Marry Screw Kill Page 7

  I open the door and exit, hoping my appearance doesn’t give away what just transpired between James and I. I take off my heels in the warm May night and dutifully head toward the door.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sin at the rear of James’ car. Feeling his eyes on me, I cringe. I don’t want him to see me like this—all disheveled and … sexed up. I try not to look his way, but it’s no use. We lock eyes for a long second and I shrink at his expression. Sympathy. He pities me. Dammit, he knows. I break his gaze and walk quickly toward the house.

  Digging the keys out of my purse, I unlock the door, walk inside, and lean against it, waiting as requested. As I close my eyes, I remember the look in Sin’s eyes. My stomach begins to churn and all I want to do is wash the bitterness from my mouth.

  The stairs are only a few feet away and I’m tempted to run and escape to our bedroom, but before I can get away, James enters the house. I stand up to face him and see a devilish smile on his lips. I recognize his smile and what it means: there’s more sex to come.

  “Go upstairs to our bedroom,” James whispers in my ear, twirling a strand of my blond hair between his fingers. A chill runs down my back as his warm breath fans across my skin. “We need to talk, among other things.”

  What does he mean by “other things”? I silently pray I’ve read his smile and words wrong and he doesn’t want more sex. Surely what I did for him in the car is enough for one night—not to mention all the sex he wanted this morning. He’s never pushed me like this.

  Before I turn to head up the stairs, I peek through the open front door and see Sin approaching the steps, his eyes downcast, pulling his suitcase behind him. The need to flee fills me, knowing I can’t face him right now.

  “Why are you still standing here?” James swats me on the behind. “Get upstairs.”

  “Yes, James,” I whisper, and spin on unsteady feet. I try to run up the stairs, but I definitely drank too much vodka. I grasp the handrail tightly to keep my balance.

  As I close our bedroom door, I hear James’ voice booming from the foyer. I want to hear what he’s saying, but the bitter taste lingering in my mouth makes me dash to the master bath. I place my mouth under the running water and rinse away the sourness, but it’s not enough. Instead, I move to the toilet as my stomach revolts and I expel my dinner.

  I collapse onto the cold tile floor and a dark feeling of hopelessness tries to overtake me. It reminds me of the night my mother died. Too weak to fight, I surrender and the tears win.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sin

  “Follow me to my office,” James instructs, pivoting on the shiny marble of the entryway. He doesn’t wait for an answer from me, but then again, he didn’t really ask a question. Everyone heeds to his commands and desires. What a demanding asshole.

  He carries himself like he’s the ruler of the free world, but my disgust at his words about Harlow’s mouth and how he crushed her dignity only grows. How could he talk about his own fiancée like that? He’s a world-renowned heart specialist, not some backroom pimp. His vulgarity makes me realize I have no idea who my uncle is, nor does anyone else in my family. Nina would be repulsed.

  A door shuts somewhere upstairs and I assume it’s Harlow heading to their bedroom. The thought of them in bed together makes me feel sick. She’s so sweet and young, and I fear he’s trapped her in some crazy web.

  I leave my suitcase by the door and follow him toward a hallway, surveying the house as I walk. The place is fucking enormous. The ceilings above me have to be two stories high and extend into an expansive living area. Expensive furnishing from what looks to be a designer showroom cover every inch of space. Even though I’m in the middle of wheat fields, this place has the opulence of an Upper East Side penthouse owned by others richer than even my family. It reeks money—lots and lots of it. Especially for a small city like Rochester.

  “We’ll talk in here.” James opens a tall, wooden door and flips on a light switch. Small lamps on the walls illuminate the room in soft hues. Mahogany paneled walls surround the room in shadows. A desk fit for a king sits back in the middle and the chair behind it could pass as a throne. The man likes to make a statement.

  Two smaller chairs parked in front of the desk are practically childlike compared to King James’ chair. I move to a corner of the desk and sit on the edge, refusing to be intimidated by this man. I’ve only seen him a handful of times in my entire life. All our interactions were at formal family functions where polished manners and perfect appearances prevailed. Here, now, uncle or not, he’s not a friend of mine.

