drops open. “Forget I said that.”

  He hands me a glass of red wine, our fingers touching, his smile growing. “I promise I won’t.”

  The grand tour consists of the living room with furniture from his grandmother, the dining room he never uses, and two guest rooms with a shared bath, on the first floor. The gaming room is on the second (complete with a pool table), another guest room and a home office.

  “Also unused,” Neal says, flicking off the light. “But one of these days I’ll have a reason to stay home.”

  The third floor has a long a hall with two doors. The right leads to the massive master suite: shower, Jacuzzi, bathtub, double sinks and two enclosed toilets.

  The left door leads into Neal’s bedroom. I linger by the doorway as he steps inside. A line of shoes are beneath his bed, the way I always imagined my father kept his. Neal pulls off his tie and hangs it in his closet full of suits, ranging from deep green to the blackest of black, expensive and hung with wrinkles in mind.

  My eyes fall on his bed. King-sized. Enough room to fit three people. I imagine Neal rolling around on navy sheets with two women, his head thrown back in ecstasy, their mouths on his neck, his chest, inside of his thigh.

  “I can hear your mind working from here,” Neal says, standing in front of a small window less gaudy than the floor to ceiling ones in my father’s condo. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone, undershirt peeking through. “What are you thinking about? Give me a hint.”

  You. “My father.”

  Neal ducks his head. “Should I prepare for the mood to be brought down?”

  I cross over the threshold of Neal’s bedroom door, bare feet sliding to the other side. The corners of Neal’s lips curve upward as I place my purse on his dresser, my fingers lingering on the sharp edge.