Wounded Birds (The Grayson Series Book 1) (12 page)

I collapse on my hands and knees, feeling the walls around me crumbling down, leaving behind nothing but dust and my heart ripped in two. Through hiccupping breaths, I crawl my way to the bed and ease my way up, clutching my hands over my aching stomach.

I turn my iPod on and “Always” by Jon Bon Jovi echoes throughout my room adding acid to my already wounded heart. I slide under the covers, curl up in a fetal position and burst into tears crying myself to sleep with heart-wrenching pain slicing through every cell in my body.

Chapter 9

How Did He See Me

I’m startled out of a deep sleep from the blasting sound of my alarm clock. I hit the snooze button, almost knocking it off the nightstand.

I stretch, sensing all the aches and pains, my eyes puffy. The bump over my temple is still tender to the touch, but smaller.

Memories of last night began to surface along with shame, which is coursing through me like bacteria infecting my cells. What possessed me to show him my scars? My thoughts go awry, and I’m once again hit with the anger, resentment, and bitterness that overwhelmed me. How could Michael have thought so low of me?

I so was close to letting him explain, but my stubbornness got in the way. This is for the best, I try to convince myself. He needed to take a step back. He was hovering over me like a hawk. I no longer have to deal with his dominating, overprotective personality. He was such a control freak.

So why does it hurt so much? How come there is a huge hole in my gut, even after he acted like a raving lunatic. I can still hear his loathing and hateful words repeatedly in my mind, stinging me like a swarm of bees deep into my heart and soul. I stare at the ceiling, blinking the tears away, wishing the pain would dissipate.

After all these years of never trusting men, fearing them, never wanting to get close or intimate, I finally meet one who’s brought me back to life, one who makes me at ease and comfortable, and he turns out to be a suspicious, disbelieving, arrogant jackass.

My alarm goes off again. I glance at the time, eight thirty. I can’t believe how long I slept. I needed the sleep anyway. I slink out of bed and take a shower and get dressed.

I walk into the kitchen and find Tina standing at the glass doors, pushing her loose, wavy hair behind her shoulders. She slides her phone into her back pocket of her soft faded jeans that match her navy blue sweater. She turns greeting me with a beautiful smile, and eyes the color of emeralds, resembling Michael’s.

God, I forgot about her. How did she get in? I was out cold last night.

“Good morning, Ariana,” Tina greets me with her lovely smile.

“Good morning, Tina, how did you get into the apartment? I was passed out,” I ask her kindly.

“Mr. Grayson was waiting for me downstairs.” She walks over to the foyer and picks up a set of keys. “Here, my dear, Mr. Grayson asked me to give these to you.” She smiles.

“Thank you,” I mutter, staring at them, gripping them hard in my hand, feeling the sharp edges pierce painfully into the palm of my skin like Michael’s words. He must have taken them with him after he left and waited until Tina arrived. I’m slammed with regret, but then his words slash across my heart like shards of glass. “The hell with him,” I mutter to myself.

“Melinda Candles phoned earlier to speak with you. I told her you were sleeping. She said she has a family emergency and will be away for a few weeks.”

“Of course, I hope everything is all right,” I say with concern.

“Would you like breakfast, dear?” she offers, washing the glass that held my brandy from yesterday.

“No, thank you. I’m going to make muffins. You’re welcome to join me,” I offer.

“Oh, no, thank you, my dear. I’ve already eaten.”

“Tina, you don’t need to stay. You can leave if you’d like. I’m feeling so much better now,” I say, reassuring her.

“Mr. Grayson would not be happy if I left you alone to attend to your breakfast,” she replies.

I sense her uneasiness. Does he intimidate everyone? “You let me worry about him. Trust me, it’s Sunday, and I’m sure your husband would be delighted to have you home.”

“Well, are you sure?” She blushes.

“I insist. Please go spend the day with your sweetheart.”

“Thank you, Ariana,” she says graciously.

***

Tina left about an hour ago. A cold breeze circles around me, making me shiver as I walk out onto the terrace. I rush back in and grab a sweater. I sit on one of the lounge chairs, letting the sun bathe me with its warm rays. I take a slow sip of my hot cocoa and indulge in a sweet-tasting banana nut muffin; I baked just less than an hour ago.

