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Chapter Four
Hatred is an Art
"Brian O'Leary?" Sheridan paused, racking her brain for the familiarity of the name. Her stomach rumbled insistently at the lack of food in it, and the black coffee she'd downed that morning seemed to swirl within the acidity. The strawberry muffin—the only flavor she'd dared to taste—beckoned her like an evil horn, but she couldn't get herself to reach for it, not with so much on her mind. "Don't think I've heard of him or his family before."
"Yeah, well, I thought so anyway." Gwen Hotchkiss sighed as she added an abundant amount of sugar to her cappuccino. Blowing at the stray golden lock falling across her cheek, she raised the cup to her lips and spoke from behind it. "He said he has no relations and virtually no past to speak of."
Sheridan shrugged and distractedly picked at the edge of their table. Although fairly crowded, the Book Café was hardly ever a place for the two debutantes to be seen socializing. But both their rebellious natures conjured the need to drift against the tide and not with it, even if it meant choking and sputtering. The only setback was that there was no where to reach, not for her and maybe not for Gwen.
The door swung open rowdily and eased Monica Simmons' haughty way into the modest café. Her out of place Yves Saint Laurent sunglasses slid down her nose and into her hand. Gwen raised her eyebrows curiously. "I've seen her before."
"Of course, Monica Simmons is the most upper class whore ever to exist. My husband would happily inform you." Sheridan muttered in reply, shifting her focus back to plucking what she could from the corner of their table and avoiding the stares of the pink muffin. Eating was never an appealing habit to her, especially in late afternoons when she'd barely touched the lunch at her parents' mansion. As much as she pretended to care, Katherine never truly noticed how little her daughter ate or how miserable she truly was.
"I'm sorry." Gwen said softly, her hazel eyes brimming with the sympathy only a friend could offer.
"It's really fine. I've become rather…" She paused once again. "Immune." A nod of her blonde head confirmed that she was pleased with her choice of words even if she doubted them. Through the corners of her eyes, she could see Monica weaving her way to a secluded table in the corner of the café and giving the kind pixie-resembling waitress her order.
Gwen stared at her friend thoughtfully, then smacked her lips as though coming out of a deep, exhausting thought. "I still can't believe it all turned out the way it did."
"Neither can I, sometimes, but I've come to accept it." Sheridan sighed, finally venturing and taking a daring bite out of the fluffy muffin. When she swallowed it down and decided that she didn't like strawberry-flavored products, she looked back to Gwen. "I chose it."
"It doesn't mean you have to condemn yourself…" Another thoughtful expression conquered Gwen's face, but this time a twinkle appeared in her eyes. "Unless you care."
Laughter always had the most untimely emergence, but she resisted and resorted to reflecting upon the suggestion. It really wouldn't have sounded so bad had she not known her husband so well. "I used to." The confession was sheepish and accompanied by a wistful smile. "I don't, anymore."
"He's really that bad?" Gwen scrunched her nose, her incomplete grasp of the situation shining like a gap in the analysis she was trying to impose. The shoulders of her off-white pullover bore the remnants of the once perfect coiffure.
"Even worse." Sheridan murmured in reply, her gaze locking upon the dark figure entering the café. Being the bastard that he usually was, he had to make his rendezvous public, or else her humiliation wouldn't—couldn't—be completed. She summoned her hatred and tried to intensify it, but it seemed to want to abandon her.
Gwen's eyes followed hers, and her jaw slightly slacked when she spotted him. Whether her reaction was because he looked distinctively dashing or because she'd realized his intentions wasn't clear. "Speak of the devil."
"Devil is right." Sheridan agreed, fighting to catch his wandering dark eyes with her own for the sole purpose of bothering him. Almost instantly, Luis glumly spotted them and all but winced as he made his way to their table. Gwen held her breath, anticipating what was to come.
"Hello, Miss Hotchkiss, I believe we've met before." His hand closed around hers in a firm handshake, and Gwen had to resist the insane urge to blush under his scrutinizing gaze.
"Darling, you're late for your date. Monica has been sitting alone for the past… what ten minutes?" She pretended to look at Gwen for confirmation, but the blonde merely shrugged and shrunk back into her seat, looking utterly uncomfortable.
His eyes flew to hers in suppressed anger, his jaw clenching at the smug smile on her face. The vein throbbing in his temple was almost visible. "We need to talk."
From her place, Monica watched with apprehensive dismay.
