Unforgiven Read online

  “You’re not getting married for months. I think you’ll be fine if you have some chips and dip, Reagan.” What is it with these women and obsessing about their weight?

  “You try to squeeze into that fitted wedding gown and tell me if you’d put a crockpot of melted cheese in your mouth,” she jokes with me, then starts pulling jars and packages from her shopping bag.

  “Do you have a platter?” she asks as she starts flinging open cupboard doors and searching for one.

  “In the cabinet above the fridge.” I reach above and pull down the large, wooden platter.

  “Perfect!” She claps her hands together. “I’m putting together an amazing antipasti tray.”

  “Dudes don’t eat antipasti when they watch football!” Landon bellows as he comes around the corner.

  “These dudes are eating antipasti,” I say with a laugh when I see the look of death Reagan just gave him. I open a bottle of beer and take a long pull.

  “Maybe some of the other guys will eat antipasti—and appreciate it,” Reagan says, glaring at Landon as she arranges cuts of meat, cheese, olives, and peppers on the tray. Landon and I both start laughing. She stands back from the tray she was just arranging and places both hands on her hips and shakes her head in disgust at us.

  “This is a party! You need more than ruffle chips and onion dip.”

  “Babe, we’re just giving you a hard time. We’ll eat your antipasti,” Landon says, pressing a kiss to her temple, a sign of peace. He nods his head toward the living room, and we leave Reagan in the kitchen to do what she does best when we get together—make food and force us to eat it.

  Landon and I take our usual seats on the leather couch and I turn on the surround sound. The pre-game show roars to life on the TV; the Panthers are playing the Steelers and, as usual, this should be a good game.

  “Did you want to get tickets for a home game again this season?” Landon asks. It’s been our “guys’ weekend” every year for the last five years. We spend the weekend in Charlotte and catch a Panthers’ home game and visit some of the guys we used to work with that now live there.

  “Hell yeah. Wouldn’t miss it.” The sound of my cell phone ringing interrupts our planning.

  “Need to get that?” he asks, eyeing the ringing phone on the coffee table.

  “Nah, just going to let it go to voicemail.” He looks at me skeptically.

  “It’s not Lindsay; she has a different ringtone.” He nods his head and takes a long pull on his beer. “I did talk to her last week, though. She told me to let you know she’s sorry she hasn’t called. She’s been busy.”

  “Busy?” he scoffs. “I haven’t heard from her since she called right after she arrived. I’ve left her voice messages and text messages and, quite frankly, I’m pissed off,” he snaps at me.

  “She’s adjusting,” I remind him. I can’t believe I’m actually making excuses for her. “She didn’t sound good, honestly. She sounded tired and emotional.”

  “Emotional? That’s not like her,” Reagan interrupts as she comes into the living room from the kitchen, carrying a bowl of Doritos.

  “I know. We only talked for about a minute before she cut me off.” I feel guilty for not having told Landon and Reagan about our conversation earlier.

  “So you called her?” Reagan asks as she arranges the magazines on the coffee table into a neat pile as she moves our beers to the center of the table.

  “I did,” I admit humbly. “I had to,” I whisper.

  “What time is it there?” Landon asks, reaching for his phone. You can hear the agitation in his voice.

  “Three hours behind us, babe,” Reagan reminds him. “But you’re not calling her right now, so put the phone away. You’re angry and if she’s having a hard time, you being upset with her isn’t going to help. Let’s watch the game, relax, and maybe we’ll all call her later. Put her on speakerphone. We’ll make it a light-hearted call, tell her we all miss her, and to call us when she has time. You know, keep it short and sweet, and pleasant.” She raises her eyebrows at Landon and plasters a stiff smile on her face. Landon and I both nod before turning back to the football game on the TV.

  Other friends from the police department have stopped by to catch the game and even my brother dropped by for a short bit. I will admit the company was nice and reminded me of old times, having everyone over. Reagan is in the kitchen, cleaning up, and Landon and I catch the game highlights on ESPN.

  “What’s this?” Landon grabs a magazine off my coffee table.

