Luca (I Love the Way You Lie #1) (16 page)

My eyes met his. He looked amused. Only god knows how long I gaped—appraising him—before he finally spoke. “You know a picture would last longer.” His smirk reminded me of Luca. A cross between badass and wiseass. A shiver of familiarity rolled through me.
Wishful thinking
. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. Gah!

“I’m so sorry…low blood sugar. I tend to zone out,” I lied before getting in the line for coffee. “I’ll buy you another. It’s the least I could do,” I said, pulling out my wallet.

He looked at the phone, scrolling through the screen. His answer was quick. “Another time,” he said. “I’m running late. Enjoy the day.” He said goodbye, exiting the café. I held my hand up mockingly…”bye,” I sighed.

~~~

I got to work on time, even though I announced I’d be taking the morning off. I couldn’t stand to be alone with my thoughts any longer than necessary. Despair momentarily vanished and was replaced with a smile. I worked as a social worker for the county. It paid well with benefits. However, my dream to open my own privately funded women’s group is well within my grasp. I had reached out to some of the city’s larger corporations known for philanthropy and a few weeks ago, I scouted the perfect locations. The rent was pricey but doable.

Throwing my bag under my desk, I turned on the computer, going about business as usual. I prayed to god that they’d forget it was my birthday.
Unlikely
, I thought.

Melissa, my college roommate and best friend, whirled her desk chair around. “Seriously, Allison? You couldn’t enjoy one fucking day off…work horse,” she said getting up to take the chair next to mine.

I shrugged. “I’d rather be here with you,” I lied, smiling. She wasn’t easily fooled. However, she must have decided not to give me shit on my birthday. She was well-versed and knee deep in my shit—Luca.

She rolled her eyes, not believing it for a minute. “Pfft, as if. Anyway, I’m taking you out tonight as planned so I don’t want any bullshit from you. No excuses. If you can’t do it for yourself, at least do it for me.” There was no getting out of this. That much I knew. I couldn’t even use the workday excuse as it was a Friday. Sigh.

“I’m going to have to change. I’ll meet up with you,” I answered.

“No fucking way. If you go home, you’ll never come back out. Even I get depressed at your place. Crack a damn window. Let some light in.” She shook her head. “Besides, I have an outfit for you at my place…it’s part of your present.”

“Part? What’s the other part?” Nerves were shaking my voice. It wasn’t that I didn’t party. I did. But Melissa was a loose cannon of unpredictable danger. I’m positive we’ll need to be bailed out by the end of the night.

She waved me off with her French manicured. “Not telling. You’ll see soon enough.” She laughed more to herself. Which really fucking worried me. I sent up a silent prayer to the gods.

“Oh, before I forget…has the mail come yet?” I asked. I was hoping to hear back from some of the philanthropists about
New York Crisis Center for Women.
One healthy donation could allow us to break ground on this project. Then Melissa and I could be well on our way to realizing our dream.

She shook her head and leaned over. “No, not yet. Listen, I’m on pins and needles, too. You think I want to live my career out here?” she murmured softly. While our boss applauded our efforts and fully supported us, she made it clear on several occasions that she didn’t want to lose us. Melissa and I sat down one evening with the NYC Observer and went through the list of influential young philanthropists in the city. Adam Braun, Prince Lorenzo Borghese, Neil Blumenthal, Dave Gilboa, Lauren Bush, Claire Courtin-Clarins, Rosario Dawson, Mike Denton, and Alastair Capital. There was a small photo along with a brief accompaniment detailing a list of causes they were charitable to. There was no photo of the executive from Alastair Capital; however, the list of charitable donations was substantial. After Googling, we found nothing but a standard publicist blurb. We decided he or she must be some wealthy recluse. Alastair was our first letter. One by one, we tailored letters that were personal, inventive, and explained what our ultimate goal we hoped to achieve.

