What He Explores (What He Wants, Book Twenty-One) (3 page)

“What he wanted out of me?” she asked, and now her face was draining white.
“Yes! Sex, ever heard of it?”

“Charlotte!” Noah said sharply.

“Oh. Right.” My mother was shredding the pretzel wrapper in her hands now, ripping it into long ribbons which fell to the sidewalk, catching the wind and flying away. She bit her lip. “The thing is, Don might have wanted something more from me than sex.”

“Like money?” I asked. I found it hard to believe some man would go out of his way to sleep with mother, to wine and dine her just to steal whatever money she had in her purse. It seemed a bit over the top and convoluted. Unless he was a certain kind of man, the kind who was young and hot and preyed on older women and took the couple hundred dollars they kept in their purses because it seemed like a lot of money to them. “How old was this man?” I demanded. “Was he younger than you?”

“No, Charlotte, he wasn’t younger than me. I’m not some kind of cougar.” She looked offended that I would imply such a thing, like the fact that she’d had a clandestine affair that had left her shoeless on the streets of New York City wasn’t bad enough.

“What did he want from you, Pamela?” Noah asked. I caught the very faintest into of irritation in his voice, as if my mother’s act was finally starting to wear thin.

Welcome to my world,
I thought.

“You have to promise not to get mad.” She was looking at Noah, not at me.

“I won’t get mad,” Noah said, sighing.

I stayed quiet, just waiting for her to drop whatever bomb she was about to drop.

“I think…” She took in a deep breath. “I think Don wanted a story from me.”

“What kind of story?” I asked, frowning. I glanced up at Noah and I saw a flash of anger in his eyes as a vein in his neck began to throb.

“What was the man’s name, Pamela?” Noah asked.

“Don.”

“Don what?” Noah demanded.

“Don Pearlman.” My mother’s eyes were wide with fear now. “Please don’t be upset,” she whispered, still looking at Noah. But why would Noah have been upset with her?

Don Pearlman.

The name sounded familiar.

“Don Pearlman…” I started. “Why do I know that name?”

“Don Pearlman is a columnist for the New York Standard,” Noah said, his voice hard and raw.

My heart caught in my chest. The New York Standard. The trashiest paper in the city. There was no way that Don Pearlman could have wanted anything from my mother except for a story. A story about
me.

“What did you tell him?” I asked. I was surprised at how calm I sounded, how completely in control, while the anger inside of me was so white hot I was afraid it would burn me from the inside out.

“Nothing!” she said. “Just… he was concerned about you, Charlotte.”

“He wasn’t concerned about me!” I yelled. “He doesn’t even know me. What the hell did you tell him?” The rage inside of me began to boil over as I started to lose control of my emotions. I was afraid I might slap her again.

A woman walked by holding a bag filled with oranges, glancing at us curiously. But someone raising their voice at the farmer’s market was nothing compared to the scandalous things that took place on a daily basis in New York City, and my little outburst earned me nothing more than a tiny frown as the woman hurried by.

“I told you, nothing really!” my mother said, smoothing down her ruined dressed. “I just mentioned about the fight you had with Noah, and about the fight you had with me.”

“Did you tell him I hit you?” I asked.

She looked away, staring down at the sidewalk, her eyes running over the last shredded ribbon of pretzel wrapper that remained on the sidewalk, the rest having been carried away by the slight breeze that had kicked up while we’d been standing there.

“I told him it was just a fight,” she said quietly. “The kind of thing mothers and daughters get into all the time.”

Noah gripped me tightly, trying to steady me as I struggled to keep it together. The implications of what she’d just done hit me like a brick. She’d told a reporter from what was, essentially, a tabloid, that I’d hit her. My own mother.

It would fit perfectly into the narrative the police would try to spin about how I’d killed Dr. Cartwright. They’d point to it as evidence of my anger issues, of my inability to hold my emotions inside of me. A girl who would physically assault her own mother would be capable of anything.

My anger was hotter than ever, but Noah gave me a warning look.

Don’t give her anything else. No more of your thoughts, your energy, and no more ammunition. Nothing else she can use against you.

