Yet somewhere along the way, my conscience rebelled. The taste for revenge turned sour. I’d done exactly what Dee accused me of. I seduced her. Thinking that would mend my pride and work her out of my system. I couldn’t have been more deluded. Dee’s wedged in there so tightly, a grenade couldn’t shake her lose.
Last night, I didn’t want to reclaim just her body. I wanted to reclaim her heart. So hearing Dee say, “Don’t touch me!” while I was weaving fantasies of second chances scraped me raw. And in return I was cruel. I was a heartless bastard. To tell her about Papa T that way. To leave her hurt and grieving alone. Cayo must be cursing me from his grave.
I lean across the bed to get my cell phone and scroll to her home number. After three rings, I hear her recorded voice flow over me like warm honey. I start to leave a message, but that seems inadequate. I try her mobile number with no luck.
I haul myself to the bathroom. Each step feels as if my feet are weighted with lead. I glance in the mirror while I brush my teeth, and my haggard reflection confirms how shitty I feel.
After a quick shower, I throw on jeans and a black Henley shirt. By eight thirty, I’m heading to Brockville. Traffic is light and that, coupled with a heavy foot on the gas, means I make the trip in less than twenty minutes. I’m due at Mama T’s for Sunday brunch in a few hours, but I have to see Dee now, to try to make this right.
I park my Porsche at the curb and give the area a visual sweep. The precaution is second nature. Once satisfied I haven’t been trailed by photographers, I alight from the car and follow the walkway past the large red-leafed maple, where I spot her Acura in the driveway and a white sporty Mercedes behind it. A girly car. That tells me at least one friend is here, and my chances of seeing Dee plummet. With a female, possibly two, standing guard, I know I have a better shot at getting into Fort Knox than I do of getting past Dee’s front door.
I climb the porch steps to her bungalow and ring the bell. To my surprise, the door swings open. But the woman who answers is wearing a battle-ready scowl, and the brunette tagging at her heels looks at me as if she were smelling week-old garbage. This isn’t good.
“You’ve got some nerve showing up here,” the shorter of the two says, her green eyes shooting daggers. Jordyn, I recall. She might have the appearance of a red-haired Tinker Bell, but her demeanor is pure pit bull.
“May I speak with Dee?”
“No. You’re not getting anywhere near her after what you did. Do you have any idea what you put her through by dropping a bomb like that?”
“I—”
“Save it,” she says with her hand pushed up toward my face. “You bulldozed your way back into her life without a care for anyone but yourself. She was doing fine. Better than fine. And now she’s not.”
“Jordyn, I understand where you’re coming from, but I really need to see Dee.”
“You don’t understand shit.” She brazenly pokes my chest. “And how the hell do you know my name?”
“Dee mentioned you and Lexie last night.”
“Which tells you she believed you’d come here with good intentions,” Lexie interjects calmly but with derision. “Otherwise, she wouldn’t have let you in or shared anything personal. I’m sure you’re well aware of that and schemed to have her play straight into your hands.”
I can’t defend myself when she’s right. “I’d like to see Dee and explain.”
“Pfft!” Jordyn blows out a contemptuous breath. “That’s not gonna happen.”
“Did Dee tell you she doesn’t want to see me?”
“You’re kidding, right? Do you think she has to tell me that?”
“I think you should at least ask her.”
“I don’t give a damn what you think. I only opened the door to tell you to go fuck yourself.”
Jordyn starts to close the door, but I slap my palm on the wood, stalling her attempt.
“What’s going on?”
Jordyn and Lexie whirl around at the sound of Dee’s voice vibrating across the short foyer. Seizing the opportunity, I shoulder past them to Jordyn’s irate shriek: “Hey, you can’t just barge in here like that!”
I reach Dee in two long strides. Fresh from a shower, her curls hang in damp disarray to her shoulders. Grief and sadness saturate her face, and her posture sags with exhaustion, beaten down because of me. “Dee, we need to talk.”
“No.”
“That’s your cue, Peters,” Jordyn sneers, yanking my arm.
I ignore her tug. “Give me ten minutes, Dee.” I’m willing to beg at this point. “That’s all I’m asking. Ten minutes to talk to you privately. Then I’ll go.”
She releases a weary sigh and seems to have to push her voice through it. “I’m not up for your personal attacks and nasty insults. Despite your low opinion of me, I’m crushed by the news of Papa T’s death.”
