The Danger You Know Page 15

  His comments and remarks were all stabs at my marriage. When he wasn’t secretly reminding me of the two times I’d betrayed my husband, he was egging Grant on, making comments that highlighted and encouraged the way my husband treats me.

  It was a relief when he finally left, but even that was short lived. Unable to close the deal again, Grant was in a foul mood, and he’d taken it out on me until we finally went to bed.

  Needless to say, the night didn’t pass peacefully.

  No. I was woken up to be screamed at for fighting again. For screaming. For crying.

  Grant was back to demanding I take the medicine, his threats delivered to me with little room for misinterpretation before he left for work in the morning.

  I’m not going to take them. I don’t care what he says. Everything was fine until Ari came back into the picture, and it will be fine again when I finally force him out. I just have to figure out how to accomplish it.

  Not that I want him out entirely.

  And that’s the part that scares me most.

  Ari has an undeniable effect on me when he’s around, one I can’t pretend not to feel, even if I wish I didn’t. I find myself taking a little extra time doing my hair and makeup, feel an extra kick to the speed of my pulse when I know I’ll see him.

  But that’s nothing compared to the hyper-drive of my heart when he finally walks into view, the way my eyes study him, as if dedicating every detail to memory, the way I feel full when our eyes meet, and I know he can somehow hear everything I’m thinking.

  It’s disconcerting how alike we are. I’m not sure he knows how the tiny details he tells about himself remind me of the girl I’d once been. Things as insignificant as his choice in what to drink mimicking the years I spent careening out of control until Grant locked me down and demanded I change.

  What type of man drinks vodka and cranberry? That should have been my question. But instead all I could think was he’s just like me.

  Still, he’s the devil and he’s ruining my marriage. He knows it, too, if the wicked grins he flashes me says anything about it.

  Ari is somehow breaking down and peeling away every illusion I’ve built to convince myself that Grant and I have a good marriage.

  It has to end. I’m too scared to see what will happen if I walk away from my husband. Too terrified that I’ll end up back in a place where I’m looking for something I’ll never find.

  Not that Grant is that something. He’s simply what I settled for when it became clear that the fantasies I’d constructed between the curtain of consciousness and sleep were just that:

  Fantasies.

  Of something I would never find.

  Of a life I would never know.

  Maybe that’s what it means to grow up. You have to let go of idealism and settle for the crushing defeat of what’s real, what’s available, what’s right in front of your face because longing for the rest of it will only drive you mad in the end.

  I’m stuck in place again. In a life that makes little sense to me. And I can’t shake the feeling that Ari could be the more I’ve always looked for. The magic. The shadow that lingers when sleep finds me.

  But then, that’s the thinking of Poor Little Adeline, the girl I’d once been and not the woman I’m becoming.

  Regardless of the problems complicating my life, there is still a silver lining. I have a full month ahead of me to do what I love.

  First thing this morning, I contacted Rebecca. She was thrilled to hear I’m planning a new set. She tossed me on the schedule immediately while asking me what theme I’ll choose.

  At the time, I wasn’t sure, but now that I’ve thought about it, I know exactly what I want to do. It will take hiring a model, and I hope I can pull it off. The time limitations suck and I’m not exactly in practice, but I will try.

  The first thing I need to do is return to the mausoleum to determine how exactly I’ll set up the shots. And the other backdrop will be my house. Even empty, it’s the perfect scene for the ideas I have in mind.

  Grant will hate the series. Hell, he won’t understand it. But Ari...my lips curl at the thought of him understanding exactly what I’m saying.

  Too bad for him he won’t be able to do anything about it.

  The thought makes me chuckle as I grab my camera from the heavy case and pack it into a smaller, backpack style one. I’m walking out of my closet when an idea comes to me, a thread of rebellion, a step backward to remember who I was before Grant.

  Grinning, I walk back in and push up on tiptoes to grab a box on top. Flipping the lid off, I grab my old iPod, a collection of songs I’d put together over six years spent out of control.

  Deciding to charge it on the drive to the cemetery, I return the box to the top shelf and walk through the large house with my mind focused on the task at hand. I stayed in that zone the entire drive over, and I’m still there as I step foot into the mausoleum.

  It’s impossible to ignore the memory of the last time I was here. A shudder rolls through me, followed by sorrow. I feel empty again and I don’t want to think about the reason for it.

  The answer is too confusing.

  Too wrong.

  So dangerous and unreliable that I’m only hurting myself to give it thought.

  I focus on my project instead, the mausoleum lighting up with each flash, the sound of the shutter button relaxing me as I document every square inch of the front room to study later and determine exactly how I want to portray the scene and how to create the best lighting.

  Pausing for a brief second, I pop in my earbuds and hit the button to start a playlist it feels like I haven’t heard in years. Immediately, the seductive notes of Portishead’s Sour Times hits me, the corners of my mouth tugging up and my body itching to move. I find I’m in a zone within seconds, moving faster, inspiration slapping me with every shot.

  It takes me a few minutes to finish the first room and work through the second, Puscifer’s Potions playing in my ears when I round the corner to the back and stop dead in my tracks.