So as much as it pained me to do it, I summoned all of my self-control and said nothing.

“Pamela,” Noah said. “We will get you some new shoes. And then it will be time for you to go home.”

W
e drove
her to Grand Central, bought her a ticket home from one of the automatic kiosks, then waited with her downstairs in the food court until her train came.

She claimed to be starving, even though she’d just eaten pretzel, and so Noah got her some teriyaki chicken and rice, which she washed down with an extra large Diet Coke.

“And my purse and my phone?” she asked as we walked up the wide stairs that led to the main concourse. “You’ll get them back for me?”

“Yes,” Noah said. “They will be sent to your house.”

While my mother was eating, Noah had stepped a few feet away from us and made a call. The train station was busy, and I hadn’t been able to hear his side of the conversation, but when he returned to the table, he told my mother that her phone and purse would be mailed to her, with all her money and credit cards intact.

“What should I tell your stepfather?” my mom asked me now. “About where my things are? And my shoes?” She looked down at her feet, which were now encased with a pair of bright purple sneakers Noah had found at a Payless across the street. I appreciated Noah’s tiny gesture of defiance– he could have chosen any kind of shoes in the world, and yet he’d gotten my mom something she would never wear again, something that looked almost more ridiculous than if she’d stayed in her slippers.

We were walking onto the platform now, and the air around us became thick and humid, like a heavy blanket you couldn’t quite shake.

“I don’t know what you should tell him,” I said and shrugged. “Tell him you were mugged.”

The train pulled into the station, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I couldn’t wait for her to get the hell out of there.

“Okay, well,” she said. “I guess this is goodbye.”

“I guess so,” I said.

“Goodbye, Pamela,” Noah said brusquely.

My mother made a move to hug me, but I pulled back. “Bye, Mom.”

She opened her mouth like she was going to say something. It was going to be something smart and rude – I could tell from the way her eyes were crinkling and the way her lips were puckering. But Noah took a step forward and put his hand on my arm protectively, telegraphing a message to my mother:
I’m being respectful, but if you mess with Charlotte, I will not be.

“Okay, well. I’ll call you.” She smoothed her wrinkled dress down over her stomach, fluffed her bangs with her right hand, then stepped off the track and onto the train. I stood there, unable to look away, watching as she moved through the car to the back, until a man wearing a black fedora sat down a few rows in front of her, blocking her from view.

I turned around and walked down the track back toward the concourse. The air was making it hard to breathe, and I felt that same sensation I’d had back at the apartment, like I couldn’t take in a full breath, like the oxygen was catching on something in my throat and keeping it from reaching my lungs.

When I stepped onto the concourse, the busy sounds and bustling energy of Grand Central assaulted my senses, and emotion welled in my chest. Betrayal, sadness, hatred, for what she’d done to me.

A strangled cry escaped my lips and then he was there, like he always was, his arms wrapping around my waist and pulling me close, his hands stroking my hair, his mouth murmuring the words I needed to hear, that it would be okay, that he was there, that he would take care of me.

“Why, Noah?” I asked. “Why would she do something like that to me?”

“Because she’s riddled with insecurity,” Noah said. “And she wants to feel important.”

“Why?” I asked again. I sounded like a child, repeating the same thing over and over again, demanding answers. And I
felt
like a child, not able to understand and feeling helpless about it.

“Because someone made her feel small,” he said simply.

I pulled back from him, not realizing I’d been crying until I saw the smudges my tears had left on his shirt. “Oh no,” I said. “I ruined your expensive shirt.”

“It’s just a shirt, Charlotte.” His voice was still measured, his tone perfectly controlled.

“How can you sound so…” I shook my head. “I mean, aren’t you upset that she did that? Now there’s going to be a story about us in the paper.”

Noah’s dark eyes burned. “I am furious that she upset you. But to show her a reaction would have only made things worse, and would only served to upset you more.”

He was right. Now that my mother was gone, the thought of Noah yelling at her or giving her a hard time didn’t make me feel better. It would have only escalated things, like throwing kerosene on a tiny campfire.

“Thank you,” I said to him now.

