Pink Ice (19 page)

             
The most disgusting shade of orange lipstick was staining the purity of the white pillow. Breathing, counting to ten, I tried to figure out a reasonable explanation. There should be a reason behind it, maybe he was eating Cheetos last night. But the lip form was obvious, and Dylan was crazy enough to make Mrs. Danvers wash the bedclothes every single day. That stain was from last night, and I had seen that lipstick before.
Tamara.
I was right, that was what he “needed” me for.

             
Perfectly dressed in a navy blue three-piece suit, Dylan came out of his closet. And by then I was already sitting in the bed with the damn pillow in my hand.
Princess, don’t go for blood, let him answer first.
“You care to explain me this?”

             
He just turned, didn’t get that close, and look at his watch while answering. “What? Your makeup on the pillow?”

             
Wrong answer jerk, wrong answer.
There was no way Berkeley could know, but my mom’s first rule in life is: never go to bed with your makeup on. So, no, there’s was not even a little chance to catch me dead with that hideous orange lipstick while sleeping. “This is not mine. So I need you to start explaining to me right now what is it.”

             
I was not shouting, for the first time I learned the advantages of being murderous quiet. My low voice was even creepier. He stared at his watch, came to me, took my face in his hands and kissed the top of my head. “I have to go, now.” No explanation, no arguing, no shouting. But I didn’t miss the way he was avoiding my eyes. His jaw was clenched and his fists were tightly closed.
You are guilty.
I guessed I had my answer then.

             
Collecting the little dignity I had left, I took a shower, got dressed and called Joe. “Joe I’m starving and Mrs. Danvers will get here in one hour. I’ve already called to Batter & Berries and they are waiting for you with my food. Would you pick it up?” The moment he accepted, I stared at the window until he left.

             
Feeling like shit for betraying my Joe, I carried my bags, turned for the last time to see the foyer I once found so marvelous, and closed the door behind me. I left the building and asked the concierge for a taxi. “You want me to call your driver ma’am?”

             
“I am meeting him in the restaurant, he had to go in advance so I didn’t lose the reservation.” Since I was a teenager I had the ability to lie with no remorse. When you shut off your emotions it is easy not to be affected by practical lies. Yes, I’ve also watched Discovery ID and I know that is sociopath behavior, whatever.

             
With more anger than sorrow, and with a destroyed pride I walked through the airport. Never removing my sunglasses, I approached the counter. Every now and then I turned to see if someone was following, but I knew Dylan had an important meeting so at least he was not going to be around. “Good morning. I need a ticket for your next flight to New York.”

             
After a quick buying process, I noticed the young man in the counter was staring at me suspiciously. Probably wondering why someone would wear sunglasses inside. “May I ask you a favor?”

             
“Of course, what can I do for you?”

             
“My ex-boyfriend may come asking for me. I really need to leave without anyone knowing about it. Could you forget I bought a ticket?”

             
The concern in his eyes was obvious, but he was kind and I was a young lady asking for help. “Of course, I’ve got it covered.”

             
With the most sincere smile I could form I thanked him and walked to my gate. The plane would leave in an hour and a half, and those would be the worst and longest ninety minutes of my life. I was seated straight in the chair, my hair in perfect shape, a beige trench coat, my knees closed and my legs in a perfect 90° angle with my nude Loubis.

             
I seemed perfect, no one knew that under my Dior oversized sunglasses, I started crying the moment ‘Beautiful War’ by Kings of Leon played over the airport sound system. It was obvious to me why I was so emotionally closed, because I always hated feeling. I didn’t know what to do with emotions, and I hated being vulnerable. All of them endearing characteristics that were displaying in that moment. I had become what I feared the most, tears behind pearls and Chanel, the cross of Upper East Side.

             
This time everything was different, this was not Meredith flirting in his office when I didn’t have any right over him. Or all those women who came to him every time looking for his attention. He was mine now, I deserved an explanation. That’s why I asked, any other time I would have left. But now HE.WAS.MINE. And I asked. He didn’t answer.

             
That was the painful part, he didn’t deny it, he didn’t explain. I was making an effort, he was making an effort. But people don’t change, he we has used to the options. He just grabbed what was close when he needed it.

             
You just have the flight to continue this crying parade princess.
Once again I made an emotional budget. I was going to suffer and feel pity for myself for the entire flight, and then it was over. No more Dylan Berkeley, no more feelings.

             
I convinced myself that he never really wanted me. He was attracted to the idea of having the impossible woman. To get another victory and another challenge in his bag. But the original plan got messed up after the accident. He felt pity for me and the “knight complex”, men learn in their football classes, forced him to save me. Once he got me, I had no chance to keep him. And that bitch was there to pick up whatever he could give.

             
Absolutely exhausted I opened my apartment’s door and met a figure dropped on the floor against my couch. With his tie in his hand, no jacket, and his sleeves rolled up, Dylan Berkeley was waiting for me. But this was the last time. I promised it to myself. “Do you really think I wouldn’t come for you?”

             
The opened buttons in the neck of his shirt and the way his hair was unraveled, as if he had passed his hand over it a thousand times, made him seemed drained too. “Please leave my house.”