"Talk? Who needs to talk?" Smirking, she stepped out of reach when he extended a hand towards her elbow. "I wouldn't dream of keeping you any longer. You should…"
"Now." He cut her off, staring into her eyes with a look that could kill at any time of the day, but Sheridan Crane wasn't about to fall for that. She'd been recipient to one too many of the outmoded glowers.
"No!" She folded her arms under her breasts and dared him with her eyes to do anything to embarrass them any further.
Bullying the threat wasn't beneath him. "Excuse us, Miss Hotchkiss." With a determined stance, he stepped closer towards her, wrapped a strong, firm arm around her shoulders, and wordlessly walked her outside the café. Her struggle throughout the way only served to draw eyes towards them and thus to deflate the fight she was trying to maintain. When she finally managed to free herself of his hold, she knew it was because he'd let her.
"Never do something like that again." He ordered, pacing the pavement before her much as a caged beast would. The tiny alley they'd slipped into was deserted and spooky, the only familiarity about it the back door to the Book Café. He could kill her if he wanted to, and then the whole world would mildly comprehend the whirlwind she'd stepped into almost half a year ago, one she desperately wanted to put an end to.
"I'll do whatever I please, and you know that." She hugged herself briskly, blue eyes darting back and forth with his every movement. It felt ridiculous to follow his movements with her eyes, almost as ridiculous as she'd felt watching a tennis match between her mother and father as a child. A grown woman, she couldn't believe she'd actually pretended to like those.
Stopping, he half-turned to glare at her. "I'm your husband, and you'll do whatever I say or else…"
"Why are you doing this to me?" Despite the emotion behind the words, there wasn't a trace of it in her voice. She managed a calm, cold tone that seemed to shock him. Considerably, it was a gift she would always thank God for—the ability to keep her sanity in check.
"Doing what to you?" Luis drawled, facing her in one swift movement and standing directly before her. Sheridan stood firm, refusing to allow him to intimidate her and raised her chin to meet his questioning eyes evenly. But they both knew she wasn't about to answer that question. "Doing what?" He asked, his voice softer, his tone more forceful, and his arm startlingly slid around her waist, hauling her against him and leaving his face inches away from her own.
Her breathing came in hard, ragged pants and she tried all she could to push him away, bracing her hands on his solid chest, struggling furiously, but it was useless. Biting him was an insane urge that crept into her consciousness, but she let it go just thinking of how furious he'd be if she did. Obviously, he was stronger than she was, and oddly the fact made her despise him even more. "I hate you." She spat indignantly, ignoring the moisture stinging the back of her eyes like little needles and sounding like she meant it.
Catching her chin with his free hand, he held her head still and gazed deeply at her face, seemingly searching for something he couldn't find. "Don't say that." He bid quietly, his eyes dark and unreadable in the frosty alley. It was murkier there, chilling, the barely seen sky a turmoil of gray and black.
She chose not to fight what he imposed on her, instead drawing an emotional posture that protected her heart and mind and closing her eyes against his. The caress of his breath down the side of her face was numbing, dizzying, but warming. Try as she might, she couldn't find the strength to ignore it and focus on her feelings of contempt. Feathery and only slightly ticklish, the stroke of his lips lingered for a moment on her temple before his face burrowed in the strands of her silken, golden hair. His hand no longer found the need to hold her head still, finding her transfixed with the sensations rather than with force. It joined his face in her hair, fingering the soft wisps then sliding to cup the back of her neck. The cold that had managed to grip her spine from the small of her back and all the way up to her neck now melted like a cube of ice held over a roaring flame. Before she could comprehend what was happening, his lips covered hers in a tender kiss. A tender, sweet kiss she wasn't aware Luis could give, but he could and he did. His mouth closed over hers, drawing her bottom lip and gently sipping it. His aromatic embrace engulfed her like a perfumed blanket, its scent dazzling in its absolute zest.
She thought it too good to last forever when it ended, and he thrust away from her with a look in his eyes so wondrous and questioning that she had the desire to explain to him exactly what had happened. His dark eyebrows drew together, and he looked down at his hands and around at the smoky alley, then staggered backwards as if in disbelief. Talking to him couldn't be an option at that point, not when he was so confused. His dark eyes met hers, shielded and masked, but alight with something she couldn't quite place.
"You don't hate me." He realized softly, speaking more to himself than to her. A warrior facing a naked enemy. Upon earning no response whatsoever, Luis found it only safe to leave it at that and flee the setting, sweeping past the Book Café and into his black car. For the second time that day, she heard the engine rev to life and the squeal of the tires as he left.