  “What would you like to drink? Scotch?” James slips behind a small bar near the sidewall and pulls out two short glasses. “Or do you prefer a more common pour, like whiskey?”

  James busies himself with the scotch bottle, his gaze remaining on his task. I respond by crossing my arms over my chest and remaining silent. Finally, he looks up at me with his brows knitted. He glances at my unyielding stance and a small smirk tips the corner of his lips. The bar between us serves as a dividing line.

  Once I have his full attention, I decide to speak. “I’ll pass on the drink,” I say, not moving from my position on the desk. “You said you wanted to talk?” Or lecture me?

  “I do.” James sips his drink and his icy blue eyes assess me from over the rim of the glass. He licks the taste of scotch from his lips and moves from the bar toward the desk. “Have a seat.”

  He walks right past me without a glance, but I have no desire to sit in one of those small chairs like his royal subject. So, I move toward the bar instead, and lean against it to face him.

  “Thanks, but I’ll stand. I’ve been sitting all day.” Even the airplane seats looked larger and more comfortable than what he is offering. Prick.

  “Suit yourself.” He drains his scotch and places the now empty glass on the desk. “How many years has it been since we’ve seen each other, Sinclair?”

  “Six summers ago in Nantucket.” It was the summer before I headed to Australia. I was a young, idealistic idiot, thinking the world was mine for the taking.

  “Right, Nina managed to get all of us together at her summer retreat. I don’t think you said two words to me.”

  “True, but I don’t remember you saying two words to me either.”

  “Good point,” he laughs in an odd way that makes my skin crawl. “When Nina asked me to offer you a spot in The Clinic’s program, I wasn’t quite sure what to think. I always thought you would end up helping your father run his empire.”

  “I really appreciate this opportunity.” My words are sincere. “I’m lucky to have the spot.”

  “Give your grandmother credit, not me. She’s your biggest fan,” James says with an unmistakable tone of sarcasm. He pushes the chair back and stands. “Empty.” Raising his glass, he walks toward me, needing a refill from the bar I’m still leaning against.

  “I have a question for you,” James says. I turn around to face him as he pours himself another glass of scotch and brings it to his lips. He consumes his second drink in one quick swig like Harlow did at the restaurant.

  “Shoot.” I nod my head to let him know I’m game.

  “What made you choose medicine over the family business?” James stands still and waits for my answer. I know exactly why he’s asking me this question. He grilled Harlow in the car and she told him why we were touching at the restaurant. My answer is nothing more than an attempt to corroborate what she said to him.

  “You know why. She told you.” I turn the tables, unwilling to be intimidated by him. Harlow and I did nothing wrong, no matter what he thinks.

  James sets his glass down hard on the bar counter and looks at me with a tight expression, fueled by frustration. I’m not sure what causes this anger inside of him. It could be a million things, but it revolves around the woman likely waiting for him in his bedroom.

  “Do you have any idea what it’s like to love a woman like Harlow?” He runs a hand through his blond hair an
d fills his glass with more scotch.

  “I’ve never been in love,” I confess.

  “Well, it’s maddening as hell. You’ve gotta understand where I’m coming from, Sin. Harlow’s beautiful with an unassuming appeal. You should’ve heard the conversations at the hospital and club before we were officially together. Even the married doctors joined in. When I finally announced we were a couple, the talk around me stopped, but I see the way they look at her. I feel their envy. You touching her triggered something in me.”

  Any man near her would elicit this response in him. It wasn’t just me. He’s jealous of other men and their feelings for Harlow and fears she may return those feelings. I don’t do relationships, but I’m smart enough to know this type of love is more of an obsession. It explains his heavy-handed control, but it doesn’t justify how he treats Harlow. His version of love has made her his captive.

  “The touch was innocent,” I respond. James stretches out his arms and leans his hands against the bar top. He bows his head in defeat then looks up at me with worry lines running across his forehead.