I close my eyes and the box of chocolate flashes before me. I shiver at the thought. I don’t think I’ll ever look at a truffle the same way again. I take another sip from my drink and shake my head in disgust.

My cell phone rings startling me. I read the caller ID, and my heart jumps in excitement; it’s Joanne.

Joanne and I met at the television studio through Blake. We bonded instantly. Joanne hosts all the top restaurants throughout the world. She’s a petite blonde, full of life and feisty as hell. She, too, lives in Manhattan, in downtown Battery Park. We don’t get to see each other often due to the crazy travel schedules. But, when we’re both back home, we paint the town red. We drag Blake and Francis out with us, have dinner and hit a few of the nightclubs to dance all night long, or until we have blisters on our feet.

“Joanne,” I answer.

“Hey, Ariana, sorry I didn’t call sooner. How are you?”

Just hearing her voice makes me want to cry, spill my guts and heart out to her, but I don’t want to worry Joanne. I wish she and Blake were here, but then how do I explain the psychotic lunatic that’s taunting me and Michael’s vicious words and accusations?

“I’m fabulous. I’m sitting out on my terrace drinking hot cocoa and indulging in a homemade banana nut muffin,” I say sounding excited, pretending everything is peaches and cream.

“A little bird told me about your date with Mr. Wonderful. So . . . how is prince charming?” She asks teasingly.

I grunt with disgust. “He is the biggest pompous ass I’ve ever met. I’d rather not discuss him at the moment.”

“I think this is the fastest you sent a man running for the hills.” Joanne laughs.

Joanne and I speak for over an hour catching up on her trips and not once do I mention the stalker. I do, however, give her the details of my lunch date with Michael and tell her that I wasn’t feeling it. He was too bossy.

I disconnect the call and glance at the time. Oh, crap. I need to get to the polo game; I rush up, and the chair screeches across the slates, and I go hunt for my bag and keys. As I reach the elevator, the telephone rings.

I hurry toward the phone, and “unknown number” displays on the caller ID. My stomach begins to turn inside out. Instead of answering, I decide to wait, tapping my fingers nervously against the kitchen counter. After the last ring, the machine kicks on to record.

“Hello, baby doll, why were you sitting outside all by your lonesome when you could be with me?”
Click
.

My heart stops, causing the blood to drain south. Sweat begins to seep through my skin. How the hell did he see me? I’m on a penthouse balcony. Is he in the apartment? Is he hiding somewhere? No . . . that’s impossible, but what if it isn’t and he’s been here the whole night watching me sleep. My chest begins to tighten, constraining the airflow to my lungs. I clutch my hands against my rib cage to ease the pain.
Stop it, Ariana, you're losing control. You would have sensed it.
I scold myself.

I stare at the terrace, wondering if he’s going to appear from thin air. I hear my heart thrusting through my ears, and with a little courage, I bolt toward the French doors, and shut them with urgency. My hands are shaking so furiously I have trouble locking them. After numerous attempts, I finally get them locked. I immediately close the drapes in a hasty rush and lean up against the doors, hands on my knees as my heart pounds hard against my chest, breathing heavy.

I’m startled when the sound of the phone booms through the room. Oh, no, I can’t deal with this. This man is going to give me a mental breakdown.

I push myself off the doors in a heated rush, retrieving my purse and keys, only to have them plunge to the floor, and scatter across the kitchen. The keys slide under one of the stools. I fall to the cold marble floor on my hands and knees; picking everything up and tossing them back in the tote with flustered hands.

The machine answers, and this time its Michael. “Ariana, please answer the phone. I know you just received a call from this asshole. Trent called me. Hello. . . Ariana, pick up, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I want to explain, please. We need to talk.” There is a long pause. “Fine. If you don’t want to answer, I’ll call your cell phone. I’ll stop by your office, your apartment, but I won’t stop until you listen to what I have to say.” He hangs up, anger seeping through his tone.

