Insidious (3 page)

Brody reached for my hand. “Bravo. That’s a beautiful speech, Mrs. Harrington. Now tell me how the motherfucker is really doing.”

My downturned lips twitched as my eyes darted toward his. “He’s dying. He’s suffering. Karma’s a bitch and though he deserves every damn second, I wish Karma would get her ass in gear and finish him off. Watching him die is sucking the life right out of me.”

“Oh…” The aquamarine of his eyes shimmered. “I’d be glad to suck some life into you.”

The tension of the last few months seeped from my taut shoulders. “Don’t tempt me, Mr. Phillips. I’m not a stable woman.”

“Don’t say that. You’re a fucking rock. I’d wish more years of suffering on him, if it wouldn’t be so hard on you.”

“I met with his oncologist yesterday. They’ve exhausted all the treatment options. It really is just a matter of time. But now he is arguing about the pain medicine. I like that it makes him sleep. I’m hoping one day he will go to sleep and not wake up.”

Brody’s forehead furrowed. “Did you know Parker was at your apartment yesterday?”

“No.” I bristled. I didn’t like the idea of Stewart meeting with his private attorney and one of the founding partners of Craven and Knowles without me. Honestly, I didn’t trust either one of them.

“He was,” Brody confirmed. “It was yesterday morning.”

“I was out,” I said reflectively, thinking back over the last twenty-four hours. “The first and third Wednesday of each month I meet with the Harrington Society. My sister’s spearheading another medical mission trip.”

Brody nodded. “The good Doctor Conway. There isn’t a selfish bone in her body.”

“No.” I genuinely smiled. When it came to saints, Valerie was next in line for canonization.

“I got the feeling that timing was everything,” Brody continued. “Parker made a comment about you not letting Stewart out of your sight or vice versa.”

The small hairs at the back of my neck stood to attention. “Do you know what they discussed?”

“Not for sure. Last evening, I overheard him asking his assistant to pull some old files. When I heard your name, I texted you. From all of my snooping, the only thing I could determine was that it involved Stewart’s will, but I know for sure she also pulled the contract.”

I stood and paced the length of the room. “Why? Why would they be looking at that contract?” I lowered my head to my hands to think. “Brody, everything, all of our investments, all of his stock, holdings,
everything
is in both of our names. Tell me, what could he possibly do in a will to combat that?”

“As long as they stay that way, I predict
nothing
. Maybe he just wanted to be sure everything was in place. You know? If he’s feeling the finality of his situation, he probably doesn’t want anything to be out of place.” Brody shrugged. “Being the standup guy that he is and all.”

My mind raced. “My name was added after our marriage, over ten years ago. I’ve followed that damn contract to the letter.”

“Vik, you don’t want that contract going public. Let’s watch. I wanted to see you today to let you know I have my eyes and ears open. I’m watching your back. You don’t need to worry.”

“So help me God, if he screws me… after everything.”

Brody’s brow arched. “I’d say you’ve been royally screwed already, but what are you going to do, Vik? Kill him? The man’s dying.”

He wouldn’t be the first person I had killed. Slowing my breathing, I said, “I know Craven and Knowles represents Stewart, but, damn it, they’re supposed to be representing
my
best interests, too.”

Brody’s whisper brushed across my hair as his arms encircled my waist from behind. “Vik, I’m here. I’m watching out for your best interests. You never need to doubt that.”

Leaning into his embrace, I craned my neck until our lips met. The emotion bubbling within me rushed forth as his tender yet firm lips willingly accepted my kiss and encouragingly demanded more. Spinning me around, our tongues once again fought for supremacy, wrestling and submitting, tasting and savoring. Again, the fire within me sparked to life.

“How long has it been since someone has really held you and loved you?”

Brody’s question brought a deep ache deep to my chest. “How long has it been since we’ve been together?” I replied. From the way we were standing, I could see shimmers of light from the ocean below reflected in his unique irises.

“Jesus, Vik. I want to pick you up and throw you on that bed.” He lifted my chin and peered deep into my eyes. “Look at me, damn it. I’m not like the others. I don’t want to fuck you.” A deep rumble came from his chest. “That’s not true. I want that too. But…” He brushed my cheek with the back of his hand. “What I want more than anything is to make love to you, to hold you, to watch you sleep, and be there when you wake. I want to love you so hard that when those beautiful eyes are closed, I have no doubt that you’re dreaming about me. And when you wake, I want to be the one to make every one of your dreams come true.”

“Brody, please, please, don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep.”

“But I do. I’d do it right now, if you’d let me.” He tugged my fingers though I stayed fastened to the carpet, refusing to budge. His forehead wrinkled as his cheeks rose. “I make good money. Tell Stewart to go fuck himself. Tell all the ass-wipes on his board of directors and Parker Craven to shove it. I know you said it could be any day, but it could also be a week, a month, or more. Don’t subject yourself to him and his fucked-up idea of loyalty any longer.”

I shook my head from side to side. “Stop. I told you that I’m a mess right now. And you’re not making sense.” Without admitting the truth, that no one had ever proclaimed undying love to me, I rallied, “I haven’t devoted ten years of my life only to walk away when the prize is within sight. It isn’t just about the money. It’s the satisfaction I’ll get when I whisper in his ear that I made it. He underestimated me, and my ability to handle everything he threw my way. I want his last thought to be of me in control of everything he holds dear.”

“You deserve that,” Brody said dejectedly.

“I do. I’m not feeling guilty for wanting what I deserve.”

Again he wrapped me in his arms. “Victoria Harrington, I know without a doubt that I don’t deserve you, but I’ll be damned if I feel guilty for wanting you.”

The ringing of my phone stilled us both. Stewart’s distinctive ring cut through the chilled hotel air. Hurrying to my purse, I put my finger to my lips and said, “Hello?”

