Slay One: Rivalry Page 4

I’d envied him.

  I’d suffered pain after pain after pain, some of the more recent injuries at his hand, and I’d wanted nothing more than to be numb. I’d wanted to be empty and void. I’d wanted to stop feeling.

  And he agreed to teach me how.

  I never knew exactly why he chose to let me in on his experiments when he’d let no one in before. Maybe it was because we’d grown up together. Maybe he’d had a sense of responsibility. Maybe he’d thought he owed me—he did, by the way. He’d definitely owed me.

  Whatever the reason, he’d taken me under his wing. He’d taught me how to manipulate, how to prey, how to influence and exploit. The first time had been easy. It had been my job to flirt, then to seduce. The affair I’d had with Tim Kerrigan had been free of attachment, but it had empowered me. I’d set my sights on a stranger, and I’d drawn him into my bed, exactly as I’d planned. That had done quite a thing for my self-confidence. It had been so effective, I’d nearly forgotten the goal of the scheme.

  Then, when his wife discovered our indiscretion, as had always been the objective of the experiment, my feelings changed. She’d been devastated. Heartbroken. They’d been newlyweds, and I’d destroyed their happiness. At least that’s what she’d said to me the one time I’d come face to face with her. It hadn’t stopped her from staying with him.

  That day, though, when she spewed words of hatred and venom in my direction, I had a moment of anguish. It didn’t feel good to be the bitch. It didn’t feel pretty to be cruel and destructive. The whole point of playing these games with Hudson had been to feel nothing, not to feel terrible.

  But as I’d stood in the wake of her attack, as I turned my focus from concentrating on what I was feeling to observing her, the calmer I’d become. My reality altered. Instead of pain being a thing that lived only inside of me, I discovered it could exist elsewhere. Outside of me. Detached from me. Severed.

  And that was why I’d played. Not because I’d wanted to see what would happen if but because when someone else cried and fell apart, when someone else’s world was sabotaged, my pain diminished. The scars left by Hudson and Charles and all the others would lighten. The deeper wounds, the ones inflicted by the person I should have been able to trust more than almost anyone, wouldn’t throb with intensity, wouldn’t cripple me with their ache. Every bit of my pain grew smaller and smaller until I’d become numb.

  Numb didn’t mean gone, though. It was still there, somewhere, invisible and buried inside, waiting for me. I knew that as soon as I stopped playing it would return and take me over. That was how it had become a game in my mind. The objective was them or me. Someone had to hurt, and as long as it wasn’t me, I won. As long as I was the one still standing, I won.

  It was the only way I knew to survive.

  Once upon a time I’d hoped that one day I’d overcome it. That I’d hurt enough people and break enough hearts, and I’d be empty for real. That the scars and the wounds would be magically healed, and I’d be new and pure and whole. I could quit The Game, then, and learn to feel again.

  But I’d hurt enough people now. I’d hurt people who’d actually meant something to me. I’d turned The Game on Hudson. I’d hurt him. I’d hurt his wife. Pain very much lived outside of me. I’d seen it close up on the faces of the people I should have cared most for.

  And still I felt it waiting for me, lingering in the shadows. A ghost that would always haunt me. A cancer that yearned to spread.

  Six

  I was antsy after my phone call with Edward. The collar of my shirt felt too tight. I was roasting in my slacks. It was a scorching summer day, but the air conditioning was on in the office, and Renee, who usually complained I liked to run the place like a sweatbox, had her sweater on.

  I was hot and bothered and rejected, and that pissed me off.

  Too restless to concentrate on work, I opened my laptop and entered Edward’s name into my Google search bar. I meant to scour the information that popped up, find his weakness, perhaps, or discover a skeleton in his closet. He had to have one. Everyone I’d ever met who’d held a position of power had something they were ashamed of. Something they were afraid the world would discover.

  But instead of looking at the news items, I found myself clicking the images tab.

