Chapter 32
CHASTITY
I don’t know how long it takes me to get to Tate’s restaurant, or if I get there by running a dozen traffic lights, by broomstick, or by ruby fucking slippers. But the one thing that consoles me as I pull up on double yellows is that this isn’t the first time I’ve driven on autopilot and lived to tell the tale. We’ve all been there at one point, I’m sure. One minute you’re turning the key in the ignition, and the next you’re pulling up outside your destination without any recollection of the journey. Difference is, I think, as I slam the door to my car, this time my mind was filled with discernible thoughts. Angry thoughts—no, rage filled thoughts. How the fuck—no, how aboutwhythe fuck would he do this?
I push open the door to the restaurant, assailed by the smell of garlic and rosemary, my eyes flicking around the light filled space. The lunch crowd have mostly departed though there are one or two tables with paying customers still seated. I feel sorry that I’m about to spoil their afternoon coffee, tapas, or whatever the hell they’re partaking in.
‘Table for one?’ A young waitress appears in front of me. Dark haired and pretty, she wears the bistro staple of white shirt, black skirt and wrap around apron. A menu is pressed between her folded arms and her chest, her eyebrows raised in expectancy.The girl next door type. I mentally kick myself for slotting her into a trope or a category—professional hazard, I suppose.
‘Actually, I’m here to see Tate,’ I reply. Maybe I should be in the movies. That devil-may-care answer was almost Oscar worthy. Meanwhile, something resembling lava swirls and builds deep inside my chest.
‘Oh.’ Her brow furrows but straightens almost immediately. ‘He’s just popped out to the bank. Would you like to take a seat while you wait?’
No, I would not. Righteous indignation won’t have the same effect if I’m sitting. I’m more likely to standona table andLucha Librehis ass, though without the mask because I want him to be sure that it’s me that’s taking him down. You know, just in case he has a troop of irate women after him. Not that irate really covers how I feel. How did he do it? And more to the point, why? What kind of low-life scum does that sort of thing?The mentally ill kind?
‘Chastity! What a lovely surprise.’ I’m brought out of my musing with a snap at the sound of Tate’s cultured voice and his pleasant though measured smile. ‘Were you meeting someone or waiting for me?’
There’s just something about his tone; a certain smugness, an almost imperceptiblesomethingthat provokes me immediately. As the waitress makes herself scarce, words begin tumbling from my mouth. Though not the kind of I would’ve anticipated.Less swear-y for one thing.My mother would be so proud.
Camilla not so much.
‘Why, Tate? Why would you do such a thing?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Yes—yes you do.’ This I know for sure. What I don’t know is, ‘What could you have possibly thought you’d would gain from it?’
His laughter is bitter. ‘Well,Chastity.’ There’s such venom in his delivery. ‘Your parents didn’t think your name through very well, did they? Perhaps they were duped by that pink mouth and peachy skin? I’m sure you must’ve been a beautiful baby. And your parent’s fooled into thinking their cherubic child would grow to be a woman of virtue and taste.’
Ah, so that’s where this is going. I have no taste because I didn’t choose him. And because I produce erotica, I have no virtue.What a colossal tit.
‘Do you think you’re the first person to ever remark on my name and my looks as some kind of antonym to my profession?’ I fold my arms across my chest defensively, my words reasonable, my expression probably anything but.
We’re standing almost at the front door, out of the way of the main restaurant, but I wonder how long we can keep up our exchange in spoken terms.
‘Profession,’ he spits.So not long, apparently.‘I suppose even whores can lay claim to the nomenclature.’ His eyes roam over my body, full of distain. ‘At least, the ones that get paid, anyway.’
Big words and a superior attitude. Well, fuck this for a game of soldiers. This pathetic kind of boy’s club pisses me off no end.
‘Get over yourself, you complete fuck nut! I have no idea why you would do such a thing—why you would want to hurt me this way. And what gives you the right to use Sophia in such a despicable manner.’ Each word fuses the heat in my veins. Each reminder of the transgressions of this...person, because I refuse to call him a man, makes me feel sick.
‘The woman has sex for a living. Don’t expect me to feel anything for her.’
‘You’re fucked up.’ This is my official diagnosis. There is no remorse or feeling or guilt. There isn’t a flicker of anything decent in his expression. How could I have been so fooled?
‘She deserved it. What’s more, she probably liked it. Girls like her are so worthless, they’re familiar with being used. As for you?’ His gaze flicks over me again, the lazy distain turning to hate. ‘You brought this on yourself. You led me on—let me believe you were interested, then you fucked another man while I wandered around your kitchen serving food!’
I realise three things at this moment, as angry fricative-spittle hits my face.
1. He’s moved closer
2. He’s completely delusional
3. He’s possibly dangerous.
4. That was him outside my bedroom door, listening like a perv.
Okay, four things. I’m a little stressed; I can’t be held responsible for counting.