He nodded. “I will never, ever let anything bad happen to you. Do you understand that, Charlotte?”

I nodded, my eyes filling with tears, only this time the emotion was for Noah. I was so grateful to have him by my side that the feeling welled up in my chest, almost overwhelming.

“I love you,” he whispered and kissed me softly. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too so much,” I said, and he grinned.

“You have had a very rough day, baby. We need to get you home and get you into the bath. I will make you dinner. “ He leaned in close to me, pressing his lips to my neck before tilting his face and whispering into my ear. “And then I will take you to bed.”

Anticipation skipped up my spine. “To bed?” I asked.

“Yes, baby. To bed. And it will hurt, Charlotte. It will hurt so good.”

A warm ache settled between my legs and I pulled back, slipping my hand into his. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”

We turned around and began to make our way toward the main exit of the train station, to where Noah’s car was parked on 42
^nd
Street.

And that was when I spotted her.

Bella.

The girl from the diner we’d gone to earlier in Queens, the one I’d followed into the back of the restaurant, the one who’d had a tattoo of Lameuix’s name on her back. The one whose pictures had been on Ryan Aqualino’s phone.

“Hey,” I said to Noah. “Isn’t that Bella?”

We watched as she began to talk to a man wearing a leather jacket. He had a green fatigue backpack slung over his shoulder and he was tapping his foot on the ground. His eyes darted around the train station nervously.

Bella, on the other hand, looked completely relaxed. She was leaning back against the wall casually, one leg bent at the knee, the heel of her high black boot resting against the wall behind her as she stared down at her phone.

She looked very different than she had earlier. Earlier she’d been wearing minimal make-up – some lip gloss, maybe a slick of mascara.

Now her makeup was layered on, her eyes dark and smoky, her lips lined with a bright red lipstick. She wore a pair of tight black shorts and a crop top under a black leather jacket, her hair loose around her shoulders.

She finished sending a text, then slid her phone the rhinestone clutch she was holding.

The guy with the backpack was still glancing around furtively.

“What is she doing?” I asked as the two of them began to head for the stairs that led to the other side of the station, toward track 39.

Noah and I glanced at each other, and then, without saying anything, Noah grabbed my hand and pulled me along as we began to follow them.

But before they reached the track, the two of them doubled back and began to head down the stairs toward the food court. I struggled to keep up with Noah’s long strides as he headed down the steps after them.

We almost lost them at the bottom of the stairs. They were walking fast, and the station was crowded, and they were almost swallowed up in the throng of people.

But a second later Noah spotted them slipping into a men’s bathroom with a yellow CAUTION, DO NOT ENTER -- WET FLOOR sign propped in front of it.

There was only one reason Bella would be taking a shady looking guy into a men’s bathroom.

“I thought she only did this kind of thing for certain kinds of clients,” I said, remembering what Bella has said at the diner.

“Right,” Noah said, sighing as he barreled past me into the bathroom, practically knocking over the Wet Floor sign.

“Hey hey,” a bathroom attendant said to us as we walked in. He was standing in front of the sink in a blue janitor outfit, his dark hair long and shaggy around his ears. “Sorry, this bathroom is closed.”

“The fuck it is,” Noah said, elbowing him out of the way as he pushed his way into the bathroom. The doors to the stalls were closed, and Noah kicked them open one by one.

“What the fuck,” the guy Bella had been with exclaimed as the door to the last stall went flying open. His pants were down around his ankles, and he held his limp dick in his hand. I looked away in disgust.

“What the
fuck,”
Noah said, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him out of the stall, “is that you better get the hell out of here before I beat your ass.”

The guy zipped up his pants and grabbed his backpack, shouldered it and ran out of the bathroom.

“Ricky!” Bella yelled after him. “Wait!” But it was too late. He was gone. She turned back to Noah. “What the hell did you do that for?” she asked. “This is none of your business.”

I noticed she sounded different than how she’d sounded at the diner. Her words were slurred slightly, and I wondered if perhaps she was drunk. Then I realized her lipstick was smudged and her bottom lip was swollen, like someone had punched her.