  My screen quickly filled with a grid full of Edward Fasbender. Edward Fasbender at a media summit. Edward Fasbender on Forbes Magazine. Edward Fasbender at Accelecom. Edward Fasbender at LinkedIn. Business Insider had him listed as one of the Top Fifty Sexiest CEOs, because duh. Fortune called him one of the most innovative corporate leaders of the twenty-first century. There were pictures of him at charity banquets, at tech conventions, at the gym. Half of the images were for publicity only. Most of the rest were candid shots at different events, nearly always he was dressed in a designer bespoke suit. In every one he looked as hard and handsome as he had in person.

  And, Jesus, could that man wear a tuxedo. As though it were a second skin. His head usually tilted with the perfect arrogant slant. As though he practiced looking good in a mirror. As though he knew how arrestingly good-looking he was. How uncomfortably attractive he was.

  I had to shift several times in my office chair to ease the discomfort of staring at him so intensely.

  Why the hell wasn’t he interested in sex?

  Was he gay? He’d been married, had kids. That didn’t mean anything these days. Neither did the several occasions where he sported a beautiful woman on his arm. Were they beards? Was that the real reason he wanted an arranged marriage? Was that his deep dark secret?

  For some reason, I didn’t think so. There’d been too much heat in his gaze when we’d met in person. And he’d said he was attracted to me.

  Hadn’t he? Or had I made that up?

  He baffled me. He annoyed me. He stirred something inside of me that I didn’t recognize or remember noticing before. He was completely maddening.

  I clicked an item that looked recent, a group picture of him with several other important-looking people in important-looking clothes. A new tab opened with a headline that said it was an industry awards showcase that had been held at the Hilton in Midtown a couple of weeks before. I skimmed the article and then scanned through the gallery, pausing to examine every image he was featured in. He rarely smiled, I noticed. Not really. Even at what was likely a jovial event. And he knew people that ran in the same circles my father ran in. I could identify several individuals, if not always by name, at least by face.

  Then I got to the image that made me momentarily freeze. It wasn’t of Edward, but of Hudson and his wife. I hadn’t seen any pictures of him in ages, not since I’d curiously sifted through reports on his wedding a couple of years ago. It was startling to see him now, see how he’d changed. How he’d stayed the same. He looked older, but as distinguished as he’d always looked. He looked happy, the glow on his face matching the radiance of his bride. She looked happy too, with a hand resting on the small swell of her belly.

  I took a long breath in and blew it out slowly.

  I really hadn’t been in love with Hudson, not in the end. Hadn’t been for a long, long time. I’d been mad at him, yes. Mad that he’d left me. That he’d moved on. But I hadn’t been in love with him.

  And yet, faced with the image of his happy life, I felt a pang of something, a stray lightning bolt of envy in an otherwise black, emotionless sky. That was supposed to be me.

  Everything would be different if that had been me.

  I closed out of the tab and the brief flash of jealousy vanished with the disappearance of the image.

  Voices in the lobby pulled my attention. Renee was talking to someone, another woman. A voice I couldn’t quite identify. We weren’t expecting anyone that I knew of. God, I hoped I didn’t have to see anyone today. I wasn’t in the mood.

  Leaving my laptop open, I pushed up from my desk and headed to the door to investigate.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t see you on her appointment book.” Renee was studying h
er computer screen as though she didn’t have my schedule memorized.

  I peeked cautiously out my door. Fortunately, my viewpoint allowed me to look out on Renee’s desk, which meant the woman in front of her couldn’t see me.

  It also meant I only saw her back. Her hair was shoulder-length auburn, her dress a whimsical style that wouldn’t be worn by most of the clients I worked with. Over her shoulder was an oversized portfolio bag, the kind an artist used to carry around small works of art.

  “I don’t have an appointment,” the woman said patiently. “But if I could just have a second of her time…” She gestured toward my office, turning her body enough that I was able to better see her.

  Fuck.

