—LISA
..
The steering wheel presses hard against my cheekbone, airbag clumped up under my neck, hot metal on my leg. Rain falls through the shattered window, blurring the lines, making the blood run faster into my eyes. I hurt. I hurt all over.
The tiny voice of my car service drifts from somewhere overhead. "Ms. Manoban? Are you injured? Ms. Manoban?"
My mouth fills with the metallic taste of blood.
"Ms. Manoban?"
I'm here. Don't leave me.
"Lisa?" A voice of hot, sticky honey. I want to taste it, let it drizzle over my skin. "Lisa?"
The camera flash pops in my eyes.
God, look at her. She's really hurt. Shouldn't we get help?
We will just take one more picture. Feel her arm. It's so soft.
They're taking pictures of me stuck in this car. They're fucking feeling me up. While I'm twisted up in this fucking car. A hand grabs my arm. Shouting, I swing wide, connecting with something hard. A tremendous crash rings out.
"Lisa! What the great hell?"
It's her voice—no longer honey sweet but sharp and irate, a voice I can never fully get out of my mind—that pulls me out of my fog. My surroundings come into focus with a breath. Jennie kneels on the floor, gathering up the ruins of what looks to be my dinner.
"Shit, I'm sorry," I say, honestly horrified I took a swing at her.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" she huffs. "I called your name several times, and you were just sitting there, staring out the window."
"I was asleep." I run a hand over my face and find it damp with sweat. "Did I hurt you?"
"I'm fine. But the tray might take exception to being whacked." She shoots me a glare, and I brace for another rebuke, but her stiff expression eases. "You were having a nightmare, weren't you?"
"Just got disoriented. The painkillers make me loopy."
Jennie's hard stance softens. "I shouldn't have grabbed you without checking to see if you were awake. Daddy always said it was dangerous to jar people out of a nightmare."
"It wasn't a nightmare." The lie comes out snappish. Probably because I'm lying. But damn if I want to see that pity in her eyes. "Although I agree, you shouldn't go around grabbing people while they're sleeping. Kind of rude, regardless." God, shut up, Lisa. You're the rude ass. But I can't seem to help myself around this girl.
Her nose wrinkles. "I guess that bug up your butt is a permanent condition."
"Bringing up my butt again." I force a smile. "You think about it a lot, do you?"
Her answering smile is all sharp edges and bite. "I think about kicking it nearly every time we're in the same room together."
A laugh breaks free, pushing at my aching ribs. "That I can believe. Here, let me help you." Without thinking, I bend forward to help her and immediately regret the action when a shard of pain punches into my side. She hears me hiss and sees the way I shoot back into my seat.
"Lisa, when are you going to admit you're in pain?" She rises to help.
A shudder runs down my back. The thought of her touching me in pity turns my skin cold. "Don't," I snap. My mind yells that I'm making things worse, but my mouth can't keep closed. "Don't touch me."
She halts, her hand still stretched toward me. She has slim fingers, short-trimmed nails with numerous scars and calluses marring her skin. Chef's hands. Her capable, abused fingers curl into a fist. "Don't touch you?" she repeats dully, but the hurt and outrage is still there. "Seriously?"
Heat swarms around my neck. I don't know how to explain to her why I cannot have her touching me right now. "I don't need help."
For a second, she stares. Shame washes over me. I haven't felt that particular emotion in so long I'm choking on it.
This is what she does; she exposes me—lays bare all the parts I want to hide, need to hide.
Hot in the face, I try to back up. My wheels run over the fallen tray with a crunch. "Shit."
"Here, let me—" She reaches up, but I back away.
And hit the corner of the desk with my bad side. "Shit!"
Jennie stands and attempts to help. "You're going the wrong way."
"I'm not . . ."
Suddenly we're stuck in this farce of a dance, me smashing at the controls of my chair and whacking into everything, Jennie hopping around so she won't get her toes crushed while yelling at me to let her help.
"I've got it," I snap. "If you'd just back off."
Her cheeks flush dark red. "You're zooming around like an angry bee! Calm down."
"Don't tell me to—" The lamp falls off the desk with a crash. "God damn it," I finally shout. "Leave it be, Jennie!"
The force behind my order lashes out with the efficiency of a whip, and Jennie flinches. It's enough to make us both pause. Breath coming out in hard pants, I stare at her for one awful second. Her eyes are round, lips parted with her agitated breathing. Then a glint, a rage I'm familiar with but haven't seen in ten years, forms.
"What the actual hell is wrong with you?" she cries, her arms akimbo.