  I’m not shocked to find Ari here. The truth is, I knew he’d continue harassing me. That he’d find a way to stay in view for whatever reason he has. And, if I have to be honest, I think somewhere deep down, I was hoping he would do this. Not that I can admit it aloud. Doing so would feel like surrendering.

  The music keeps pumping in my ears, the singer’s voice haunting me as I take a quiet step back to keep from drawing attention.

  This is the first time I’ve had a chance to study him when he doesn’t know I’m watching, a momentary pause when I can look my fill, allow my thoughts to catch up to the impact of his presence.

  Ari is sitting on the same stone crypt where he’d touched me for the first time. Dressed casually in a black t-shirt and dark jeans, the sleeves hugging his biceps, struggling against the chiseled bulge, Ari leans forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped where they meet between his spread legs, his head angled up so that I can follow the line of his throat, the knot of his Adam’s Apple a temptation I want to lick and bite.

  He truly is beautiful, but in a sad way that’s difficult to interpret. And although I’d never define him as tragic - he’s far too powerful for that - I still see fractures splintering inside him. Mistakes. Flaws. Hollow crevices that speak of dark thoughts and the type of aching cold that sinks inside the bones until nothing can warm you again.

  It makes him more captivating to look at, something I can’t quite name that whispers against the ear and strokes dangerous fingers against your nape, entwines in your hair with the decadent promise of pleasure...and pain.

  Beyond a muscular body that moves like liquid, Ari has a face that should be impossible. No person has such symmetry to their features. Yet he has a bone structure that makes me want to run my fingers down it, skin that is warm despite how cold he looks.

  He’s a shadow within the space, his hair and dark clothes helping him blend into the somber setting. I can’t see his eyes because his fa
ce is turned away, but I know they’ll flash silver beneath the scant light, that hypnotic gaze with the ability to see everything.

  He’s not smiling, because he never does. I find myself wondering what that face would look like if he lost control, how his cruel mouth would curve into a blinding smile if he ever experienced the radiance of pure joy.

  I bet he’d be beyond beautiful then. So damn mesmerizing that I would never want to look away. In a way, I’m almost relieved he never smiles. Seeing it would undoubtedly trap me even more than I already am.

  Slowly, I reach to stop the music and pull out my earbuds, allowing the cords to hang over my shoulders. And while he’s lost in thought in a moment that’s so utterly human, I lift my camera for a candid shot. It’s a picture I want to keep, to study, an urge I can’t control to capture this still frame as proof that there is a person hidden behind the impenetrable walls he’s built.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  My finger hovers over the shutter button, my breath held as his deep voice echoes through the stygian space. He never turns to look at me, never moves.

  “How did you know?”

  Only the corner of his mouth curls in a tease of a grin. “I always know what’s going on around me. Unlike some people.”

  I go to press the button in an act of rebellion, but he looks down at his clasped hands, a lock of midnight black hair falling over his forehead.

  “I’m not kidding. What would Grant say if he sees the photo and wonders why you were alone with me to take it? You should be smarter about the things you do.”

  A bark of laughter shakes my shoulders as I pull the camera from my face. “Grant would never see it. He couldn’t care less about my art. He’s only letting me do this to impress you.”

  Silent for a few seconds, the tilt of his lips turns down into a scowl. “It’s sad that what you just admitted doesn’t bother you as much as it should.”

  It’s a knife to the heart, his next words twisting the blade until there’s nothing left but pulp.

  “How does it feel to be in a marriage where your husband has no appreciation for who you are?”

  Anger rushes in to replace every good feeling I have about him. “Why are you here, Ari?”

  Pulling his arms up, he grips his hands on the edge of the crypt. It only makes his biceps bulge more and spreads out the full breadth of his steel chest and strong shoulders. Ari moves with such lethal agility, long and languid, but I know if pushed the wrong way, that perfect body will become a weapon of such exquisite, heart-stopping violence.

  Clenching my fingers into my palms, I fight the urge to walk over and explore his body with my fingers. To trace the ridges and valleys of his abdomen, to lift his shirt and drag the tip of my tongue across his skin.

  Shaking that thought off, I blink my eyes to find him staring at me, an arrogant smirk adorning his face as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  “You shouldn’t look at me like that, Adeline. It’s an invitation for me to take everything I want.”

  I realize that even though he’s played my body into shattering apart twice, I’ve never touched him once.

  Hating how husky my voice is, I point out the obvious. “You had the chance, but walked away instead.”

  He chuckles at that, the sound empty of humor. “Maybe I’m trying not to destroy you.”

  Stepping into the room, I lean back against another crypt, the short iron fence and burial plot of Samuel Rinehart between us.

  “You have a high estimation of your skills in bed.”

  He blinks, thick black lashes lining eyes of molten steel. “That’s not what I mean.”

  An awkward silence falls, the tension stifling because rather than taking the opening and making some joke or dirty innuendo, Ari has responded with open honesty.

  All I want is to round that fence and go to him, to wipe away the worry lines between his eyes, but I keep my distance because it’s safer for me this way.

  It’s my turn to be honest.