             
“You can’t run from me, Katherine.” He started standing and taking his usual menacing posture. His voice was harsh and angry.
Asshole!
But I was the one angry, the one disappointed, so there was no chance for him to win this.

             
“I am free. I can leave and I can hide whenever I want. And certainly I can run, that’s exactly what I am doing. Running. So yes Dylan, I can fucking run.”

             
“No, you can’t.”

             
“Why?”

             
“You can’t run because you made me love you!”
Fuck.
No, not those words. I didn’t realize how much I wanted to hear those words until that moment. But not like this, not while I was sending him to hell.

             
Breathe, think, control.
I felt the tears wanting to flow, but I was not going to be that woman. “What was that woman doing in your bed?” I was pointing with my finger harder than what I wanted.

             
He looked to the sky and I prepared myself to receive the punch in the gut that I knew was coming. “I fired her yesterday.”
Whaaaaaat?

             
So you can fuck her ethically?
“What?” This time the question came out of my mouth.

             
He sat on the couch and covered his eyes with his hand. “She was the one stealing the money. I found out and fired her. When I got home she was in my room, completely drunk.  She wanted me to take her back.”

             
“She threw herself at you.” I said more to myself than to him, but it was not a question, I knew it.

             
He just nodded, it seemed as if he was in real pain telling me this. “I called her mother. When I came back she was passed out in my bed and I left her there until her driver came to pick her up.”

             
He extended his arm trying to grab my hand. But I crossed my arms. “Don’t touch me.” I was way too vulnerable to allow any proximity. “How are you feeling?” Shaking his head he snorted at my stubbornness.  “About Tamara.”

             
“Disgusted, betrayed. I didn’t call the police because of her parents. I thought she was my friend.”

             
She wanted to be more than his friend. “Did she need money?”

             
He shook his head again. “Attention. She started with it the day she met you.”
Fuck, that woman is mental!
He pulled his hair, getting angry again. “Now can you fucking explain to me why you left without Joe?”

             
This was going to end, right there. “Dylan, if I’m not fucking you I don’t have to keep Joe!” He hadn’t explained to me why Joe had been following me even when we were not together. And if we were finishing whatever we had, I wanted answers. “What’s your problem with Joe following me?”

             
“Because my parents’ death was not an accident! And I prefer to be dead than to let anything happen to you!!!” He shouted, scaring the hell out of me.

             
Fuck!
I evened my voice to get him into normal mode again. “I was fine by myself before you, and I’ll still be after you.”

             
Apparently calmness was not what he was searching, because his jaw clenched and his eyes got darker. “Why, Katherine? Why are you like this?”

             
So now all this was about me. “How?”

             
“Fucking closed!”

             
I just chuckled. “You are really waiting for a deep explanation right? No Dylan, I have never suffered, not a day in my life. This is who I am, this is how you met me. I am just not willing to fit myself into the shape everyone wants of me. I don’t need to!” When I found the pain in his eyes, something broke in me. “And I’ve never been hurt, I don’t think I could survive it, so I won’t let anyone hurt me.”
Yet, this is the second time this boy has broken your heart.

             
He came to me and grabbed one of my hands in his; when I tried to remove it, he grabbed it harder. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just want you to fight instead of run.”

             
My voice came low and insecure. “I have never fought for anything.”

             
His eyes burned in mine. “You just fight for what you want Katherine. The question is, how much do you want me?”
Am I worth the fight?
The question was implied and his eyes were begging me for assurance.

             
I knew the answer, I had known it for a while. Days ago I had done the willing purpose of being with him. But I was hurt, I knew it wasn’t his fault, but I had worked my mind for hours, convincing myself of how he had hurt me. “This has been a really long day Dylan, we’ll talk tomorrow.”

             
Knowing the discussion was over he pulled me to my room. “What are you doing?” I yanked out of his reach.

             
“I am staying here. There’s no way I will let you distance yourself from me.” He took my face between his hands. “I am not letting you close me down. I’ll be damn if I let you build your walls again.”

             
Pushing his hands, I backed away from his arms. “I am not sleeping with you tonight.”

             
“Fair enough. But I am staying.” For the first time since I could remember, I didn’t know how to react to him. So I just nodded and walked away. Confusion invaded me, my head wanted something and my heart something else. In my world, my head always wins, but heart was putting up a damn good fight.

             
According to my usual habit, that night I made lists in my mind until I fell asleep. I listed the reasons why we were wrong for each other. How our flaws hurt the other, and why we couldn’t keep this thing between us. Yes, the “Lipstick Gate” was a misunderstanding, but it was just the little drop that made the whole cup explode.

             
Chapter 8

             
“Wake up doll.” The voice was so far, I must had been dreaming.

             
“Saturday, no work.” The incoherent mumble came out of my mouth, my own brain was trying to explain to myself that I didn’t have to wake up.

             
A pair of warm, soft lips touched mine. “I know, but I need you to get ready. Come on.”

             
I am pretty sure that in 49 states, it is not a crime to murder someone if they wake you up before 7 am on a Saturday. “What?” My brain couldn’t form a coherent question, but my “what the fuck” look said it all.