She stands over me like a teacher ready to give a lecture. The band around my chest won't abate. "Nothing a good dose of privacy wouldn't fix."
Jennie snorts long and loud. "That's not what you need a dose of. For crying out loud, Lisa. You hire me in part to help you while you're convalescing, but the second I try to offer a hand, you have a temper tantrum."
Temper tantrum? My back teeth click together.
"I didn't hire you. You came to me." My thumb hits my chest for emphasis. "And part of that bargain was that you obeyed my orders without question."
I can see her struggling to keep her cool. She takes a deep breath, her breasts lifting high. I don't want to notice. I don't want her here.
"Look," she starts. "I was simply trying to help you get out from under the desk."
Everything feels too tight now: my skin, my flesh, my insides. I am exposed. "I said I didn't need your help."
"All evidence to the contrary."
"Get out."
She simply raises her brow, crossing her arms under those ample tits.
Undirected rage, helplessness, and frustration rise up. The ugly hot mix surges through my body, and without thought or care, I set it free. "Get out! Get out!"
My shout rings in my ears, crashes over the room. It's so loud, so aggressive, Jennie actually jumps. Her pretty face turns pale, and without another word, she flees.
I watch her go, horrified by my actions. I've never lost my temper like this. And for something so petty and baseless. She was trying to help. I tried to take her head off.
Unbidden, the image of my father standing over a much smaller version of myself with his fist raised flashes into my head. He had loved using his size and strength to intimidate those weaker and smaller than he was.
My stomach lurches, the room tilting sickly. "Fuck."
Crunching over debris, I roll out of the room and into the hall. "Jennie?"
But even as I call out, I catch sight of her car through the upper windows as she drives away.
—JENNIE
..
I won't cry. I will not cry. Nope. Not going to happen.
My lids prickle, and I snarl a ripe curse. My car bumps over the driveway as I speed along, my hands gripping the wheel hard enough to make my fingers throb. Lisa's shout still rings in my ears.
That asshole. Bullying, mean . . . jerk.
We've always bickered, but she's never screamed at me like that. The force of her rage had been palpable. It shook me to the core.
Nothing is worth this crap. I had a life. A good one. I didn't put it on hold to be verbally abused.
My vision blurs, and I take a breath, trying to steady myself. I'm on the road, heading toward the highway. Away from here. Away from her.
"Shit." I left everything behind.
With her.
"Doesn't matter." I'm not going back. I'll have it shipped. Hell, she can throw it all out. I don't care. I was insane for offering myself up like this anyway. I'll take Mama on a nice long vacation. If she's not here to learn about Jisoo, then she'll never know.
My phone rings, buzzing away on the seat beside me. A quick glance, and my stomach bottoms out. It's her. The asshole.
I ignore it for three ring cycles. Part of me wants to throw the phone out the window. But I'm not a coward. I might have needed to . . . regroup. But I'm not scared of Lisa Asshat Manoban.
I answer with the built-in car speaker. "What?"
Her voice comes at me from all directions, very deep yet very soft. "I'm sorry."
I drive for a couple of shocked beats because an apology without preamble is the last thing I'd been expecting.
"Jennie?"
I clear my throat. "What?" I ask with slightly less acerbity.
Her sigh is a whisper of sound in the small confines of the car. "I'm sorry."
"You already said that."
"It bears repeating."
"True," I concede, driving along. The Pacific glints with orange sparkles as the sun races toward the horizon. Only then do I realize it's on my left side, which means I'm heading north to God knows where. I pull into the parking lot of a seaside taco stand, too distracted to drive safely, just as Lisa starts talking again.
"I don't know what came over me. I wasn't myself. I've never . . . never shouted at someone like that."
"Figures you'd choose to start with me."
She makes a sound of self-derision. "It was inexcusable. I don't know what to say to make up for it."
It's on the tip of my tongue to tell her nothing can atone for her behavior. But then I think about how she'd been in pain, embarrassed, frustrated, unable to free herself. I'd seen it play out, clear as day in her eyes, the tightness of her expression and the way she'd thrashed around like a wild animal caught in a trap. And I'd blustered in, ignoring her requests for privacy, convinced I could fix it. That she should behave and listen to me.
I absolutely loathe being managed or babied. Why should Lisa feel any differently?
Cringing, I glance out the window and notice a second restaurant boarded up and overlooking the northwest side of the lot. It's basically a dilapidated beach shack, but it has great outdoor space with premium sea views. There was a time when I'd dreamed of owning a place like this. A place I could run and be inspired by. I'd willingly put my dreams on hold for Lisa. For Jisoo. For Mama.
