Hooked Up: Book 2 (49 page)

“Yeah, well, I won’t be in his life much longer if she has her evil way—I’ll be dead.”

“You really believe she could try and
kill
you?”

“I told you, Laura called to warn me. She sounded really kind. Really concerned. She ‘supposedly’ tripped down some stairs because the next door neighbor’s child had left some toys there. But she ended up in a wheelchair because of it. She could have
died.
The whole scenario sounds suspicious to me.”

“She’s still in a wheelchair?”

“No, apparently she’s all better now. Just has a vague limp. But it was a miracle that she was able to walk again. Poor thing.”

“What’s she like?”

“Very nice, I think. Does a bunch of stuff for disabled charities. Despite what happened she hasn’t felt sorry for herself in any way. From photos she looks like a supermodel. Legs that reach up to her armpits, about five foot ten tall, a body to die for, a face like an angel, long blonde hair, and sporty. At least she
was
sporty once before the ‘accident.’ I think she’s doing round the clock physical therapy and is doing really well. Alexandre mentioned that she wants to sail again. To compete, so she’s dedicated to getting a hundred percent better. So brave. She sounds like a really admirable person.”

“They’re still in contact?”

“Yes, they’re still friends. He still cares for her.”

“Does that make you jealous?”

“It would, but she’s happily married with a husband who dotes on her. Her childhood sweetheart whom she knew before she met Alexandre. Of course, that pang of envy is there, knowing how in love Alexandre was with her once and, as I said, she really is beautiful, but you know, it was a long time ago.”

Anthony took my hand in his and said softly, “
You’re
beautiful, Pearl. And the fact you are so sweet about your boyfriend’s ex just shows what a beautiful person you are inside too.”

I looked at him in shock. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me for years.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I owe you a big apology. I’ve been a total ass for so long. I’m
really
sorry, sis, I guess I must have been envious of you, and holding in a lot of anger about John.”

“Envious? Of
me?”

“I always felt that Mom loved you more. She always confided in you, not me, especially toward the end. It made me resentful inside and I blamed you for all sorts of things. I now realize I was wrong. Will you ever forgive me?”

My eyes prickled with tears, and I felt a lump in my throat. “Thank you, Anthony for that. It means the world.” I hugged him, his bear-like body now trembling as his tears came gushing out. “Pearly, I feel like such a big, fat failure. When Bruce nearly died, it knocked the wind out of me. I thought I was going to be alone forever and it was then I stopped and thought about you. Really took responsibility for the way I’ve been acting towards you. I’ve been unfair and snarky and bitchy and you’ve . . . you’ve been so patient with me.” He was blubbering now, his large body shaking with emotion. My heart went out to him and I, too, started to cry.

I stroked his pale hair and said, “Because I knew that it wasn’t really you saying all those negative things. That you were hurting after John died, and then Mom, and all that guilt you felt inside. You were taking it out on me because I was the closest person for you to lash out at.”

“How come . . . ” he asked between sobs, “you’re so wise?”

“Because I felt angry, too. I felt guilty, crazy guilt about the tough love thing we were doling out to John. Those goddam meetings we were going to that encouraged us to look out for ourselves more and not pander to him, to stop the co-dependency . . . you know, I felt mad at myself because I didn’t call him back that time . . . like if I’d been there more for him he wouldn’t have taken that overdose. I was mad at you because you and he had had that fight . . . and worst of all? I felt mad at Mom for abandoning us, even though it wasn’t her fault. Can you imagine? I felt furious at her for
dying
—how screwed-up is that?”

Anthony wheezed out a little laugh. “I guess we’re both as fucked-up as each other, huh? We probably need several sessions with a therapist. Can we be friends now? Can you forgive me for being such a jackass?”

I squeezed him tightly and said, “Of course I forgive you, and we’ve always been friends, no matter what. I’ve never given up on you, Ant. Ever.”

We nestled in each other’s warm embrace. I felt the softness of his pink silk pajamas and smiled. What a pair we were. He—the consummate drama queen and I, a basket-case disaster in every possible way. I couldn’t hold a deal together, had hand-picked a stalking Frenchman as my future husband, who had probably murdered his father, and I didn’t even know if I was bisexual or could even ever have sex with a man and his penis again.