I shut my damn machine off. I refuse to listen to any calls from this lunatic or Michael. I put my cell phone on vibrate, as well. I’m not ready to speak with Michael or anyone else at the moment. I need to pull myself together and stop the shaking.

The valet retrieves my IS 350 Lexus convertible. I pull out and head for the midtown tunnel. I turn the radio on, and Sade
is
belting out “No Ordinary Love” in her glorious voice. I breeze through the Long Island Expressway without any traffic, which is a miracle.

A powerful, burning sensation grips my heart as Michael’s vicious, poisonous words continue to repeat over in my mind. Tears begin to cloud my vision. One hand wrapped tight around the steering wheel, and the other clutching my stomach to stop the ache.

An unexplained emptiness carves into my inner soul as thoughts of never seeing Michael again begins to pain my heart. I don’t understand why when his hurtful words stabbed me like a knife, slicing me to shreds.

“Ahhh!” I need to stop thinking about him. I brush the tears away from behind my sunglasses. I need to be positive, to concentrate, to stay focused, and enjoy the drive to the polo game and forget about the schmuck, getting lost in the music.

The convertible top is down, and the sun is showering me with its warm glow against my skin. I have to be strong, keep myself busy, and forget about Michael and the deranged stalker.

I turn on my Bluetooth. My iPhone kicks in, blasting music out from the surround-sound system. I lose myself to the tune of “One Less Bell to Answer” by the 5th Dimension. The words hit home, sending a cramping sensation through my torso, compressing my heart so tight it feels as though it stops pumping.

I sing and cry as I cruise down the expressway, the fresh, crisp air whipping through my hair, the sun bursting with joy from the heavens, glimmering over the earth with brilliance. Just when I thought, I had one extra egg to fry . . . Well; the actual lyric to the song is ‘One less egg to fry’. “What a joke,” I mutter to myself.

Damn this man. I can’t stop thinking about him. The bastard. I hate how he gets under my skin, heating my blood with an undying want. This is insane. I click another song on and “Meant To Be” by Later Days screams out from the speakers. Ahhh!

I glance at the upcoming ramp, watching a swarm of vehicles veering toward that direction. I gasp. “Holy crap,” I yell out. I’m on Sunrise Highway, one exit before the Hamptons to get to my house. Damn, how the hell did that happen?

Michael. What other reason would explain my brain malfunction? I was so deep in thought, wallowing in my own depression that I passed the exit an hour ago. Shit, another polo game I missed. Well, at least there’s one game left before the season ends.

Since I’m out here, I might as well go pay a visit to Blake since he, and Francis are at my summer home for the weekend. I hit my call button on my steering wheel.

“Hello, Ariana, are you okay?” Blake asks.

I remember Michael’s words.
Everything happens for a reason
. I guess this is the reason why I’m here. God knew I needed comforting, and who better than Blake. Thank you, God!

“I’m bewildered. Help me out. I was heading to the park for the polo game, and I found myself in the Hamptons. I’m around the corner, come out because I need a hug.” I hang up.

I turn into a secluded street. I make a left and drive down a long driveway encircled by trees and evergreens. I’m granted a view of a two-story red-brick house with pillars snuggled on a hill overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.

I pull in front of the house and jump out. I get a glimpse of Francis, who waves hello at me and throws me a kiss and then kisses Blake before they part.

Blake rushes over, and he stops dead in his tracks. His eyes are narrow with a suspicious look to them. The man appears taller than six feet and has a pure, masculine physique. His face is a work of art with beautiful, enchanting chocolate-brown eyes and well-defined cheekbones, which emphasize his Native American heritage.

“Ariana, what happened?” he snaps out and places his right hand on my shoulder as his left hand reaches for my temple. With excellent care, he brushes over it and winces; his eyebrow's crease and lips turn into a thin hard-line. Blake looks down at me waiting for an answer.

“I hit my head on the edge of the bed and floor.” I breathe out. “It’s a long story.”

He shakes his head. “Oh, Ariana, how bad is it?” He asks with a genuine concern.

“It’s nothing serious; I may have a mild concussion. I came here for a hug, so where is it?”