Entice (Hearts of Stone #2) (26 page)

When I leave him behind to go to sleep, a halo of worry falls over me. Landon is probably idolizing the idea of me. Just like I idolized the idea of Lucas. It's easy to look up to someone when you don't know half of who they really are, easy to get attached to anyone who seems to get you.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

I wake up to my cellphone vibrating against my chest. Apparently, that's where I left it when I fell asleep for the tenth time last night. Blinking a few times against the light of day, I look at my phone.
 

[On my way.]

At first, I don't understand the message. Then the hazy fog lifts just slightly, enough for me to remember Landon is asleep on my couch. It's only 7 a.m., but I guess Owen doesn't want to wait a moment longer to pick up his son.

My body is heavy. I had a hard time falling asleep last night. And when I did fall asleep, my dreams were uneasy and tense. My reflection in the bathroom mirror is an adequate representation of how rested I feel. Which is not at all. My eyes are slightly puffy and I can't seem to open them past a squint.
 

I finish brushing my teeth and go back out into the living room to stand over Landon. He's peacefully asleep and I hate to wake him.

"You should probably get up now." I nudge him with my foot.

He groans in disapproval, then peers up at me with sleepy eyes and says, "Is Owen on his way?"

I go to answer him, but hesitate. How does he know?

Landon sits up and answers the question I didn't verbalize. "I heard you on the phone last night. You whisper really loudly."

It's hard to not laugh. So, I do. "Sorry, kid. I couldn't let your dad worry without knowing where you were."

"I know."

When Owen shows up at the door, the cold air that rushes into the room from outside is rivaled only by the look he gives Landon.

"Go wait in the car."

"My bicycle is downstairs…" Landon keeps his eyes cast downward, his tone serious but not combative.

Owen hands him the car keys. "Put it in the trunk. Pull down the back seats if you have to."

Landon nods and walks out of the loft, only glancing back to make eye contact with me for a second. He doesn't say anything to me, but I can tell what he's trying to communicate.
 

"Thanks," Owen says, arms wrapping around me in a hug. My hands come up to his sides, fingers molding over the familiar muscles. His body reacts as mine does, tensing before relaxing. Needing a moment to adjust to the realization we haven't had real time together all week, with Owen's schedule and the looming threat of the unresolved argument hanging over us.
 

I know he can't stay with me now, but I'm in no rush for his arms to leave me.
 

Owen looks over his shoulder, making sure his son's out of earshot. "I just wish I knew why he's so angry all the damn time."

"The kid's not angry." The words leave me before I realize how presumptuous they are.
 

"What is he then?"

For a moment, I'm sure I'll brush away my statement, not wanting to get any more involved in their argument. Even though I know a thing or two about a young person hiding emotional baggage behind obnoxious behavior.
 

Owen waits for my answer with such a measured look of interest that betrays just how much he wants to hear my opinion.

Pushing up on my tiptoes, I plant a kiss on his lips. Softening the topic that I'm about to approach.
 

"It's been hard for you both. I get it. Landon lost his mother and he's taking it out on you because…you're the only person left to be mad at. He's not angry. He's
hurting
."

"What am I supposed to do? I'm trying to be here for him, but he won't let me. He acts like I made all of this happen on purpose. Like I don't care that she died."

"Do you?"

He lets out a breath, his body almost coiling against mine. The evidence is subtle, but he's stressed. "Of course I care. But the truth is she is—was a stranger to me. We weren't even a couple. I know nothing about her, the person she became, what her life was like."

"Well, why don't you ask him?"

A pause.

"What?"

"He lost his mother and had to move his entire life to another state. I bet he feels like he didn't just lose her but that every trace of her is being erased from his life. Maybe that's what he wants—to talk about his mother. To remember her. Ask him about her."

He stares at me for a moment too long then kisses me again. "I never thought of that." A beat passes before he adds, "Landon really likes you."

"He's a good kid."
 

Even before the words leave my lips, I catch Owen scanning the room behind me. I don't like it. It's a calculated, searching way. Something catches his attention because his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly and his arms loosen their hold on me.
 

"That went fast," he says in a low voice I've heard only once before.
 

I turn to see the bottle of vodka. It's the same one I poured a drink from the last night Owen and I had dinner together earlier this week, and is now nearly empty with just an inch of liquid left in it.
 

Owen's hands are already by his sides and I take a step back to look at him properly, crossing my arms and instantly irritated by the implication of his tone.
 

The silent judgment. The heavy, disapproving glare.

"I'm not driving drunk, if that's your concern."

Owen rubs his forehead. "I can't believe you haven't slowed down your drinking at all."

"Was I supposed to never have a drink ever again?"
 

"Did you drink all of that yourself?"

Heat rises to my face. "I didn't give any to your son, if that's what you're asking."
 

Resentment turns my veins to ice. He's keeping mental dibs on my drinking. Making me explain myself even when I'm doing absolutely nothing wrong.

Trying to reel in my annoyance, I take a deep breath. "I'm in the privacy of my home, Owen. Can't I enjoy a drink every once in a while? Or is that a crime?"

He stands up straighter at my words. "You can do whatever you want, Emily, but I have my son to consider. He likes you and, I think, he's even starting to look up to you."

I set my jaw at the way he says it, as though Landon looking up to me is a parent's nightmare.

"I like Landon. I really do. But I'm in no position to play mother figure."