The morning crept by without incident. My first client after lunch was with Nicole Rios. A sixteen-year-old Dominican girl who had been raped. I adored her sense of humor. She made me smile at how much she reminded me of myself. She was a tough Latina. It took me months of coaxing before she let her impenetrable walls down enough for me to help her. Now, enjoying the security of my office, she told me everything. And I listened. We spoke of the abuse she sustained at the hands of her stepfather to the color of her nail polish. This was my job and I loved it. My girls actually looked forward to therapy. A secure, bullshit and judgment free zone. It helped that I shared my own personal experience with them. I wasn’t a therapist who was purely academic.

She sat in the steel padded chair across from me with a sigh. “I was asked to prom.” She rolled her eyes. Part of her offence was her defensive gestures. She projected annoyance, which meant she was apprehensive about it.

I smiled. “Is this someone you’d like to go with?”

She rolled her eyes while sucking her teeth—a very Latina gesture. “What do you think?”

“I think you want to go.” I nodded.

She drummed her hot pink nails on the side of my desk. “Maybe.” She focused on her feet. “I still feel dirty.”

Now this was something I knew well. The invisible filth that refuses to wash away. “But you’re not. No one can see those negative feelings, Nicole. It’s all up here and in here.” I pointed to my head and heart. “The mind is very powerful. It makes you feel things that others cannot see. However, they are very real to you. At times, debilitating. Don’t let your head take away milestones in your life, Nicole. Don’t miss out on any more of your youth,” I said, almost pleading. There was a bigger picture here. One she’d regret. The need to feel normal. Participate in life again. Let go of some of the anger.

“I’d have to get a dress,” she said quietly.

Ah, I knew her mother worked two jobs and didn’t have the time or money to afford such an expense. “I’d love to help if you’d let me… I never went to prom,” I said, letting the weight of my statement permeate.

“So, I’d be like helping you, right?”

I nodded. “Yes, and it would make me so happy.”

She smiled proudly. Her amber eyes twinkled with delight. “Deal.”

“Deal.” I shook her hand. Her smile was infectious. This was as therapeutic for me as I was for her. I’ve always regretted not going to prom and having those girly experiences. Even though, at the time, I was heavy in my depression and my emo phase, I painted myself as an outcast. Thus, becoming one. My shame preyed on me until I was nearly a shell of myself. Scared and alone, I spent a good amount of my time in my dark bedroom. Scully was the nightmare that plagued my days and nights. I didn’t dare risk running into him. Nicole was fortunate to have her abuser behind bars. She was safer than I was. Mine walked the streets and often the halls of my house.

There was understanding in her eyes. “This is going to be fun, right…you and me?”

“It sure is, and I’m so proud of you,” I said, treading lightly. It was a delicate balance. I didn’t want to make too much of a big deal as not to stress her with her first public event. I knew how cruel kids could be. Her case was widely publicized in her community. Sigh. I was envious of her strength and couldn’t be prouder of her.

I looked at my clock, a subtle signal that our time was coming to an end. “I’ll see you next week same time?” I asked, jotting her name into my appointment book.

“Yep. I’m gonna start looking at magazines this week. Maybe make a collage of the perfect dress,” she said, full of enthusiasm.

I stood, enveloping her in a hug. It wasn’t very professional; however, I never subscribed to being clinical. Sometimes, a hug was better than words.

Nicole left with happiness in her step. My heart squeezed with admiration. She was stronger than she gave herself credit for. I bit into the apple on my desk as I made my notes on our session.

“Allison,” Melissa screamed from the doorway of my office.

I jumped holding my chest, the apple falling to the floor. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I struggled for breath.

She waved a large manila envelope. “Oh, get over it. Guess what this is?” She beamed. This could only be one thing. There was nothing that would elicit such a whimsical response this time of the day out of Melissa.

It had to be about the Crisis Center. “No?” I jumped up, grabbing the envelope.

“It sure is, babe.” She sat in the chair Nicole had just vacated.

“Fuck, I can’t open it. You do it.” I handed it back to her.

“Nope.” She pushed it away. “This is your baby. I’m along for the ride.” She beamed. It was my baby. However, we were in this together. Alastair Capital was embossed on the top left.