Anthony’s breath hitched from his weeping, and he drew back from me asking suddenly, “Well, did you call her back last night and ask for details . . . about her accusations about Sophie? Proof?”

“Call who back?”

“Laura, of course.”

Oh okay, so we are back to that conversation. Heartfelt sibling reunion over
.
Fine.

“I didn’t have time,” I answered. “The second after I’d listened to Laura’s message, Alexandre and I had that crazy car chase and then he threw me over his shoulder and took me to Van Nuys Airport to catch the private jet to Vegas. I didn’t have a second.”

“And then you escaped through the toilet window.”

“Exactly.”

“Leaving your cell behind with her number on it so you can’t call her back.”

“Yes.”

“Laura could be making it up or accusing Sophie of something she never did.”

“Whose side are you on, Anthony? You sound like Alexandre! I’m going to end up in an asylum like in one of those psychological horror movies where nobody believes the heroine and sends her stark-raving mad!”

“Sorry, just I haven’t met this Sophie but I have to admit she does have a pretty face from photos and looks kind of nice.”

I pounded a feather cushion with my fists to stop myself from smashing my brother in the face. “Shut up!” I yelled.

“Sorry but all this is kind of . . . I mean, Alexandre loves you, right? He must
know
his own sister. If she were really going to harm you physically, he’d stop her in her tracks.”

“She stabbed her own father in the groin, Anthony.”

“After he’d repeatedly raped her and beaten her—the father had it coming to him.”

“That’s exactly what Alexandre always says.”

“What happened to their dad anyway? Where is he now?”

“Oh, right, get this . . . he just ‘disappeared.’ ”

Anthony laughed. “Wow, you really are entangled in a family affair, aren’t you? You think Sophie killed their father?”

“Maybe,” I replied, secretly thinking that Alexandre was in on it too, but I didn’t dare say that to Anthony. I thought of how Alexandre had mixed rat poison with his father’s food when he was only a small child. Killing him could have been the next step. My mind shuffled through possible scenarios:
Alexandre could be capable of anything, especially recently with all his money and power. He could have even paid someone to do it for them. And that’s why Sophie has such a hold on him. They share a guilty secret.
I sat there, wondering at what point the father disappeared.
Hmm . . . it would be interesting to know that.

Anthony broke my train of thought, “It sounds to me as if, deep down inside, you
like
the fact that your fiancé could be a killer.”

I stared at him incredulously. “What?”
Can Anthony read my mind? How does he know I think Alexandre could be guilty of murder?

My brother raised his pale blond eyebrows. “Who are your favorite movie characters?”

I rolled my eyes. “What’s that got to do with any of this?”

“You love fucked-up tough guys, Pearl, let’s face it. You like bad boys, menacing, unscrupulous men.”

“Alexandre is not bad, he’s sweet and kind.”

“Who are your favorite movie characters?” he sing-songed. “Travis Bickle, and Michael Corleone, aren’t they? I think that says it all, don’t you?”

“Okay, I love Robert de Niro and Al Pacino just because they’re great actors, nothing more.”

“No, what you love most is the mysteriously sinister characters they portray, their ice-cold, ruthless interiors mixed with their dark, brooding, panty-melting eyes. The irresistible villain. Well, in
The Godfather
and
Taxi Driver
Bobby and Al were in their prime, of course—they’re grandfathers now but—”

“Alexandre’s eyes are green anyway,” I interrupted.

Anthony took a swig of coffee. “Your fiancé doesn’t have me fooled for a second. Oh, he’s Mr. Perfect on the
exterior,
alright, with his textbook French manners, opening doors for ladies and pulling out your chair at dinner and giving to charity et cetera et cetera, but
within
him lurks a dangerous man, believe me. Let’s face it, you’ve always gone for the typical bad boy.”

“That is so not true! Brad wasn’t a bad boy.”

“He started fooling around on you and you gave him the perfect out by having that little adventure with those football jocks. Which means, maybe he wasn’t bad
enough
for you. You sabotaged the relationship because you secretly found him boring.”

My pulse sped up. “How do you know about the football players
anyway,
I never told you!”