  “Travel magazine.”

  “Are you taking a trip?”

  “Nah. I had ordered it before Lindsay left. I had thought about seeing if she wanted to take a short European vacation this fall.”

  “She would have loved that. She always talked about going to Europe. You know she’s never left the country, right?”

  “I know—something about flying over water.” I laugh.

  “Speaking of Lindsay now that things have calmed down, should we call her?” Reagan asks as she sneaks back in the room and pulls her phone from her back pocket. She clicks the speakerphone function and grabs the remote from the coffee table, muting the TV. The phone rings three times, then a fourth before it finally clicks and we all hear the muffled sounds of Lindsay and another man. Reagan shoves the phone back in her pocket and offers me a sympathetic look before excusing herself to the kitchen.

  “Matt?” I can hear Landon trying to get my attention, but I can’t focus on anything right now. Landon and I sit in silence as every thought imaginable runs through my head.

  I’m not sure how long I sat lost in visions of another man with Lindsay. My ears fill to the sound of blood rushing to my head. I remember very little, other than Landon pulling me off the wall I was punching holes into. Everything happened in a blur. Reagan is holding ice on my hand. Time ceased to exist for a matter of moments, or maybe hours. I now know that I believe in nothing I thought I believed in when it came to Lindsay and me. Is this what hatred feels like? I feel nothing but anger and rage, and I want nothing more than to kill the male voice on the end of that phone line.

  There’s a knock at the door, but before I make it over to open it, it flies open, and Jonah lets himself in. Carrying a square, pink box, he sets it on the kitchen island and gives me a little whistle.

  “You look stunning, Lindsay,” he remarks as my cheeks redden. I threw on a dark gray silk tank dress and paired it with large, yellow jewelry. It’s different, but fun for summer. I paired it with a pair of open-toe, tall-wedged shoes.

  “Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself.” I laugh. Again, I notice Jonah looks older than twenty-four, although his hair is still wild, but he’s styled it and he’s wearing a pair of tan dress pants and white pressed dress shirt, the sleeves rolled neatly.

  “What’s in the box?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation away from how I look. I spent an hour on my make-up, trying to bury the dark circles beneath my eyes under a layer of concealer. My hair is becoming dry and lifeless, so I spent another twenty minutes trying to blow it out so that it had some body. Arizona is sucking the life out of every part of me.

  “Cupcakes.” He smiles.

  “Cupcakes?”

  “Yeah. There is this bakery that makes the most amazing cupcakes. I thought maybe, after dinner, we could come back here and have cupcakes.”

  “Pretty bold of you, Mr. Murphy.” He blushes, rocking back on the heels of his feet; a sign of nervousness. I can’t help but laugh a little. He’s cute in a boyish way, and handsome in a grown-up way. He’s stuck somewhere in the middle.

  “Ready?” he asks as I reach for my purse.

  “Yep, let me just go grab my phone,” I say, remembering I left it charging on my nightstand in the bedroom. I turn on a lamp that sits on one of the end tables as I make my way to the bedroom to get my phone, shutting off other overhead lights as I go.

  I unplug my phone and toss the charger into my nightstand, noticing the pill bottle I
stashed away earlier. Just one, the devil that sits on my shoulder taunts me. It’ll help with your nerves. So, for good measure, I take two. I take one last look at myself in the full-length mirror and take a deep breath. “Let’s do this,” I whisper to myself.

  “So, where are we going?” I ask as I find Jonah waiting by the front door.

  “I made reservations at a new restaurant a few miles away. I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard great things.” He offers his arm for me to hold on to, and I accept it.

  The conversation is light and carefree as we drive the few miles to the restaurant. Jonah taps the leather-encased steering wheel of his Audi A8 as Dave Matthews sings through the speakers. I settle into the rich leather seats and watch Jonah navigate with ease the busy downtown Phoenix streets.

  The restaurant is quiet and dim and we’re at a small table that sits along floor-to-ceiling windows and overlooks a small outdoor patio seating area. It’s too hot, so no one is seated outside, even though misters blow cool water throughout the patio area. There are only a few other people in the restaurant, so we’re seated in a back corner away from others.