  “For some reason, I think you’re the type of man who would have as much concern for ripping out my throat as you would for crushing a bug. You don’t strike me as the type who cares who you destroy.”

  “Normally, you’d be right.”

  He jumps down from the crypt with the type of masculine grace that launches my heart into my throat. “But when it comes to you, you’re wrong.”

  When he takes a few steps to walk off, panic grips me. I’m tired of the games he plays and the cryptic reasons he gives for playing them.

  Before he can leave the room, I call out to him, my voice much stronger than it had been. “Why are you here, Ari? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

  He stops, his hands tucked in his pockets and his face angled down. I study his profile as he takes a few seconds to answer. It sounds like a confession, something spoken more to himself than to me.

  “You have no idea how badly I wish I knew the answer to that question.”

  Ari leaves after saying it, disappearing into the shadows of the center room of the mausoleum, and I’m left leaning against a crypt wondering why he came here in the first place.

  My instinct is to run after him, to demand answers, but I know it will be a wasted effort. He gives what he wants and won’t be pushed beyond that.

  He begins the conversation where he wants and ends it where it wants, tossing out a few breadcrumbs while leaving nothing at the end of the trail you’ve followed.

  Sighing, I bring my hands to the camera hanging from my neck and run my thumb over the shutter button.

  At least I have this, I think. For now, anyway. I’m not willing to give it up.

  With that thought, I place the earbuds back in my ears, start my playlist and get to work photographing the last room.

  I know the perfect shots I need to tell my story, and I’m excited for the show, even if Ari will be the only person in the room who has any clue as to the photos’ meaning.

  Ari

  One thing is clear about the man Adeline married:

  Grant Cabot, for all his posturing and lengthy rants about his status in the world, is nothing more than a pathetic human being who is as boring as he is insecure, and about as ruthless and terrifying as an earthworm.

  Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem, except for the fact that he has an annoying habit of realizing his weaknesses, becoming enraged by them and then bringing them home to use Adeline as the target of his aggression.

  I can’t stand men like that. Hate them, really. Want nothing more than to laugh while they choke on the blood bubbling up their throat after I’ve crushed their ribs in and made mincemeat of their organs.

  Grant Cabot is not the type to fight fair, and for that reason, neither am I.

  Hacking into his home security system was child’s play. After lying that my phone was acting up during the dinner I suffered through at his house, I’d asked for his Wi-Fi password.

  Grant happily gave it to me, not realizing that he’d also given me access to all the cameras he had set through his house, one in each room, excluding the bathrooms, but including the guest bedrooms.

  It made me wonder if he was as big a stalker as me, and did his guests know they were never truly alone in a house with pinhead monitoring devices throughout?

  I can’t complain, though, because it gives me an unobstructed view into the private life of Adeline and her husband, a view that has only served to make me angrier with each passing day.

  Adeline’s sleep issues are in full swing again, a point of contention between her and Grant that I’m sure isn’t helping matters.

  Unfortunately, it’s a never-ending cycle of cause and effect. He comes home in a foul mood, she internalizes it and takes the verbal abuse, she fights and cries in her sleep, and his mood becomes worse.

  It’s a powder keg waiting to explode, a ticking bomb that is difficult to watch without intervening.

  But Adeline needs to remember how to throw a punch, n
eeds to find the person she once was long ago and reclaim the spitfire attitude of a girl who once gave the finger to the world.

  He hasn’t physically hurt her, though, so I keep my distance, only answering his calls every so often and giving noncommittal answers when he asks if I’m ready to invest yet. I’m sure that only makes the situation for Adeline worse, but my guilt for it is absent.

  She doesn’t need a hero to swoop in and save her, she needs a villain who drags out the hero she has within herself.

  I’m more than happy to oblige.

  As for tonight, however, I have a formal event to attend, a few hours I’ll use to evaluate Adeline’s progress on her path back to who I know she is.

  During the day, she works on her photos, both at the cemetery and her house, a model that looks surprisingly like me accompanying her. I only know that because I’ve pulled the hoodie from my closet, sneaking around to watch when I know she’ll be distracted and so aggravatingly oblivious of everything around her.

  Letting her find me in the mausoleum had been a mistake. Not that I hadn’t intended it, just that it was a moment of weakness I shouldn’t have given into.

  Keeping my distance is a battle within myself. The need I have to be near her a growing compulsion every day. I barely satisfy it by watching from a distance, and I keep myself in line with the promise that it won’t be forever.

  She looks for me, though.

  That I’ve noticed.

  Her blue eyes tracking the scenery as if waiting for me to arrive.

  I never do, of course.

  Not as far as she can tell.

  But she will see me tonight, that thought in mind as I run up the steps of the hotel while buttoning my jacket, the doorman inclining his head as he opens the door and allows me through.

  A sign is set up directing guests to the ballroom for the company event, the low din of conversation filtering out as the door opens and closes, the soft hum of music that I know is not what Adeline would have chosen years ago.

  Stepping inside, I scan my gaze over the growing crowd. Every person in here bleeds money, the show of it stitched into their designer tuxedos and sparkling gowns, the flash of fine jewelry adorning women who hang on the arms of powerful men.