  I withdrew quickly into my office, pressing my back against the metal frame of the door. I knew the unannounced visitor. Blanche Martin, an artist I’d met at a gallery exhibition a few months back. She’d had an underwhelming showing, as far as I could tell. Not one of her pieces had been purchased, and judging from the dreary amount of interest there was around her, she wasn’t going to be selling any in the near future either.

  Still, she’d been excited and eager to talk about her work.

  It made for a perfect opportunity to pull her into one of my favorite games.

  It was an easy setup, which was why I played it so often, even though the payoff wasn’t as exhilarating as some of my other games. It was a scenario I could easily walk into. One I could manage while balancing other elements of life.

  “I really don’t mean to intrude, but I swear she said I could stop by anytime.” Blanche was incredibly determined, which was more than could be said for her unremarkable art.

  I had told her she could stop by anytime. I’d also told her that I was an interior designer, and that a very wealthy, very well-known client of mine was interested in decorating his entire penthouse flat with the work of just one artist. And her work would be perfect for his vibe! But could she please work up some new pieces so that I could show him before we made the deal?

  It was all bullshit, of course.

  Obviously she was here to show me what she’d come up with. This was where The Game was supposed to get good. This was the part I lived for.

  For some reason, I wasn’t motivated today.

  But I’d put in the work. And she was here…

  With a sigh, I put on a smile and emerged from my hiding place. “Blanche! I was just thinking about you! What perfect timing!” I nodded to my assistant. “It’s okay, Renee. I have a few minutes for Ms. Martin.”

  Renee was used to these types of encounters. While she wasn’t involved in these conversations, she believed I was always on the lookout for latest art trends. She didn’t know any more than that, and didn’t need to.

  I ushered Blanche into my office and closed the door so Renee wouldn’t hear anything that might be off-putting. She was a good assistant. I would have hated losing her.

  “Thank you so much for seeing me, Ms. Werner. I should have made an appointment, but I’ve been so busy working on these pieces you asked for, and as soon as I was convinced they were ready, I didn’t even think! I just came straight down here!”

  I could practically hear the exclamation points in her speech. Blanche was even more enthusiastic than she’d been when I’d first met her. Even more optimistic.

  The easiest kind of person to destroy.

  “Now, Blanche, I know I told you to call me Celia. And no worries about stopping in. It’s perfectly fine. Want to show me what you have?” The lines came automatically now, having performed them so many times.

  “Yes!” She unzipped her bag, babbling on as she pulled out first one canvas then a second.

  I moved my laptop to the side to make more room on my desk then pretended to scrutinize the paintings as she laid them out in front of me.

  Except, I didn’t really pretend. I actually looked at them, something I hadn’t done while pulling this scam in, well, maybe ever. There had never been a point. I wasn’t ever going to buy any of it, no matter how good the work was.

  This time, though, there was something about them that pulled me in. Something that made me have to catch my breath. The first one was of a country garden. A green field of grass sprawled across the canvas, the edges punctuated with flowered bushes. A stone path meandered over the grass and through a white arbor covered with purple blooms.

  The next canvas displayed a similar theme, another part of the same garden, maybe, but this time there was an open field of wildflowers in the background, and instead of an arbor, this one featured a large fruit tree, apples buried in its leaves and scattered on the ground around it. The centerpiece of the painting was a wooden swing, tied with thick rope to a sturdy branch. Both the swing and the ropes were worn, and it was impossible not to imagine the child who had spent her time here. A cheerful, naive girl who’d loved nothing more than to fly through the air and try to touch the clouds with her toes.

  My eyes suddenly pricked.

  I didn’t want to look at her paintings anymore. I didn’t want to give her a speech about her work—the art she’d obviously labored over for the last several months—not being a good fit for my client after all. I didn’t even want to see her break down and cry.

  I just wanted her to go.

  “Oh, I know him! That’s Edward Fasbender. My, he’s such a looker, and even more attractive in person. Those pictures just don’t do him justice.”

  I followed Blanche’s gaze to my laptop sitting at the edge of my desk, the screen still displaying the image search from earlier.