  “I suppose.” He’s not convinced yet, but it’s his own doubt and insecurity keeping him from trusting me, or any man that comes near Harlow—innocent or not.

  “I’m beat.” You’re drunk. “Let’s call it a night.” Even though it’s not late, I’ve had enough and need some time to figure out what the hell has happened since I landed here. My four-week program, which I assumed would be a quiet experience, has turned into a freak show.

  “I’ll show you to your room.”

  James pushes off from the bar and heads to the door. He trips over the edge of a rug, but recovers quickly. We travel back down the same hallway and I grab my suitcase as we pass the entrance.

  “The kitchen is off to the right. Media room to your left.” He points in various directions as he shows me the layout of the house. “All the bedrooms are upstairs.”

  “Right.” I follow him up to the second floor and he leads me past several doors. The first one we walked by is shut, so I assume it is the master.

  “I mentioned you borrowing a car in our emails,” James says.

  “You did.” Before I met this version of you. It had sounded like a good idea a few weeks ago, but now, I’m not so sure I want to owe him a thing.

  “Well, I have a white Porsche parked in the garage. It’s yours while you’re here.” He stops outside a room and turns to face me. “Believe me, you can’t rent a set of wheels like that in this town.”

  “I’ve never driven a Porsche.” And I’m not sure I want to drive yours. Right now, a rent-a-wreck sounds better than a strings-attached vehicle.

  “It’s a chick magnet. Not that I would know.” He waggles his brow and punches my arm hard in an attempt to be funny.

  I give him a weak half-smile. Jerk.

  He walks inside the room and flips on the lights. “This one’s yours.”

  I notice an indention in the bed, as if someone had been lying on it and forgot to straighten the covers. James grumbles under his breath and scurries over to the bed, straightening the wrinkles.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “You kidding me? I never make my bed,” I laugh, but James remains stiff as he stands close by. He’s making way too much out of a few wrinkles.

  “Well, it should’ve been ready for you either way.” He leads me to an open door inside the room. “Here’s the bathroom.”

  “Nice,” I say as I follow him in. The shower is large enough for a party of five and has frosted glass doors. It seems over the top for a guest bath. Towels hang perfectly from racks on the wall. I laugh to myself. Once I use those towels, there’s no way in hell I’ll get them to look like that again. I’m lucky if I remember to pick the towel up off the floor.

  “You should be set.” James moves to exit the bathroom and I follow behind him.

  “Thanks. See you in the morning.”

  After James leaves, I find the closet to stick my suitcase inside. I need to spread out my stuff, but I’m afraid Mr. Neat and Clean would object.

  Once inside the closet, I notice it’s half-full with women’s clothing. Worn jeans with frayed hems hang together next to faded shirts and sweaters. I push the hangers apart and look more closely. All the items are on their last leg, not even fit for a charity donation. Continuing toward the back of the row, I come across a burgundy polo shirt and see the name “Harlow” written on the tag. It looks like an old work shirt and the size of it would overwhelm her. The clothes I’m rummaging through don’t match the stylish Harlow from this evening. These, nearly threadbare, must have belonged to her before she met my uncle.

  On the shelf above me, there is a tattered brown purse. I reach for it and peek inside. A small book with dog-eared pages sits alone at the bottom. I turn it on its side and see it’s a book of Robert Frost poetry. Harlow came alive when she mentioned writing poetry at the restaurant. Maybe Frost is her inspiration. During my undergrad years, he was the only poet that made me think about the world around me and how I related to it. His words moved me.

  I set the purse back up on the shelf and thumb through the pages. I find my favorite poem of his, one of his earlier ones, The Road Not Taken. The page is marked up and highlighted. It appears Harlow likes this selection too. I glance over the familiar words and stop at the last paragraph. Red hearts are drawn on the side. I read the words slowly to myself.

  I shall be telling this with a sigh.

  Somewhere ages and ages hence:

  Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

  I took the one less traveled by,

  And that has made all the difference.

