Heart Breaker Page 7

  One of the girls behind the counter calls Julia’s name, and she leaves to collect her salad. They call my name a few minutes later and I go collect the BLT club I ordered. I’ve just picked up the plate and I’m turning away from the counter when a woman steps directly in front of me, barely an inch of space between us.

  “Whoa, excuse me.” I make a move to step around her but she steps with me. I look more closely at her face; she’s no one I recognize. “Is there a problem?”

  We’re about the same height, so when she steps right up to me, closing the gap between us, her steely eyes are at the same level as mine. “There is a problem,” she says. “I know who you are.”

  Over her shoulder, I see Julia looking at us, worried. A few people at nearby tables have also stopped their conversations and are watching.

  “Um. Awesome? I’m sorry, but I—.”

  “My name is Ellen Campbell.”

  I stare at her. “That’s not ringing any bells.”

  She sneers. “Let’s try it this way then: I’m Mrs. Matthew Campbell.”

  It takes a few seconds, but then it clicks. Ah. Matt Campbell. We’ve slept together a few times. He’s an investment guy at the bank across the street from the law offices. It was strictly sex—he said his wife just wasn’t interested in doing it anymore. He also told me that he and his wife were separated because of that fact.

  “Sometimes, I just want to get laid,” he told me. “A good old-fashioned fucking. But for my wife to get in the mood, it was a week-long preparation. Take her out for dinner. Buy her something nice. Go see a movie or a play or go hear someone do a reading. It couldn’t just be sex. It’s like it was my reward for enduring all that other shit. But sometimes I just didn’t want to deal with all that. Sometimes, I just wanted to fuck. She didn’t understand that. She just didn’t get it, so I left. Was it wrong of me to just want to be spontaneous every once in a while?”

  “Of course not,” I’d said. “Spontaneous sex is the the only kind I have.”

  We’d had a few marathon sessions at his place. He’d even managed to make me come a couple of times, which was saying something. It was fun, but nothing more. Or at least for me, it wasn’t. “My wife never made me feel even half as good as you do,” he’d said the last time. “When can I see you again?”

  There was something different in his tone then, and I knew a line had been crossed. I get it—when someone makes you feel good, it’s difficult not to associate those feelings with that person, and to think they’re now responsible for making you feel that way. I could’ve been anyone, though. Or rather, anyone could have made him feel that way. His wife could have. She just had certain criteria that needed to be met first, criteria that he was unwilling to meet, and therefore they’d gone their separate ways.

  I stopped returning his texts, his calls, ignored the emails, didn’t go into the bank. That was a couple of months ago, and I haven’t heard from him in at least three weeks. I figured he’d got the message. But now, with his wife staring me down, I’m not so sure. It’s clear he’s lied to me. No ex-wife would be this mad about her ex getting laid. No, this is current wife territory. I don’t know what to say. I may be a crazy person who wants to ruin a man, but I’m not a monster. I’ve always drawn the line at screwing married men.

  “He told me you’d left him,” I say, keeping my voice level. “He told me you weren’t together anymore.”

  Matt’s wife blinks at me, her face a mask of hardened emotion. She doesn’t believe me. Doesn’t want to believe me. Women are always ready to castrate their husbands when they discover they’ve been cheating on them, but if they find out who the woman is? That’s even better. That’s another person to scream and yell at. Occasionally, a woman will choose to believe their husbands were seduced by some slutty temptress, and that the whole thing is the other woman’s fault. That way they can flip out, slash all of his shirts with a pair of dressmaker’s scissors, go key the woman’s car, and then let their man move back into the house after he solemnly promises never to do it again.

  Yeah, right.

  Either way, I have no idea what the hell I’m meant to do. She’s caught me completely off guard. Do I apologize for what I’ve done and assure her she’s the one her husband loves? How did she find out it was me, anyway? And Matt, that lying motherfucker…

  “It was just sex,” I say.

  Her eyes widen. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? How many times was it, anyway?”