  My thoughts slid easily away from the uncomfortable place her paintings had taken me to what she’d just said. “Yes, that’s him. He’s a potential client. You’ve met him before?”

  “I worked for him, actually. I lived in London for a while and had a job in the graphic design department of Accelecom. He was very hands-on with his staff. And quite particular. Hard to please. I hope he’s easier to work with as a client than a boss.”

  My head swirled with intrigue. “Well, I don’t know yet, since I haven’t agreed to take him on. Your comment definitely gives me pause.”

  She blushed. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s been a few years now since I worked with him. He may have changed. Or it might have been me! I’m not a graphic designer anymore for a reason.”

  “Oh, please. You’re very talented.” It wasn’t even that big of a lie. She’d gotten better since I’d seen her in the spring.

  I glanced again at her paintings and felt that same stirring of unease. I still didn’t want to look at them, but now I was interested in talking with her more about Edward.

  I stacked the canvases on top of each other and held them out to her. “How about we do this...I need to speak to my client and see where his current thoughts are on this project. Then maybe we can meet again sometime this weekend and discuss this further.”

  Blanche’s brows momentarily drew close together. She’d had yet to take the paintings from me. “Sure. Sure. I’m free Sunday, if that works for you. Do you want to just keep these to show him?”

  I definitely did not. I wanted them as far away from me as possible. “That won’t be necessary. I’ve seen enough to attest to the quality. Could you email me with digital photos of them and any other paintings you propose for this collection? I’ll forward them on. And Sunday is perfect! How about a late lunch around two? I’ll reply to your email with a restaurant.”

  Her earlier zeal returned and she finally took the paintings from me. “That sounds great! To be honest, I’m going to be sweating until then, but I can wait. It’s only a couple of days.”

  “I totally understand. But, as you said, it’s just a couple of days. I have an appointment soon, anyway, and I’d rather not be rushed when we talk.” I was already escorting her to the door.

  “Of course. Makes total sense.”

  “I’d love to quiz you some more about Edward Fasbender, too, if you don’t mind.” I could have kept her longe
r and drilled her right there, but I’d learned from experience that patience was a good friend. This way she’d have time to think of things she might not have thought of on the spot. Especially if she was as eager to please me as I believed she was.

  “Whatever I can do to help! Thank you for all of this. You’ve really made my day!”

  She walked out of my office with hope. The same kind of hope I’d once had about living a life like the one Hudson led with Alayna, a life filled with love and vows and swollen bellies. The kind of hope that was devastating when destroyed. It was the kind of hope I loved seeing in the people I played, and, normally, I’d cling onto it, fantasizing about how satisfying it would be to eventually deflate their aspirations.

  But an hour later when she sent over an email with her art attached—images I didn’t open—I wasn’t thinking about the game I’d set up with Blanche Martin. As I replied with the address to a restaurant in Lenox Hill, I was thinking about what kind of game I’d play with Edward.

  Seven

  I didn’t often dream, or, at least, I didn’t remember if I did. Those had disappeared along with my emotions. Apparently there was no way to spin imaginings of the soul when a person no longer had a soul.

  But I did have one recurring dream that visited me as regularly as the seasons. It was always vague, always a bit hazy, as though I were viewing it through a fog.

  No, as though I were in the fog, because it was a dream about me, I was pretty sure. I could never actually see myself there, but I felt myself there. Felt myself there in that misty nowhere, a faceless man at my side and a baby in my arms. Every time, the infant was bundled so tightly that I couldn’t see its face, couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl, or how old it was, but I could feel the weight of it, could smell the very distinct baby scent when I lowered my nose toward its head. Could hear its gentle baby sounds as I tried to move the blanket to reveal the form underneath.

  But I could never move the blanket. I couldn’t move anything at all. My arms were missing, my body invisible, like I wasn’t really there. Like I was nothing. Like the man and the baby were real, and I was a ghost clinging to their existence.