  I smile to myself and chuckle at the irony of the words. I’m out in the middle of nowhere and the road I thought I’d be traveling in Rochester isn’t the one I feel like I’m on now. I thought it would be a smooth and boring experience. Instead, it’s turned into a bumpy and provoking eye-opener.

  I place the book back inside the purse and glance over the physical remnants of Harlow’s previous life. Her clothes point to a life of struggles and hardships, but the poetry reveals a thoughtful woman in search of life’s meaning.

  I change into a clean T-shirt and some gray shorts. After my uncle’s fucked up behavior tonight, I’m tempted to call a hotel downtown for the rest of my stay, but the thought of leaving Harlow alone in this house with him unsettles me. I remember her sad, haunting eyes in the driveway and how they tugged at my heart.

  Tired from traveling, I climb into the bed and stare up at the ceiling. I settle between the sheets and a faint touch of Harlow’s perfume invades my senses. It’s the same fresh, clean scent from inside the confines of her car.

  But why is her perfume on this bed?

  The answer hits me. She must have made the indent on the bed and now her scent lingers behind to torture me.

  I close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, and think of her blond hair flowing as she walked. God, how I wanted to touch it, see if it was as soft as it looked.

  I lie awake, thinking of her and how she came to live with James—or, more likely, how he seduced her. Something about their relationship doesn’t add up.

  Chapter Twelve

  Harlow

  I stretch across the soft cotton sheets and look to the other side of the bed. Instead of seeing James, I find cold, crumbled bedding with the covers pushed back. I glance around the room and listen for the shower or running water, but hear nothing. My entire body relaxes knowing there won’t be a round of morning sex … for now.

  Luckily, after drinking too much vodka last night, I feel great—no headache or queasy stomach. I close my eyes and retreat back into the sheets, cocooning myself from the world. I focus on the warmth and comfort surrounding me and close my eyes. Nightmares didn’t visit me last night either, leaving me rested and refreshed.

  My mind wanders to Sin. I can still see him approaching me at the airport with those strong strides, pulling everyone’s attention to him like a pow
erful magnet. His piercing, golden-flecked eyes captivated me with an exotic appeal. Remembering them makes my knees weak even now, lying in this bed—the very bed I share with my fiancé, his uncle.

  God, my thoughts are twisted, but I can’t stop or deny this pull toward Sin. I bring my hand to my cheek, remembering his heartfelt and tender touch. Wiping away my tear moved and affected me more than it should have. Sin’s attention makes me question everything, blurring the lines of my orderly—or “ordered by James”—life, but I’m feeling. For the first time in months, I’m no longer numb, and whether those feelings are right or wrong confuses me.

  My phone begins to vibrate on the nightstand next to me. It makes the wood hum with an odd sound, and I turn it over to see it’s Emma calling me. I have avoided her texts and voicemails for weeks, though I’m not sure why. I’ve felt guilty about it, too. Since James isn’t hovering over me right now, I decide to take the call.

  “Hello,” I whisper.

  “Oh my God. Finally.” I hear the annoyance in her voice and I can’t blame her. I’ve been a lousy friend.

  “I’m sorry, Emma. I haven’t been able to get back with you.” It’s a blatant lie, but I don’t know what to say in regards to essentially blowing her off.

  “What is going on with you? I’m beyond worried and need proof of life,” she huffs into the phone. “I’m going to see you today. Either I’ll come rattle the iron gate or you’ll agree to meet me somewhere.”

  Well, shit. There’s no use fighting her demands. Her mind is made up, but I need to think of a way to have James approve of me seeing her. Or make up a convincing lie about where I’m going. First things first: I need to make her happy.

  “I’ll meet you at the club for lunch. How about noon?”

  “The club? You’re kidding? I can’t think of anyone our age that goes to lunch there. Should I wear my pearls?” She follows with a short chuckle tinged with sarcasm.

  Going to the club is the best I can hope for. It’s on an approved list of places for me, though I’ve never been without him before, so I have my work cut out for me to win his permission.