After pushing the button to open the garage door, I just sat there staring at the house. I wanted to wake up in the morning and realize that this had been a dream. Everything would be back to shopping as usual—the thing that made me the happiest. The momentary high that I got from the purchase. It with my drug of choice, I suppose.
After a few seconds, I took my foot off the brake and eased on the gas pedal. I’d put off going inside, but I couldn’t wait any longer. Once in the garage, I shut off the ignition and cut the headlights. The overhead light cast a bright, eerie glow over the space. His red Porsche was parked a couple spaces over.
Patrick probably wondered where the hell I’d been. How many times had he tried to call? I suppose my old phone was gone for good now. No doubt he thought I was having an affair. He always thought that, and he’d undoubtedly prefer it to shopping. I stared at the door, knowing that I needed to go inside, but I couldn’t force myself to get out of the car. Being home wasn’t stress free. Yet I needed to go in. Maybe if I took a shower, I’d be able to wash away the horrible things that I’d done today. The only way to do that was to enter the house.
After climbing out from behind the wheel, I grabbed my Louis Vuitton bag, and headed for the door. With my hand on the knob, the door opened. I gasped and stumbled backward.
Patrick backed away with his hands up. “Whoa, what the hell’s wrong with you?” He studied me for a few seconds. “Did you see a ghost?”
If he only knew. I felt as if what we’d done was written all over my face. I’d told myself that I hadn’t been involved and that I hadn’t taken part in the horrific act. The truth was I had taken part. I hadn’t stopped Britney, Whitney, or Sophie, and I’d gone along for the ride. But what could I have done?
When Patrick looked at me he never focused on me. His gaze usually skipped right over me. His bitter chocolate brown eyes were blank just like his personality.
“I didn’t expect you’d be home,” I said.
“Where have you been?” he asked with agitation in his voice. “I’ve tried calling and texting.”
I knew a barrage of questions would soon follow.
Chapter 3
Once inside the house, I stopped by the door and slipped my Gucci espadrilles off. Sand poured onto the floor. Oh, shit.
“What the hell is that? Jesus. You’re making a fucking mess on the floor. Why is there sand in your shoes?”
Because I was in the desert getting rid of a body!
“We took a walk on the beach,” I said.
He scoffed. “Sounds like you had a relaxing day. It must be a tough life. Now clean your mess up.”
Patrick’s dark hair shimmered with a shellac coating under the light from too much hair product. He still wore his crisp white shirt, red tie to match the color of his Porsche, and gray suit that went with his monotonous character.
The restraints of the suit didn’t bother Patrick. He loved the way the tailored fabric stretched across his broad shoulders and tapered in at his trim waist. Most would consider him an attractive man, although all I saw was the person on this inside and not the veneer.
He stood close, scrutinizing my every move as I retrieved the small vacuum from the garage. As he watched on, I sucked up the sand from the floor. He just wanted to make sure I got it all. Would this nightmare ever end?
Patrick stood by the door as I replaced the vacuum in the garage. I contemplated getting back in the car and taking off. Where would I go? I had no options. Patrick stepped back and allowed me to enter as I slipped back inside from the garage.
“Now are you going to explain why you didn’t answer your phone?” he demanded.
“We just went out for a drink. I lost my phone and couldn’t call,” I said as I breezed past him toward the kitchen.
I tried to sound as nonchalant as possible, hoping that he would believe the story. Would he soon ask me the man’s name? The one he assumed I saw behind his back? Patrick’s presence was overpowering as he followed me down the hallway. His hulking frame came closer and closer.
“You don’t go out for drinks. Bars don’t sell Chanel martinis,” he said in a smarmy tone.
“It was a fluke.” I diverted my trip to the kitchen and headed for the wine cellar.
Patrick’s feet practically touched my heels as I walked. His hovering made me feel trapped as if the walls were closing in on me. What happened tonight was making him worse, but honestly, he’d always been this way. He’d love nothing more than for me to stay home all day, a prisoner in my own home. His questioning made my anxiety grow. This was the last thing I needed after the day I’d had.
The open floor plan of the house meant the living area was one big open space with the open thread staircase leading up to the bedrooms. I’d suggested separate bedrooms, but Patrick put a halt to that idea. Sleeping in different rooms meant he couldn’t wake me in the middle of the night for sex.
The white walls were a stark contrast against the dark hardwood floors. Windows stretched from the sixteen-foot ceilings to the floor, lining the back walls of the house and giving panoramic views of the Pacific Ocean and downtown skyline. Yes, the Hollywood sign was visible from my living room.
Patrick stopped at the top of the cellar stairs, not following me to retrieve the wine. Could I stay in the cellar all night? I flipped on the light and scanned the shelves. Passing up the expensive pinot noir and merlot, I picked up my favorite Barefoot sweet red blend. Patrick frowned upon my choice, but I didn’t care that it was cheap. It was what I liked. I got the impression he hated having it next to his pricey picks. Yet he had the nerve to call me out for my luxury spending.
“What are you doing down there?” he called out.
Obviously, I couldn’t delay any longer. After switching off the light, I made my way up the stairs. He was still waiting at the top for me. Must he trail along behind me to the kitchen too? How long would he follow me tonight?
The throbbing in my temples and the oncoming pounding in my head made the kitchen seem even brighter than usual. White cabinets, Italian glass countertops, top of the line stainless steel appliances, and white walls made the room a decorator’s dream. It was a bit too sterile for my taste. Patrick had selected the design, not me.
I pulled a wine glass from the cabinet and retrieved the opener. Without looking over my shoulder, I sensed Patrick’s stare. He watched my every move as if studying a caged animal and wondering about its next move. Perhaps he was looking for subtle cues that I had cheated on him today. I doubted walking around the kitchen would provide evidence of that, but my shaky hands could give me away.
“That alcohol must’ve made you thirsty for more,” he said with a click of his tongue.
I chuckled, trying to act nonchalant. “Yes, it did as a matter fact.”
“Just don’t turn into a lush.”
Yes, heaven forbid I do that to him. Plus, I hated when he called me Lex.
“That’s the last thing I need is a drunk as a wife. What’s for dinner?’ The crinkling sound of starched shirt fabric seemed amplified as Patrick leaned against the counter, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
It wasn’t a sound I normally would have noticed. Everything seemed more intense now—lights, sounds, and smell. His gaze remained on me as he waited for my answer. I’d totally forgotten about dinner. He expected something. I’d told him that I would make dinner tonight, but obviously, that plan had been derailed. The last thing I wanted to think about right now was food. But to make things seem fine, I pulled out my new phone.