  “A few.”

  “Where? Where did you do it?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Her eyes flash in anger. “You’re goddamn right it matters. Did you do it in my home? In my bed?”

  We didn’t actually do it in the bed. Just everywhere else. I shake my head.

  “You’re a bitch,” she says. “He’s a married man. He has a family. You’re a home wrecker, d’you know that? You probably prey on married men. You’re one of those women who can’t be happy unless they’re sabotaging someone else’s happiness. I don’t even have to know you to be able to see that. Well, it’s all over. D’you hear me? It’s over. If you ever try to get in touch with my husband again…”

  She doesn’t finish the sentence, as though the implied threat is so bad it’s better left unsaid. “I’m just trying to eat my lunch,” I say flatly. “I’m not trying to ruin anything for you.”

  Mrs. Ellen Campbell is shaking her head. “I don’t care about your lunch,” she snaps. “I don’t care about you at all. But I knew that something was going on with him. I just knew it.”

  “So you were right. Does that make you feel better or worse?”

  “Being able to find you and look you in the eye and tell you what a cunt you are actually does make me feel better. I’m sure my husband isn’t the first married man you’ve slept with. I bet none of the other women have had the nerve to tell you what a piece of shit you are. If you had any respect for yourself—or anyone else—you wouldn’t do this kind of thing. You obviously think you’re worthless. And you know what? You’re right. Women like you never find someone to be with long term. I feel sorry for you.”

  She shoots me one last venomous glare and then turns on her heel and leaves. Most of the people in the café are looking at me. I feel strangely devoid of anything—I’m not embarrassed, or ashamed, or humiliated. In a way, I feel as though Ellen Campbell has just spoken some fundamental truth about myself that I didn’t want to see. I am a piece of shit, and I am worthless. Maybe that’s why I feel completely unaffected by what she just told me—because I know it’s true.

  ******

  The Callahan Corporation’s located in an intimidating glass-and-steel skyscraper that literally does seem to touch the sky. When I was a teenager, I always thought the building looked pretty cool. So shiny and new, reflecting great panels of sunlight over the city.

  Now, I think it’s the most obvious phallic object ever constructed by the hands of man. Hey, Chicago, check it out. My name’s Aidan Callahan and I have the biggest dick in this entire state. Don’t stare at it too long or it’ll take your damn eye out.

  I’ve never actually had to step inside the place until now. For some reason, I feel nervous. I’ve played this out down to the most minute details, but now that it’s actually happening it suddenly feels surreal. What if it doesn’t go as planned? What if he somehow knows exactly what I’m up to? I wouldn’t rule out that possibility. It’s very likely I could walk in there and he’ll tell me the only reason he agreed to meet so readily is because he knows what I’m going to say and he wants to confront me.

  He’s a powerful man, it’s true. I’m sure he has many friends in high places. Who knows what he’d do if he thought his company is in jeopardy. Is it possible that I’m putting myself in some sort of danger?

  A tiny voice in my head keeps telling me that I should just turn around, I should forget about all this. Perhaps a part of me has heard what Julia’s been saying over the years. A part that does want to forgive, to
move on. I know that’s not true, though. I’m just not capable of that.

  I step into the elevator with a throng of people. On the outside it might appear as though I know exactly what I’m doing, but my palms have started to sweat, my heart rate racing out of my chest. The elevator stops at the tenth floor and people get out. I could get out with them—get out, hop on the next elevator going down and skip out of here. I’m beginning to feel like I’m way out of my league.

  But then an image of my brother flashes through my mind. My brother who is no longer here, my brother who I will never see again. He sacrificed everything for me. I can do this for him.

  I take a deep breath.

  I can do this.

  I can do this.

  ELEVEN

  AIDAN

  I’m sitting at my desk when my receptionist’s voice comes over the speakerphone and tells me Essie Floyd is here to see me. “Did she have an appointment? I didn’t see her on the calendar,” she asks.

  “No. She didn’t need one. Send her in.”