"No kidding." Owen's jab is cruel, whether or not he intends it to be. "No kidding," he says again, as though needing to drive the point home.

My arms wrap tighter around me like a straight jacket, steadying my rising temper. "Let's cut the bullshit, Owen. I get what you're insinuating. But you're wrong. Do I drink? Yes. I do. Do I drink
every day?
No. I don't."

"Okay, Emily." He half turns from me, eyes focused on the stairwell beyond the open door, clearly exasperated. Noises from the outside begin trickling into the silence that follows. He goes to leave, but I catch his arm, forcing him to meet my eyes again.
 

"Is this how you want to leave this conversation?" I ask.

A car honks from below. Landon, growing impatient.

Owen pulls his arm from my grasp and takes another step outside. "I've got my hands full with my son. I can't deal with this right now."

"Fine," I say, "then don't." My hand throws the door forward until it slams shut.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

I'm livid. Each breath I let out feels more like puffs of steam. I can't remember a time I've felt so angry. So frustrated. So…
livid
.
 

Fueled by the restless animosity pumping through my veins, I start cleaning frantically. Peeved by everything that dares be out of place. I don't intend to go on a spree. It starts small, me deciding to straighten out the living room, which looks like a makeshift guest room after Landon slept on the couch. But before I know it, I'm pushing my hair out of my face with the back of my hand as I scrub every square inch of the kitchen countertop.
 

When I reach the bottle of vodka to lift it out of the way, I hesitate. Then I move it and continue my relentless war against the invisible grime I'm suddenly convinced covers my entire loft.
 

I can't believe Owen's nerve. I'll take responsibility for my mistakes. But him? He's making a mountain out of a molehill. I'm irritated beyond belief that he would accuse me of having a drinking problem.
 

That's absolutely ridiculous.
 

I made one mistake. One. And he is holding it over my head, ready to scan my surroundings to find anything that proves his suspicion.

I'm not a goddamn alcoholic.
 

The word alone causes memories to flash in my mind. Memories of my mother swaying where she stood, eyes foggy and words slurred. Yet always easily incensed into a fit of rage, throwing out a hand that sometimes connected with my face if I was close enough.

That's an alcoholic.
 

That's
an addict.
 

Me? I just fucking like the occasional drink.
 

Dammit, why am I even trying to explain this to myself?
 

What, so, he owns my orgasms and all of a sudden thinks it gives him a right to control every aspect of my life? Fuck that. I promised myself I wouldn't ever allow a man to make me feel this way. And I'm not about to start now.

As soon as I'm done in the kitchen, I head to my bedroom and gather up the clothes from the floor of my closet to start a load of laundry. It doesn't help my irritated state that my arms, regardless of how hard I try, don't serve as an adequate laundry basket on their own. Clothing items slip through the nooks and slink onto the floor no matter how carefully I try to contain the pile I'm carrying. I'm forced to double back multiple times. First for a stray sock. Then underwear, and again for a bundled-up shirt. Until finally, I shove all these items unceremoniously into the machine and slam the lid harder than necessary.
 

The machine roars to life, churning and sloshing around the clothes against the water. The mechanical hum is soothing for a few seconds until the silence beyond reaches me again. An intense, eerie silence that cuts through everything around me.
 

The bottle of vodka flickers in my mind's eye and I let out a humorless laugh. I'm sure Owen thinks I'm hitting my liquor stash right now. I bet he thinks I have a collection of bottles hiding in my cabinet. If that bottle is sitting out there in display, it's obviously because I have nothing to hide.
 

I strip off my clothes and get into the shower. By the time I'm clean, clothed, with my hair blow dried, the anger has subsided into mild irritation. I glance at my phone and see it's not even ten in the morning yet. Heaviness settles over my stomach, a twinge that grows the longer I hold my phone in my hands.
 

Slamming the door on Owen was a petty thing for me to do. He didn't deserve that. He deserves a bit more understanding, considering he was already in a bad mood from the issues with his son. My fingers slide across my phone screen as I draft a message to him.

I'm sorry. Let's talk…

My thumb hovers over the send button as I consider the abruptness of his answer when I suggested I could drive Landon home last night.

No—I'll head over now.

In retrospect, there's a sort of panic in his response. Was Owen afraid I was going to drive his son home while drunk? I wasn't even drunk last night. And obviously I would never knowingly get behind the wheel intoxicated—with a kid in tow, no less. The fact that Owen even thought I was capable of this revs the anger back to life right in the pit of my stomach. It seethes there for a few seconds, feeding on itself.
 

Owen doesn't trust me and will continue to hold my one mistake over my head, looking for any evidence to back up his suspicions of me. That's the problem with preconceived notions; people will always find proof to back up their beliefs.

Perceptions have a way of bending the world backward to prove themselves. That's what Owen is doing. He's painting a truth that matches his convictions and ignoring anything that contradicts them. How can I win against that? The answer is, I can't.

Deleting the message, I start a call to my sister, instead.

Simmering noises fill the air, punctuated by the smells of sautéed chicken wafting overhead. Leo stands in front of Lex's stove, making us all lunch.
 

I extend my arms across the countertop to reach the stray pack of gum lying there. Lex sits beside me, telling me about the trip to Europe she and Leo are planning for the end of the year.
 

"I imagine you're scheduling out every minute of the trip obsessively?" I say to my sister. My jaw relaxes at the motions of chewing the gum and I sense a reprieve to the anxious energy bubbling inside of me.