"Jennie?" Lisa's hesitant query draws me back to the present and her.
"Yeah?" I whisper before clearing my throat again.
She takes an audible breath. "It won't happen again. I swear."
I snort at that, looking down at my scarred-up chef's hands. "You won't lose your temper? Lisa, you might as well say you're going to stop breathing and still live."
She laughs at that, but it sounds tired and weak. "Okay, I deserve that. You're right; I can't promise I won't argue with you."
I roll my eyes, but she can't see it. Even so, I have the weird feeling she knows perfectly well what I'm doing. Maybe it's because I can all but picture her face, not smiling, but the corners of her eyes crinkled in wry humor, her expressive mouth forced into a hard line. She'd have that expression whenever we'd call a stalemate—because we'd never been able to concede to a truce.
"I won't lose my temper in that way again," she says. "I promise."
Doesn't every man start by saying that? I shouldn't even be talking to her. But somehow I am, because I know I, too, would have screamed at her if the tables had been turned. Somewhere inside me, I felt safe enough to take her call. My fingers drum on the steering wheel. For once, she's utterly silent, letting me take my time replying. Lisa can be as patient as the day is long if she is after something she wants.
I glance at the old restaurant. Sometimes dreams shift and change. Such is life. I can drive off, leave this place, chase a new dream, leave her.
"Come back," she says as if hearing my inward yearnings. "I'll let you wing another tomato at me."
My lips twitch. "It isn't as fun if you aren't trying to get away."
Come back. Why do I want to? What is it about her that has me feeling more present than I have in years? She makes me perversely excited. Makes me want to forget about daydreams and live in the right now. Damn it, I want to return. I must be sick. Twisted. A masochist.
With a sigh, I turn away from the view and put my car into drive. "You do it again, and I'm gone. Our deal is considered fulfilled."
"All right."
"Fine." I glance at the phone as though I'll somehow find her sitting there instead. "But I'm off for tonight. I don't want to see you. Or hear from you."
Wry humor colors her voice. "Fair enough." She pauses. "You'll see and hear from me tomorrow, then, Tot."
She hangs up before I can reply. Bastard. Always getting in the last word.
God, I truly am twisted. I should dread going back and facing her. Instead, I find myself driving a little faster.
I never could resist a challenge.
—LISA
..
I hang up on Jennie before I do something ridiculous like try to chat with her as she drives back home. She's made it clear I need to go away and leave her be. I'm more than willing to do so; it's not as though I want to face her right now. I wouldn't be able to look her in the eye.
With a grunt, I maneuver my ass off the wheelchair and attempt to lower myself to the floor. It all goes wrong, and I land hard on my hip. Pain sparks and shoots like fireworks. Something seeps into the back of my pants. Great. I'm on my dinner.
North walks in as I'm reaching around me to pick up shards of a plate.
"Well, this is a sight."
I don't bother glancing up. "You need something?"
"No. But it looks like you do." He crouches next to me and starts putting some of the mess on the dented tray. I bite back the request for him to go. He's almost as stubborn as Jennie, and the fight has gone out of me.
"What the hell was all that?" he asks.
Wincing, I lift my thumb to my mouth and find a sliver of glass stuck in my skin. "Guess you heard."
"I wouldn't be surprised if they heard it in Orange County." North pushes my chair back and slings an arm under my shoulders. No asking with him. Just action. And though it chafes to get help from anyone, I'm no longer in the position to bitch about it.
He gets me in the chair. "Shower time."
"Fucking hell." Yeah, I'm not being mature about this. But I'm not having a good time adjusting to the fact that I cannot get my ass in the shower without assistance. My balance is off. With busted ribs and wrist on one side and a busted leg on the other, I can't get into a steady position without massive pain right now.
North has been helping. I should hire a professional nurse, but my level of trust is near zero, and though I don't like the situation, North has a matter-of-fact, deadpan way of dealing with me that makes it bearable.
Pride is a strange beast. We tend to think of it as doing things for ourselves, not leaning on others. Was it my pride or my ego that made me run Jennie off when she tried to help? An itchy, tight twist in my gut makes me think that maybe true pride is more about being able to accept a situation for what it is with grace.
Whatever the case, my respect for those who have had to readjust their way of life and work it out with dignity and grace has increased tenfold.
I'm getting dressed again when Jennie slams her way through the house and shuts herself in for the night. The woman does not walk on light feet. Despite my low mood a smile threatens. She moves through a space like a storm, crashing about and leaving a mess in her wake. Always has.