  “Wine?” Jonah asks as he scans the wine list.

  “Sure. White okay with you?”

  “Pinot Grigio?”

  “Perfect,” I tell him as I go back to scanning the menu. I don’t have much of an appetite and the pills I took before I left are kicking in. I’m finally starting to feel really good, less anxious. The waiter arrives, setting down a basket of breads and two glasses of ice water. While Jonah orders our wine, I sip from the glass of ice water that was just delivered in hopes of quelling my dry mouth.

  “Have you decided on dinner?” the waiter asks and Jonah looks at me. I nod and order first.

  “I’ll take the wedge salad please,” I tell the waiter and close the menu. Jonah shoots me a strange look and shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything before ordering himself the filet mignon. He flashes a genuine smile as the waiter leaves us alone. There is a moment of silence while Jonah just looks at me—studies me, as I study him in return. His eyes are telling; there is something he wants to say, but he’s not going to.

  “What?” I finally ask him.

  “Nothing. I just like looking at you.” He pulls a dinner roll from the breadbasket and sets it on the small plate in front of him.

  “There’s not much to look at,” I mumble under my breath and take a sip of my water.

  “Why so much self-hatred?” he asks as he pulls apart the bread. “I mean, from the moment I met you, Lindsay, you’re just so…” He pauses as he chooses the right word. “You’re so angry,” he says quietly. “From the outside, you have it all. You’re stunning. You have a new job, a kick-ass condo—”

  “Excuse me.” I choke on the water. “You really don’t know anything about me.”

  “Exactly. I want to, though, Lindsay. I want you to tell me why you’re so angry, and I want to see the funny Lindsay we talked about this morning.” I roll my eyes, more so out of habit, but also because I don’t want to share the ugly parts of me.

  “What do you want to know?” I ask, my voice flat.

  “What’s your favorite movie?”

  “Pitch Perfect.”

  He laughs.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask him.

  “Nothing. That’s a good answer,” he says and continues to chuckle.

  “What else?” I ask him, prompting him to move on.

  “What’s your favorite color?”

  “Gray.” His forehead scrunches together, seemingly not buying my answer.

  “What’s your favorite animal?”

  “I don’t have one. I’ve never had a pet.”

  “You’ve never had a pet?” I shake my head. I’m not about to get into my fucked up childhood with Jonah. I can barely take care of myself, let alone an animal.

  “Tell me about your dreams.” He twirls his empty wine glass while paying close attention to me.

  “My dreams?” I question him. “I don’t dream. I’m usually too tired.”

  “Not those dreams, Lindsay. The dreams you think about when you’re alone. When you catch yourself daydreaming. What do you want to do before you die? Those dreams.”

  Our waiter returns with the bottle of wine just in time. He uncorks the bottle and swishes a small amount in a glass for Jonah to taste. Jonah approves and the waiter fills our glasses and disappears just as quickly as he arrived.

  “So where were we?” he asks as he sips his wine. “Dreams.” He smiles across the table at me.

  “Dreams,” I repeat quietly. “I don’t know that I have any,” I tell him.

  “Oh, come on. Everyone has a dream, Lindsay.”

  “Well, then. Tell me one of yours?” I turn the tables on him. If I can keep him talking, I can avoid talking about me.

  “I want to be a charitable entrepreneur, but I don’t want to work in a stuffy little office. I want to travel to third-world countries and help those who don’t have medical care, or basic human needs—all while getting to see the world at the same time.”

  “That’s an amazing dream,” I admit. Here I thought he was just a little rich kid who liked to get high on Daddy’s money. He sips some more wine, and I play with the stem of my wine glass.

  “So what’s your dream, Lindsay?”

  I pick up the wine glass and press it to my lips, letting the cool white wine slide down my throat. It pools in my belly, spreading a warmth that starts in my abdomen and quickly spreads to my legs and arms.