“Tori.” My husband’s voice was stronger through the phone than it had been earlier in the morning. Obviously he’d succeeded in decreasing the pain medicine.

“Stewart, is everything all right?”

Brody’s eyes widened.

“Hardly,” Stewart replied sarcastically. “Travis said that you’re at the Harbour Shoppes?”

“Yes, do you need me home?”

“No,” his tone gained strength. “I want you at the warehouse in an hour.”

Shit!
My stomach sank. “Stewart…” I could argue, but he knew I wouldn’t. Despite his weakened state, he’d already proven he could still orchestrate. My only option was to pray it would be the last time.

Once Stewart was gone, the warehouse would be the first thing I sold, or maybe I’d torch it? The thought brought a feeling of resolve. Swallowing my retort, I replied, “I’ll be there,” and hit disconnect.

Brody’s hands brushed my arms. “What is it?”

I looked away. “I need to go. Please keep me posted.”

His eyes opened wide as panicked concern infiltrated his voice. “Why, Vik? Where do you need to go?”

I didn’t answer, but picked up my purse and headed for the door. Before I walked away, I heard Brody, his voice a low growl. “I hate that damn motherfucker. I swear, if he weren’t dying…” The closing of the door drowned out the rest of his sentence. But I knew what he was about to say.

MY HANDS SHOOK as my body trembled. Why was I even surprised he’d gone back on his word? The fucker had promised! He’d promised to always be with me!

Holding my midsection, I doubled over as revolt took hold and my lunch was purged onto the concrete of the private garage. The sound of my distress wouldn’t bring anyone’s attention. There was no one there. I knew that. I knew once the
friend
, as Stewart liked to call them, was done, he was gone. It was one of the ways they tried to secure their anonymity. Besides, Stewart’s voice had told me that he was gone, told me to stay where I was, not to move until he said the word. I’d disobeyed in the past. I no longer considered that on option. Stark naked on the freaking four-poster bed, I waited as the damn music came through the headphones.

Sometimes I hated the music as much as his voice. For almost nine years it had been the same eerie playlist. When I asked, Stewart refused to tell me the names of the songs, only that they reminded him of a time long ago. As the years passed, I think I found reassurance in the predictability of the order. Without my sense of sight, it gave me something to hold, something expected. Each time he restarted the music, it was always from the beginning. I’d heard the first melody so many times it haunted my dreams. One day I searched and searched the Internet until I found it:
Fatal Lullaby
. Knowing the title made it even more depressing—if that were even possible.
Death Dance
came next. All of the songs he chose were composed by Adrian von Ziegler and were only instrumental music. None contained words, only dark, tortured strains that resounded through my ears as I struggled to make sense of the world around me.

Closing my eyes, I reached for my car. Fleeing the stench of the garage, the warehouse, and my life was my only thought. Without a doubt, I needed to get away from this place.

After so many visits, somehow not having Stewart present had made it worse. But then again, he was. He was there through a new system of cameras. With this new system, he could watch from our home. Our home. In one afternoon, he’d taken away the separation of warehouse and home: one of my last refuges.

My hands trembled as I pulled my car door closed. I fought with the new reality: Stewart’s voyeurism wasn’t over, not as long as breath still entered his lungs. With this newly installed technology, his favorite sick form of entertainment would continue. The last two months of reprieve as he fought against the cancer was only that, a momentary break. The sadistic motherfucker would keep this going until the bitter end.

I turned my eyes—devoid of makeup—toward the rearview mirror. Thank God there was a shower at the warehouse. I hated the smell of the men. Again, the loss of sight heightened my other senses, including that of smell. I wasn’t supposed to know who his
friends
were. It used to give Stewart a rush as we’d enter a party or a function and he’d taunt me with the idea of whom I knew and who knew me. Closing my eyes, I still heard his sadistic tone as he paraded me on his arm.

Of course, the men never let on. They never came forward, but smell was a powerful sense: whether cologne or aftershave, a breath mint or body wash. When I’d least expect it, an aroma would remind me of the warehouse, the music, and Stewart’s incessant directions. Then I would know. I would know that the man smiling sweetly at his wife, or taunting me with his stare was one of Stewart’s
friends
.

This afternoon, his friend wore cologne similar to Stewart’s. When we first married, I loved the erotic combination of rose and sandalwood, and oud. I’d noticed the unique scent the first day we met. I remember finding the bottle in his room and reading the name: Tom Ford Oud Wood. There was even a time when I would lay my head on his pillow just to inhale the scent.

That was before, before the warehouse, and before death grabbed him by the balls. No longer did he walk in a cloud of expensive cologne. Now the scent of death and denial hung in layers around him and his makeshift hospital room.

The great Stewart Harrington wanted to die at home. He wanted to be surrounded by the luxury and opulence of his hard work.
Bullshit!
Stewart Harrington wanted to live. Going to the hospital and being attached to their equipment would admit defeat. I couldn’t imagine him admitting that until words were beyond his control.

That knowledge refueled my strength. The motherfucker was going to die: of that I was confident.

Turning up the radio, I tried to drown out the wordless dark tunes in my head. Slowly, I put the car into reverse. Exiting the garage, the sunlight steamed through my windshield, blinding me as I reached for my sunglasses.
Damn, it was still daytime
.
This fucking day wouldn’t end
. I looked toward the clock when the screen on the dash changed. STEWART flashed on the screen indicating an incoming call.

I choked back the bile and hit the CALL button that allowed my husband’s voice to replace the music and fill the car.

“What?” was the best greeting I could manage.

“Are you coming home?”

I turned the car right, not sure where I was headed, only that it was away from our penthouse. “No.”

“No?”