When we were teens, the bold way she occupied the world around her fascinated me. For all appearances, she was a shy girl, not liking the spotlight turned on her. The clothes she chose, the way she wore her hair, all of it was designed to blend into a crowd. Logically, she should have crept through life as well. But no. Some part of her might have wanted to hide, but Jennie's true nature was to shine bright.
For someone who drew the eye without effort yet secretly hated the attention, I realized even then that she was my true opposite. And that we were both somewhat twisted.
I killed the vital light in her pretty face tonight. Shouted like a tyrant.
"I'm such an asshole."
North, who had returned with his impeccable timing, raises a brow. "You think? Seriously, Manoban, what was that? You practically took her head off."
Grunting, I settle onto the couch set up in my bedroom's sitting area. "I don't know. I'm off lately." I pinch the tense spot between my brows. "Even before Jennie showed."
"You need to tell her about the accident."
Accident. I suppose it was. A sick, oily sensation slides down my throat. I swallow it away. "I will."
North gives me a long look before tilting his head to the side. A small crack rings out as he works through a neck kink. I'm in a shit mood; he's tense as fuck.
"What's with you?"
He stops fidgeting. "Martin is here."
"What, now?" I ask more out of irritation than anything. Of course he shows at this hour.
"I told him you might not have time for him, but he insisted on waiting."
"Where'd you leave him?" I ask, not exactly liking the idea of Martin having free rein in my house. I doubt he'd do anything so crass as to snoop. But he's too observant by far.
"He's in the den." Judging by North's tone, it's clear he knows exactly why I asked.
The den is fairly cut off from the rest of the house. Which also means if Jennie has an itch to leave her room and visit the kitchen, she won't encounter us. I've never hidden that I've searched for Jisoo. But the topic of Jennie's sister has a bad effect on all of us. I have no desire to rub salt in tonight's open wounds.
I find Martin comfortably lounging in my favorite leather chair by the dead fireplace, glass of Pappy Van Winkle in his hand. Martin is a prime example of a life lived hard and fast. Lines already fan out from the corners of his eyes and bracket his thin mouth. His brown eyes are always hard, even when he's amused.
It wasn't until I moved to LA that I noticed the small details of people's looks. But it's part of the culture here. You quickly learn to assess a person's wealth, health, and position of status with a glance.
I offer North a drink, but he shakes his head, then leans a shoulder against the closed door.
I pour myself a glass and sit opposite Martin. My fingers curl around the cool, sharp edges of the cut-crystal glass. "You find her?" No use mucking around with polite chitchat with Martin. Besides, I already know the answer. If he had, she'd be here.
"The girl is a ghost." He frowns, and there's a flash of irritation in his eyes; then it's gone. "I'd be impressed if it wasn't my job to find her."
North looks off, barely holding in a grunt. Talk of Jisoo puts him in a shit mood as well. Jesus, is there anyone who isn't adversely affected by my ex-partner in misery?
I should be disappointed Jisoo is still missing. I don't want to think about why I'm not. "Don't take it too hard. She's had a lifetime to perfect her act."
He makes a disgruntled sound and finishes up his drink in one quick gulp. "So have I."
"Leave it be for now."
The request punches into the room with the force of a bomb, and both men gape at me. Hell. I'm shocked as well. It wasn't what I'd planned to say. But now that I have, I lift my chin and stare back. "We have more important things to focus on now."
I swear North mutters, "Like Jennie?" But he gives me a blank look when my head whips around, and I glare. But I can't form the denial. Shaking off my disquiet, I set my glass, still half-full, aside. "I'd rather hear about the other matter."
I need to know my household is safe.
Martin sits forward, resting his wrists on his thighs. "Michelle Fredericks. A real estate agent from Pasadena. I'm thinking that's how she found your address."
The collar of my shirt hugs too tight around my neck. I swear the damn thing shrunk in the wash. "And you're sure she's the one who was with Marsh?"
Danielle Marsh, my stalker. I can't say the woman's name without feeling slightly ill. I don't care if she's troubled. I just want her far away from me. She was arrested for reckless endangerment and stalking but is out on bail. They slapped her with a restraining order, but it's only a piece of paper, not a guarantee. And Marsh wasn't alone the night my car went off the road.
I can tell myself as much as I like that my shitty behavior tonight was all about pride. In some ways it's easier than admitting the fear that lingers, the nightmares. Long ago, I told myself I'd never be afraid of anything again. Too bad emotions don't listen to orders.
Martin hands me his phone. There's a picture queued. It's a headshot, cheaply done and cheesy, the kind you see on real estate signs. A fairly attractive woman in her mid- to late thirties with dark-brown hair smiles back at me.
