"You want to talk lack of control, woman? You couldn't keep your hands off me!"
It was obvious Paul meant there to be no mistaking who was the target of his anger. Fine by me. I itched to hand back whatever he threw at me.
"You think you're so damn irresistible? Well I've got news for you, Paul Hudson. I don't have any problem resisting your sorry-ass passes."
His lips curled and he took half a step toward me. "Is that what you call what happened? Resisting?"
I rose up to my full five-feet two, panting with rage, and pushed my chin at him. Paul's eyes widened and he lowered his chin.
"Thea!" Jonathan yelped.
"Damn right," I snarled.
"Fine by me. I'm leaving." He stalked off toward his car.
"Not before I do!" I shouted to his back and swung a fist through the air. At least I had the presence of mind to stalk off in the opposite direction.
"Thea!" Jonathan called after me. "You can't leave! Not again! Not after all I've done for you!"
I rounded on him, beyond furious. "I can't ever recall you doing anything for me that wasn't specifically for your benefit."
His parting comment, to my back, had something to do with me having "no idea." Oh, I had an idea, all right. In fact, I had more than an idea. I had the whole concept, theory, and model down in a flash. He was a manipulating, selfish bastard who couldn't see beyond the end of his own nose. If I never saw him again, it would be too soon.
By the time I covered the scant mile to my home I'd walked off most of my anger and felt miserable. Miserable and ashamed of myself. I'd never had such a childish shouting match as this with anyone, except possibly my sister. I'd never been so humiliated. I dug my keys out of the bottom of my purse and let myself inside. My house, so calm and orderly, stood in stark contrast to my emotional state.
In my bedroom, the clothes I'd tried on and discarded earlier lay scattered on the bed. A missed omen of what a mess this evening would turn out to be. Sighing, I picked up each sweater, blouse, and pair of slacks. Slowly, deliberately, as if my actions could do the same for my jumbled feelings, I put them away. As I closed my bureau drawer I caught sight of my face in the mirror. I looked terrible. The purple bruises along my jaw stood out like neon lights against my pallor. Mascara smudged my face under my red, puffy eyes from where I'd rubbed tears away. My lipstick was long gone. My green irises glowed like beacons. I'd seen more attractive traffic lights.
I sat on the edge of my bed and contemplated the huge mess my life had become. But each time my eyes closed I tumbled into the memory of every touch, taste and scent that was Paul. I covered my ears, trying to block the sound of his voice, his breathing, his gentle moan in my mouth. He overwhelmed every sense in a way I never imagined possible. Pure, honest emotion propelled me into his arms tonight. I thought he was my friend. I wanted him for my lover. I believed he felt the same. How dare he turn that emotion into something I was so ashamed of?
Groaning, I collapsed across my bed, and stared at the ceiling. Damn him! He said unforgivable things to me. Wasn't he smart enough to see through Jonathan's posturing? How could he be so mean and insensitive? Jonathan, for all his pompousness, never said anything to me like Paul had tonight.
Be honest, Thea. He never had any call to. And you sure trumped him in the name-calling department.
But I knew Paul could be kind and thoughtful. In our conversations before… well, before that horrible, very public scene, he talked to me in a way Jonathan never had. He shared his thoughts, was interested in what I had to say, and – and his kisses, the way his body felt against mine, like I had at last reached home – complete with the relief of being able to touch him, hold him – oh, God. And then to lose it all.
What's wrong with you? You barely know him. Don't you jump on Juliet for the same thing? What happened to your resolve to be more self reliant, to stand on your own two feet? Thank goodness that's no longer an issue. You made damn sure of that.
Tears trickled out of the corners of my eyes and into my ears. I felt like a really bad Country Western song.
Chapter Fourteen
I was too steeped in my own misery to sleep. But I must have, because the last I remembered my room was dark. Now it wasn't.
I squeezed my eyes shut against the light and groaned. I was woozy, and someone was sticking a knife into my skull above my right eyebrow. That had to be it. Nothing else could hurt as bad. When I sat up it got worse. Dull knives pounded into my face below my eyes. I considered lying down again, but my stomach was awake and threatening. I went into the bathroom, leaned against the sink and waited for something to happen. While I waited I glared at myself in the mirror. I looked even worse than the night before. My eyelids were nearly swollen shut, and my face beyond colorless – except for the bruises that had turned green and yellow on the edges, blacker toward the middle. My lips were swollen, too. I still wore my clothes.
Surely I suffered more than Paul. He hated me. I deserved it. And Jonathan hated me. Good cause there, too. I was the poster child for poor judgment and indiscretion. I was never going to recover from this. It would haunt me the rest of my life and for punishment I would probably live to be one hundred. I soaked a wash cloth in cold water and held it, dripping, over my face.
When I could stand upright without my head threatening to split down the middle I went to the kitchen and made coffee. Somewhere through my first cup, as I tortured myself with a mental picture of Paul entertaining a Valerie look-alike in his apartment and laughing over how stupidly I'd behaved, reality gave me a thump on the head. My turn to do stalls. I dashed to the phone and called Uncle Henry to apologize. Aunt Vi answered. I told her I'd overslept and wasn't feeling well, all true – if incomplete.
"Don't worry, dear. Henry's taken care of them. It's no trouble," she said over my protest. Then with the accuracy of a laser guided Patriot missile she zeroed in on exactly what I hoped to hide. "You haven't seen Paul, have you? He didn't come home last night."
I choked up. In a small voice I said. "No." followed by a tiny sniff. That's all it took for Aunt Vi to confirm her hit.
"Oh, no." Did you two have a fight?"
"Yes," I squeaked.
"I'll be over straightaway. I'll make you a nice cup of tea and you can tell me what happened."
It should have taken her ten minutes to get to my house, but it seemed she knocked on my door almost before I had time to hang up the phone. Time flies when you're feeling sorry for yourself.
"Who's that in the fancy black car out front?" she asked when I opened the front door.
She took off her damp coat and folded it inside out over her arm. It was raining. Figures. I looked past her and saw Frederick Parsons's black Mercedes. The big guy with the dark glasses sat behind the wheel, looking intently at me. A picture flashed in my mind and for a moment the floor under me shifted. I caught my balance on the door jam. Holy crap. I wasn't sure if I'd just been diverted from my latest misery or added to it. Either way, there was no doubt. Frederick Parsons's chauffeur was the driver of the silver Honda I'd nearly flattened with Delores's truck on Carpenter Road. He must have made the first 9-1-1 call – the one Thurman had mentioned. But why had he taken off?
"Never seen him before," I lied, shutting the door and locking it. "Aunt Vi -"
"Now you hush and come sit down." She propelled me toward the kitchen. "What you need is a nice cup of tea and a little something in your belly. Where're you slippers? You'll catch your death running around barefoot." She went to my bedroom and came back with the pink bunnies. Even the one that still had its tongue, whose crooked eyes made it appear demented, couldn't cheer me up.