  I stand up and adjust my collar. I’ve spent all morning trying to figure out what Essie’s going to say when she gets here, and now the time has finally arrived. I can’t say I’ve had much success in guessing what’s going to come of this talk. Everything seems possible and at the same time, totally implausible.

  My office door opens, and there she is.

  She looks older than the last photograph I saw of her. Or maybe it’s that in the photograph she was smiling, and right now she isn’t. She’s frowning. Almost grimacing. Either way she doesn’t look pleased. Like every other night this month, I dreamed about her last night, and her demeanor had been very different then. She’d been breathless, words slipping out of her mouth in endless whispers as I fucked her. I’d taken a paddle to the buttocks, gently laying the leather against her bare, naked skin. She’s writhed around in ecstasy as I’d played with her, running my fingers over the slick, wet pussy, before carefully sliding my index finger inside her asshole. She’d gasped, fingernails digging into my thighs as I’d toyed with her, teasing her, using my other hand to work her clit. When she came in the dream, she was grinding her pubic bone into my hand, panting, rocking wilding against me, and the very act of witnessing her climax had made me come too. I’d woken unsatisfied, though, my dick still hard, my sheets clean. I hadn’t jerked off in the shower. I’d left my ridiculously hard cock well alone. I knew I was meeting her. I wanted to be hard for her all day. My erection had vanished before I even left the apartment, but still… It feels slightly criminal knowing that I wanted her so badly only a matter of a few hours ago. I’m all too aware of how fucked up it is that I’m thinking about fingering her ass the first time we meet in person.

  “Essie.” I walk over to her, hand extended. “Aidan Callahan.”

  Her face remains impassive. She takes my hand and shakes it quickly. “Nice to meet you,” she says.

  Since taking over the company, women have treated me differently. Most are demure, hiding shy giggles behind their hands, looking me in the eye for only the briefest of seconds. A handful—the models, the actresses—are aggressive and unapologetic in their advances. But right away I can tell Essie is different. There’s a hard look in her eye, and her mouth is set in a thin line that doesn’t waver when I smile at her. I expect her to say I know who you are, or I know you’ve been watching me. Maybe even, I know what you’ve been dreaming about. Something, at least, to acknowledge the past history we share. However, she says nothing. And I wonder: is it possible she has no idea who I am? That thought never even crossed my mind. She must, right? She must know about our shared past. Unless…unless she didn’t see the articles or the countless pieces in the evening news. Maybe all she was really aware of at the time was that her brother was dead and it didn’t matter to her who did it. She may not know who I am. This seems even more likely when she slaps a folder down on my desk.

  “Here are the forms,” she says.

  “Oh. Of course.” I sign them quickly, my chest tightening when I notice Arturo Mendel’s chicken scratch in the margins of the papers. She stuffs the papers back into the file. We both stand there, awkwardness filling the space between us. I’ve often thought what I might say if we were ever standing in front of each other, the way we are now. In my mind, we’ve had some very in-depth conversations. Everything from the serious and heartfelt to the more lighthearted and humorous. I’ve apologized to her for what my brother did. I’ve asked her to tell me about her own brother. In all these conversations, things flowed easily. There was never a moment of discomfort. The reality of our first meeting is stark in contrast. It’s about as uncomfortable as meetings can get.

  But then Essie does something strange: she reaches out and touches my arm. “Thank you,” she says. I am sharply aware of the feel of her touch on my arm, the warmth of her skin radiating into my own. She takes a step closer, a small smile starting to form at the corners of her mouth.

  “You’re welcome,” I say. “Is…” I let my voice trail off. What had I been expecting? I don’t know. Something out of the ordinary, that’s for damn sure. I clear my throat. “Is there anything else?”

  Her mouth begins to form the shape of a no but then she stops. “Actually,” she says. “There is one more thing. I was…I was wondering if you’d like to go out for dinner some time.” She says the last part in a jumble, words all rushed together.