A small torch of triumph lit up inside of her. He'd left Monica behind. The glory was for something unknown, undefined. She shouldn't have cared, but maybe she did. Maybe she wanted to. With her small uncalled for gift in mind, Sheridan reentered the café and headed over to where Gwen was seated. She ignored the questioning look and glanced in amusement at her empty plate. Some things, at least, remained as a droll escape from the terrible and baffling reality she had to live.
"I'm sorry." Gwen mumbled guiltily. "It looked good, and I'm hungry…"
"It's okay." Sheridan's soft laughter drew an uncertain smile from her friend. "I didn't like it anyway."
Gwen straightened in her seat and wiggled her eyebrows Monica's way for Sheridan to look. The bristling brunette put on an admirable show as she paid her check and burst out of the café angrily. Another giggle stole past Sheridan's lips while Gwen just smirked in amusement.
"What happened?"
Sheridan's small smile was significant. "I have no idea." At Gwen's questioning look, she simply shrugged and tried to look as sincere as she was. All she knew was that she didn't want to talk about it. There was no use in exploring something with a surface so difficult to scratch off. Their encounter was one of many, and she hated to grasp onto needles in mountains of straw. If there was anything different about it, it was that Luis had finally spoken about something related to feelings. It confirmed that he knew of their existence… a slight relief. "Tell me about this Brian."
Gwen's hazel eyes lit up beneath the coat of black mascara. "He has the most amazing eyes you'd ever see. They're blue, but a really light blue… um… just like Matthew's color-wise. But they're as intense as anything could get. It seems he's been through some rough stuff, and I wouldn't be surprised… he totally seemed like it. I guess, he's just a bit shorter than Luis, but I'm telling you he has a body to die for!"
Sheridan rolled her eyes humorously and reserved the smile on her face. Deriving amusement from her best friend's antics was a comforting light in her life. "Where did you meet this prince charming?"
The dramatic sigh Gwen gave made her quirk an eyebrow in interest. "We met at Bianca's dinner last night."
"I thought that was only for women." Confusion colored Sheridan's voice.
"It was!" Gwen confirmed, still smiling mischievously.
"And how exactly did this Brian make it to a dinner for women?" She hadn't meant to sound as degrading or puzzled as she did, but that was almost uncontrollable.
"Sheridan! I thought you were smarter than that." Gwen huffed impatiently, digging into her purse for chewing gum and hoping Sheridan would understand by then. But clearly and unfortunately, the other woman wasn't absorbing it and wasn't showing any signs of doing so anytime soon either. She sighed and looked into her blue eyes in irritation. "He was the waiter."
Even as she was stepping into the mansion, Sheridan couldn't help smiling over Gwen's excitement concerning a hot waiter. A waiter! The tabloids were sure to feast over this. She could see it clearly: Hotchkiss Heiress Clings to Charming Waiter. Jonathan Hotchkiss would certainly suffer another stroke. Rebecca's screech would be heard all the way over in China. And poor Gwen would have to deal with it all. Blasted maître d' had to look his best and entangle her friend within his simple charms. It was pathetic, even for Gwen. But she had to praise her for the courage she had, standing up to their norms like that… it certainly required guts.
The thoughts fled her mind when she entered the dark living room, illuminated by a single candlestick melting onto its holder like a beaten child. It made the raindrops on the window glisten with its glow. Her husband certainly appreciated beauty. The rain had started the instant they'd decided to leave the Book Café--pure luck and nothing else. Their pale blue couch looked even pastier with no lights on, and Luis was lying on it, his eyes closed, the glass of brandy resting on his chest, his hand supporting it against the gentle heaving. She neared him and kneeled beside him, dumping her purse on the ground in the process.
"Luis?"
His eyes shot open just as a rare smile curved his lips, one that conveyed that he'd been waiting for her. Effortlessly, he sat up on the couch and faced her, looking down at her stooping form. After setting the glass aside by the candle, his hands covered her shoulders. The look in his eyes was intense and serene. Touching a finger to her chin, he leaned in to place a brief kiss on her lips, merely brushing against them, in a touch so gentle it reminded her of a butterfly's wings. Her heart dropped to somewhere within the vicinity of her stomach, beating furiously as his mouth continued to softly assault hers. She cupped his face and pulled away slightly to gaze into his eyes.
Fear seeped frantically throughout her body, a loud, noisy warning that she managed to ignore. "Luis, I…"
The pads of his fingers applied a gentle pressure against her lips. "I don't like talking."
She averted the consuming passion in his smoldering black eyes and stared at the fibers of the Indian carpet beneath her. "I know."