God, please. I’m begging you,
I thought. My finger slowly skimmed under the seal to open. My heart sank, already prepared for rejection.

Allison Anderson

Director

New York City Woman’s Crisis Foundation

123 Broadway Street

Suite 1

New York, NY 10038

March 20, 2015

Dear Ms. Anderson,

I am just writing to acknowledge your request for a grant from Alastair Capital Community Organization in the sum of $250,000. As you know, our organization exists to serve our community and build a better tomorrow for all of our citizens by putting up better women’s shelters in our area. This grant from Alastair Capital Community Foundation will be very helpful as a deposit in assisting you in reaching your current goals. On behalf of everyone at Alastair Community Organization, please accept our monies for this funding.

Enclosed with this letter, you will find a chart pertaining to what our hopes this current project will achieve. We greatly appreciate you reaching out to our company to help our community. If any further discussion is needed in regards to this matter, please do not hesitate to contact me at (212)555-5555 or [email protected] and I will get back to you as quickly as possible.

We are hoping you’ll accept this grant from Alastair Capital Community Organization, and hope the project will now be able to move forward in a timely manner to assist the women in crisis in the community and improve our society. We look forward to positive reports on your progress. Thank you for pioneering such an important matter.

Yours sincerely,

Archer C. Michaels

Director

Alastair Capital International

I sat there rereading the same lines until Melissa swiped the letter rudely out of my hand. The $250,000 check landed on my desk. My mouth opened and closed. No words came. All thought left my brain.
Was this really happening
? I thought. I turned to Melissa, who just sat there, blinking.

“Pinch me,” she whispered. “I mean, really fucking pinch the shit out of me.” Yeah, she was just as affected as I was. Clearly, to the point of stupidity.

“Look.” I held up the check, smiling.

She grabbed it, reverently bringing it to her nose. “Smell that?”

“Smell what?” I asked, examining her closely. Fuck knows where she was going with this.

“The smell of success.” She laughed. “Here, smell.” She offered the check to my nose.

I inhaled, more to please her than anything. However, when I did, something familiar moved in my mind. Puzzle pieces shifting and locking into place.

“What? What’s wrong, Al?” Her voice was full of concern. “Fuck, you’re white as a ghost.”

I felt sick. “Let me see that check.” I placed it gently on my desk and examined it carefully. “Isn’t the director’s name Archer?” I asked, full of concern. I had a right to be concerned. Something. Just. Fucking. Something I couldn’t put the words to.

“Yes, why?”

I placed the check in front of her. “Then who’s this?” I pointed to the signature on the bottom of the check.

She scrutinized it for a minute. “Who knows? I can’t even read that chicken scratch. Maybe the CEO? What the fuck does it matter?” She appraised me, waiting for me to explain. However, what could I explain? That I smelled
him
…
his
scent…
his
essence…
his
fucking imprint on my heart? Fuck, I couldn’t even bring myself to say it aloud.
Get the fuck over it already. All men wear cologne,
I thought. However, that scent. That scent was the most singularly potent hint of potential heartache I’ve even known.

“Never mind,” I murmured, attaching it with a paperclip to the letter and neatly putting it away.

“Listen, my mental Gerber-daisy. We are celebrating tonight. One—it’s your twenty-fourth birthday. Two—we just got fucking funded…or partially…but we are on our way, chick. I want a smile permanently on that face all night. Or else…” she scolded loudly.

I giggled. “One plastic smile coming up.” I plastered the fakest smile across my face.

“That’s the spirit.” She rolled her eyes, tugging my arm. “Let’s get out of here already. It’s thirsty Friday.”

“I thought that was thirsty Thursday?” I laughed.

“Yeah, whatever, smartass.”

I shut down my computer and lights and then grabbed my things as she waited by the door, tapping her foot
. I’m going to have a great time. I’m going to have a great time,
I repeated in my thoughts.