  “It might sound funny, but I’ve always wanted a real family.” I toss back the rest of my glass of wine as his brown eyes pierce mine. He’s quiet as he watches me, and I shift in my seat nervously.

  “Then a real family is what you’ll have—if you want it badly enough.”

  The rest of dinner is less stressful. Our serious conversation turned into light-hearted discussions of local news and the insane political environment in the state of Arizona.

  “This state is a fucking madhouse,” I say, telling him about my interview this last week with the craziest politician I’ve ever encountered. “Who elects these people? I just don’t get it.”

  “There’s nothing to get, Lindsay. Politics is the evil of the world, run by money and idiocracy.”

  “No shit,” I admit. We then toast to the idiots that run the state of Arizona and our hopes for better elections in November. We laugh and enjoy dinner and each other’s company, even taking a selfie together with our glasses of wine. I feel good—happy, even if it’s medicated and temporary.

  “Let’s go have dessert.” Jonah stuffs a wad of cash in the black folio on the table and rises, helping me out of my chair.

  The ride home is quiet, but I catch Jonah watching me out of the corner of his eye. We pull into the parking garage and he hurries around the car to open the door for me. He reaches for my hand, and I let him hold it, leaning into him just a bit to steady myself. Mixing the pills with the wine was probably not a great idea and I’m really starting to feel the effects of it. My feet feel heavy and I can tell I’m leaning into him as we walk down the hallway to my condo.

  Jonah opens the door and turns on the kitchen lights as I kick off my heels and pull a bottle of water from the fridge.

  “Want one?” I ask as I twist off the cap and drink.

  “No thanks,” he says as he opens the pink box of cupcakes. I walk over to the island and peek inside the box. Each of them is decorated differently.

  “What kind are they?” I ask as my mouth starts watering. A second on the lips, forever on the hips, I hear that bitch at my work saying. “They look amazing, but I think I’m going to pass.”

  “You can’t pass on dessert, Lindsay. It’s a rule.”

  “A rule, is it?” I laugh.

  Jonah snakes his arm around my waist, pulling me up against him. His arm tightens around me, steadying me against him. I inhale the expensive cologne that lightly floats from his skin. “Pick a cupcake,” he whis
pers into my ear. His warm breath causes me to shiver. His fingers lightly brush against the bare skin of my waistline where my shirt has snaked up.

  “The pink one,” I stutter.

  “Good choice. Strawberry. I love strawberries,” he says, pulling the pink cupcake from the box. He sets it on the island, moving me in front of him, pinning me between the kitchen island and himself. His hips press against me, holding me in place while his deft fingers move quickly to remove the wrapper from around the base of the cupcake. He tosses the wrapper back into the box.

  “Turn around,” he whispers, and I do. He takes his index finger and scoops some of the fluffy pink buttercream frosting onto it, bringing it to my lips. My lips part and his eyes darken as he watches me take his finger into my mouth and lick the frosting from his finger. He removes his finger and scoops some more frosting, this time rubbing some on my bottom lip before sliding his finger back into my mouth.

  “Taste good?”

  “Mmm hmm,” I muster against his finger, sucking it clean.

  “I think I need to try some,” he says, removing his finger from my mouth. His eyes are intense and focused on my lips. I can feel the sticky frosting he rubbed on my bottom lip and instinctively my tongue goes in search of it. “No. That’s mine,” he says just before his tongue finds my lip and lightly licks at the frosting he smeared on my lips moments ago. “I fucking love strawberries,” he says, pressing his lips against mine in a deep kiss.

  There are no fireworks, no immediate impressions of love… but I like the feel of his lips on mine. I like being held in his strong arms. I like feeling wanted—and I need to be touched. His large hands hold my head firmly as his tongue explores my mouth. His lips are soft but greedy. He knows what he wants and he’s taking it.

  “Jonah,” I breathe against his lips, a plea for him to stop… or maybe a plea for him to continue. I put my hands on his chest to put some distance between us and break our kiss. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his hands resting on the space between my shoulders and my neck, his thumbs rubbing against my jawline.