"Is it her?" North asks.
I stare at the picture, my fingers shaking before I can control them. "I don't know." I remember the scent of strong, cheap flowery perfume. One of the women had been brunette. "It was a blur." Blood and rain tend to do that.
"She's friends with Marsh," Martin puts in. "They both belong to a Facebook fan group. Manoban's Willing Sinners."
North makes a gurgling noise at the back of his throat, and I know he's holding in a laugh. I flip him off with a glare, but there's no heat behind the action. I'd laugh, too, if it wasn't for the memory of being hunted, being treated like a thing while trapped in that crumpled wreckage.
Martin pins me with a look. "And she was here the other night."
Ice runs through my chest. I shove the fear back. "What?" It isn't a question. More like the beginning of a threat.
North shoves away from the door. "The cameras didn't pick up a thing."
"Easy," Martin says, bland as dry toast. "She didn't come close enough to the house. Just sat in her car two gates down the road. My guys were watching her."
It's that knowledge that lets me sleep at night. And it's that knowledge that also makes my skin feel too tight. All my hard-earned freedom has once again been whittled down to tightly controlled monitoring. The restrictiveness of it yanks at my neck like a choke collar, and for an airless second, I'm back under my father's watch.
No. This time I'm the one in control.
"We need to report this," North says. "Have them arrest her."
Martin shakes his head. "She hasn't done enough to warrant any charges. None that we can prove at the moment, anyway."
"But if she was there . . ."
"He's right." Sighing, I reach for my drink. "We don't have any proof."
"At the very least, we can report her as a person of interest," North pushes.
"Already did that." Martin pockets his phone. "They're going to question her. In the meantime, we keep vigilant. I haven't seen Marsh around, but that doesn't mean she lost interest."
"Fucking great," I mutter under my breath.
North lets Martin out, and I head back to my room. It's early. If this had been a month ago, I'd be at an exclusive bar, surrounded by people I barely know, letting their chatter lull me into a mindless calm. I'd feed off the energy of everyone and everything, all the while remaining apart from it. Not a perfect life, but adequate. Enough to stop me from thinking about things best left in the past.
Now, all I want to do is take a painkiller and crawl into bed. I slow down as I near Jennie's door. The house is so quiet I can easily hear the television playing. She's watching About a Boy.
A memory hits me, as bright and painful as a spotlight.
We were on the big brown sectional couch in her family room, watching this very movie. Jennie was fourteen, chubby cheeked and wearing a thick braid that ran like a dark snake over her hunched shoulders. She was curled up on one end of the couch, while Jisoo and I were tucked into the other.
As usual, Jisoo leaned on me until I lost feeling in my shoulder and tried to nudge her off. She found her way back, digging her bony elbow into spots she knew annoyed the hell out of me.
Hugh Grant tossed out a quip that made me laugh. Jennie laughed too. It hit me that we kept laughing at the same times. She must have realized the same because she turned my way, and our gazes clashed. We always tried our utmost not to look at each other, so it was a visceral punch whenever we failed.
The inevitable reaction of heat, tightness, frustration, and a twisting sense of wrongness ran through my system. And inevitably, I covered it up by opening my big mouth. "Got a crush on old Hugh?"
Hugh Grant played Will in the movie. Cool rich guy who cared for nothing but getting laid and having fun.
She pursed her lips, giving me that withering look of hers, the one that I'd been found lacking. "Well, he's witty. Intelligence is definitely a plus."
"And rich. Don't forget that."
"Being wealthy is part of what makes him a useless asshole."
Jisoo, who'd been picking at her nail polish, piped up. "He's old, but he's still hot. I'd date him."
Jennie's snort spoke volumes.
"Jennie is more of a Marcus lover," I said, daring her to look back my way. Marcus was the oddball of the story. Awkward, alone, abused by his classmates, and terrified of losing his mother, the one person who he felt truly loved him.
Surprisingly, she smiled, a sad, sort of secretive gesture, and rested her chin on her knees, all but wrapping herself into a tight ball on the couch. "You're right. If there's anyone to love in this movie, it's him."
She cast me as the hapless Will type and her as a Marcus. Part of me was dying to tell her that out of everyone in the movie, I identified the most with Marcus too.
I don't remember what I actually said. Probably something obnoxious. The memory fades, leaving me alone in the hall, listening to the muted sound of Jennie's laughter drifting through the silence.
I want to knock on her door, ask her to let me in so badly my hands shake. But I move away instead. We both made promises. Like them or not, I intend to keep mine.
..
..
..