  It’s not very often I am rendered speechless in my own office, but right now I’m pretty close. At first, I think that I’ve misheard her, but she’s starting to blush. She rips her gaze from mine and looks down at her feet. She’s wearing black pumps, and her ankles are slim and lovely.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I realize that’s probably way out of line, considering I’m here on…business. It probably seems totally out of the blue. But…that’s really why I emailed you to begin with. I…I was hoping that we could…go out and get dinner.” The color continues to rise on her cheeks. She finally looks up and meets my eye. She really is beautiful. It’s something more than that, though, but I can’t put my finger on it just yet. I mean, I see beautiful women all the time. So much so that I don’t really even notice them anymore. Perhaps it’s their attitudes. They’re entitled, or arrogant, or want to play silly mind games. It doesn’t matter how fucking hot you are; if you do shit like that, we’re not going to connect.

  But it’s almost like there’s something in her eyes that I recognize, something I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s more than her simply looking like the first girl I ever loved.

  “Yes,” I say. “We can do that. Did you have somewhere in mind?”

  She stares at me like I’ve just slapped her across the face. With wide, unblinking beautiful brown eyes, she studies my face, her glossed lips slowly parting. “I—”

  “If not, I know a place or two,” I continue. I don’t know what’s occurring between us right now, but it feels like I’ve just called her bluff.

  “Anywhere you choose is fine,” she says, exhaling. Her breath is sweet and smells like mint. I can just imagine what she would taste like if I kissed her right now. I shouldn’t be thinking about fucking kissing her right now. Jesus. What the hell? On top of what I was thinking when she walked into the room? I clench my left hand into a fist inside the pocket of my pants.

  “When would you like to go out?”

  She finally blinks. “Friday night?”

  I have a vague recollection of something I’m supposed to do Friday night, but fuck it. It’ll have to wait. “Why don’t you leave your phone number,” I say. “And I’ll call you when I’m on my way over.”

  “Or…why don’t I just meet you somewhere? You pick,” she says.

  She’s putting me on the spot. I say the first restaurant that pops into mind. “Electra, then.” It’s a fancy nouvelle cuisine place. The food looks like a work of art instead of an edible meal. I went there with a client a few months ago and spent a ridiculous amount of money on food that wa
s pretty fucking terrible.

  “Electra? Sure. That sounds fine. Why don’t I meet you there at seven?”

  “Sure. I’ll take care of the reservation.”

  “I heard their waiting list’s over a month long.”

  “They’ll probably be able to accommodate us.” I’ll make damn sure of it.

  “Thank you, Mr. Callahan,” she says. She picks up the folder and leaves.

  I’m not sure how long I stand there for, replaying the scenario in my head, over and over again. Did that just really happen? And, with all the images of ass-play running through my head, did I manage to talk to her without sporting a massive hard-on?

  Yeah.

  Yes, I most certainly did.

  TWELVE

  ESSIE

  Sometimes an idea just comes to you without you even realizing it. I hadn’t planned on asking Aidan to dinner. I planned on asking him to meet me for coffee, at which point I was going to reveal the paperwork I’ve collected, documenting the highly suspect payments Alex made to several offshore accounts—tens of millions of dollars in transfers. I was going to show him this and then tell him I’d be reporting my findings to the relevant authorities and he could expect his company to be seized, investigated, and, eventually, dissolved.

  There are hotlines I could call, authorities I could alert, gossip magazines that would salivate at the chance to publish a scandalous expose involving one of the world’s most eligible bachelors, after all. The avenues for his company’s downfall—for his downfall—were all right in front of me.

  But then something changed when I walked into his office. There he was, standing in front of me, looking as handsome and intrigued as any man could, adjusting his collar, smiling warmly at me, and it infuriated me. What right does he have to look so goddamn happy and healthy, anyway? What right does he have to look so goddamn sexy? My brother is dead, and he’s allowed to saunter around the city, smiling at women like that, making them feel things they don’t want to feel? It’s just not right.