“I overheard Mom talking on the phone to you.”

“You
eavesdropped?”

“You know how she used to whisper so loudly that it attracted attention? That, ‘
no you don’t say’
voice she had that made you instantly stop what you were doing and perk up your ears? Well, she had that voice on when she was on the phone to you, and I . . . well, I just overheard, that’s all. You were not cut out to be the perfect doctor’s wife anyway, Pearl.”

A wave of sadness engulfed me remembering my mother, and I felt heaviness weigh down my heart like a dull ache. “Well Saul was good. He wasn’t a bad boy.”

“Oh no? Mr. Tax Evasion himself! They nearly sent him to jail and would have if you hadn’t bailed him out. But again, he wasn’t bad
enough
for you so you divorced him, and that’s why you’re so crazy about Alexandre and so addicted to him. He’s your Michael Corleone.”

I thought back to my conversation with Mom and how she was always there for my problems; I could tell her anything, she was like a sister to me. I was tempted to share my saga of the recurring nightmares with Anthony, and reveal the real story of what happened with the rapist football players, but I kept my mouth closed. The thought of my brother knowing anything about my sexual life repelled me. “Listen,” I yawned, “I need to get some sleep; I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

“Your bed is all made up with fresh sheets. The bathroom has everything you need. I’ll guard the front door, as I’m sure Mr. Possessive will be knocking at it any moment now. But don’t worry, he’ll need a warrant first, I won’t let him in.”

“I don’t know what to do next, Anthony. I’m being cruel to him. He’ll be worried about me.”

“Let him suffer for a while. He needs to understand you mean business about getting that nut-job sister out of your life first. If you don’t stand your ground now, the next thing you know she’ll be moving in to your apartment.”

I flinched. Needless to say I hadn’t shared the worst of it with Anthony about my adventure with Alessandra. The too-close-for-comfort mess I’d gotten myself into, never mind the kinky business. Curiosity killed the cat, that’s for sure.

“Just get some sleep and then we’ll think of the next step,” my brother advised, his voice sounding sensible. “Meanwhile, I need to call the office. This is the second time in two weeks I’ve played hooky.”

I took a long, hot shower, then collapsed into bed and fell into a profound sleep, not dreaming about needle-dick or any nightmares at all, but hot, hot sex with Alexandre. I heard myself coming in my sleep, felt the damp heat between my legs . . . wanting him, yearning for him. He was fucking me from behind, me on top, me underneath, Cowboy style, 69: every which way, and I couldn’t get enough. His soft dark hair flopping about his face, beaded lightly with sweat. I could smell him, even his cock I had in my mind’s eye, hard as a rock, fucking me, making me come in thunderous spasms. I was hungry for him, ravenous for his touch, for him to be inside me. I was moaning in my sleep.

I needed him. Want. Desire. A burning passion had me on fire.

Could I be strong? Keep my resolve? Or was I so addicted to him that I was a lost cause?

T
HAT WHOLE NIGHT was torturous. I feared that in Pearl’s state she’d drive off a cliff or something, so I called the car rental company and, as I suspected, they had a GPS system fitted underneath the car—Pearl could be tracked. I offered them a bribe, or as I liked to phrase it, “a big tip” so that I could keep her under my radar without causing too much fuss. But it was proving to be tricky because I hadn’t included Pearl in the insurance policy (how the fuck was I to know that she’d make off with the car?) so I bought the car instead. It was heading toward San Francisco. Good. She was obviously on her way to her brother’s. My head was like a computer unscrambling data. I couldn’t find a solution to my predicament. The only words I heard ricocheting in my brain were,
Pearl doesn’t want you Alexandre
.
Accept it.

I made up my mind, then and there; I wasn’t going to chase after her anymore. I’d take my own tried and tested advice: let her come to me—the bulldozer technique hadn’t worked. I remembered a couple of adages—ironically given to me by my father (when he was in one of his kind moods):
What’s yours won’t go against you
, and,
What’s yours will come back to you.
Was Pearl mine?
I
certainly felt like she was. I’d have to wait and see. Wait and see if she would return to me—be mine. And not only come back to me, but stick with me for good. I had to bide my time.