"Good." He pressed an open-mouthed kiss against her forehead and ran a hand over her golden hair, threading his fingers through the curls much as he'd done earlier. She wondered if he could possibly know that the act moved her, deeply, with its tenderness, and the adoration by which he carried it out.
Covering his hands with her own, she pulled them back to her face, kissed them, then leaned in and brushed her lips softly against his. "I want to talk."
A frown marred his face, but his eyes remained with hers unable to tear away. Submission wasn't one of his stronger traits, but Luis was willing to listen, at least for a while. "I'll listen." He knew he wasn't drunk but felt peculiarly at ease and could find nothing to blame it on.
"I want you to talk."
That caused him to back away, resting his back against the rich couch as if telling her that she'd pushed too far. She followed, sliding through his open knees and placing her hands on his neck. Feeling particularly daring and finding him unusually responsive encouraged her. He smirked as he drew his knees closer together, trapping her, but she thought nothing of it. And if she did, she never showed it. Laying her head onto his shoulder, she tenderly nuzzled his neck and slid her hand over his chest, caressing him.
"Tell me about your family, Luis."
He stiffened and turned his head away, thinking of how peacefully the flickering candlelight surrounded them and of how beautiful she looked in it. "They're dead."
"But they existed. They're worth mentioning."
"No one is."
"Not one of them?"
"No one dead is worth mentioning."
"That's a horrible thing to say." She whispered, her tone static even as the pattering of the rain provided a rhythmic background.
"I'm a horrible person."
"I know you'd like to be, but you're not."
He laughed mirthlessly and glanced down at her with hard eyes. "You'd be surprised."
"What were you doing at the mansion?" The senseless tone by which she spoke to him made him want to turn gray and old instantly. She made him feel like a child, and the innocence of that could not be found and held in the deepest cornices of his heart, his soul. Stripped and beaten, the child within him fled decades ago so that it hardly ever existed. Even within the evil gleams of his passion, he could barely see himself as a man. Before his own eyes, he was merely a creature, dark and emotionless. A steel and granite remainder embodied with flesh and blood, made more vibrant with irises and hair, enhanced with desire by a nature so cold to him.
Deliberately ignoring her inquiry, his arms came around her in a tight embrace that allowed him to lift her against him as he stood as though she weighed no more than a purring cat. He laid her onto the couch and stretched over her, grazing a hand to the soft skin of her cheek and smiling in such a way one would to an inside joke. The lids of her eyes fanned before they finally covered the deep inlaid sapphire sparkling against the ivory of her skin. Bracing his knee on the edge of the sofa, he stopped his face a breath away from her throat.
"I promised myself never to touch you." He hissed the admission like a prayer, waiting to be answered. The sapphires glistened once again, confused, indignant and belittled before the power he stood for.
"I'm your wife." She murmured, hesitant to reach out and touch him even though she wanted to.
"Precisely because you're my wife."
They sparkled to a deeper shade of blue, leaving the gems behind and beckoning the ocean on a stormy night. Their color was velvety and entrancing. It could capture him for an eternity, and he wouldn't tire of looking into them.
"When I have you, there is no reason for me to claim you." His lips sheathed her throat, nipping at the sensitive skin and leaving the gentle marks of a nonexistent lover. The stubble on his chin imprinted whisker burns that stung not only physically but also the exposed wound in her heart.
"You married me for that?" Within her breathless voice, he could hear the despair and the success of his mission. It didn't comfort him, nor did it pacify his soul. The sole condolence was a promise of a lengthier pain, a more disturbed existence.
"No," He spoke quietly, retreating like a wounded soldier as he stared at her and waited for the flash of azure to reemerge. When it did, his voice filled the silence. "I married you to torture you."
The tears she often fought so well slid freely down her cheeks, and she wiped them away nonchalantly, hating his existence and wishing she could torment him half as well as he did her. He looked away, unable to inspect the rare display. Something within him stirred, something untouched, unsheltered. Something that should have never been disturbed.
He thrust away from the couch and strode on bare feet across the carpeted floor until he reached the window and brought his fists gently against it. The neatness of his hands bothered him. They had never been so well-groomed. His knuckles glided over the glass smoothly, safe from the droplets outside. He hated it, desperately wanting back the blistered, bloody fingers he had known before the masquerade began.
"I'm doing a good job at it." This time, he didn't turn to face her, all too engrossed in the drama outside. Even the rain's slapping, the booming thunder, and the flashing lightening couldn't shield his ears against her quiet sobs. The untouched, unused place within him throbbed for an instant before he crushed it down. "I told you, I'm a horrible person."
When she finally spoke, her voice was surprisingly clear and strong. "I'm starting to believe it."
