Cruel Beloved

Her eyes look up at me, she looks guilty. “You like him… a lot.”

I go to shake my head. Even though I know that’s a lie. So, I don’t even bother denying it. How did my hate for this man turn into me wanting him? I still haven’t figured that part out.

“If you don’t separate yourself from him, Carla, you may just fall in love with him.”

My head shakes fast. “That can’t happen. I can’t have that happen,” I say more to myself.

But she answers me anyway. “I’m afraid it’s bound to.”

“How can you say that?” I stand, taking the bottle with me. I’m still in his house, and I hate that fact. I want to go back to mine. So, I walk to the closet and start packing everything, pulling it all out of the closet and into the empty suitcases and boxes I had stashed away in case I needed them.

“You don’t look at anyone like you look at him.”

“I look at him with hate.”

She shakes her head. “No, that was there, but it’s gone now. I’ve known you for twenty years, Carla. I know when you truly hate something, and believe me, you don’t hate Whiskey.”

“I hate him.”

“Do you, though?”

I turn to that voice and see him standing in the doorway. I turn away from him, continuing to pull all my stuff out and pack it. “What are you doing here, Whiskey?”

“Come to see you, rich girl.”

Turning back to him, I see Emma standing. “I’m just gonna leave.”

Before I can say anything to stop her, she ducks out and is gone.

“Do you really hate me, rich girl?”

“I’m trying to,” I reply.

“So, no?”

I shake my head. “What do you want?” Closing that suitcase, I reach for another and continue doing the same, packing up all my stuff.

“I came to give you this.” Whiskey throws some paperwork at my feet and then he turns to walk out. “The house is yours, by the way,” he says as he leaves.

I look at it but don’t want to touch it. The last time I touched anything with his name on it, I got fucked over into marrying him.

Finishing my packing and my bottle of vodka, I ignore the paperwork that sits on the bedroom floor and drown myself in alcohol.

When I go into work the next day, the paperwork is still scattered on the floor. I’m met with the manager, Keith, holding the door open for me. I give him a puzzled look, not in the mood to even ask why, as my head thumps from drinking way too much.

If there was one saving grace, at least I didn’t fuck Whiskey last night.

Oh, that’s right, I damn well did before that, though. It’s what got me into this situation in the first place. Maybe I need to learn to keep my legs closed.

Mental note: Do not, under any circumstances, spread my legs for that asshole.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” Keith, my manager, walks in behind me. “Not today, anyway.”

I shake my head and start setting up the bar, pulling the stools down from the tables and placing the napkins and cutlery.

“Why?”

“Your husband bought this place for you. You’re my boss now, Carla.” His words make me stop what I’m doing.

“No, I’m not.”

Keith taps the table with his fingers. “You are. The contract was sent last night after you left.”

I shake my head as he walks away. Fuck.

“Keith….” He stops. “Don’t tell anyone. Just go back to how it was.”

He nods and salutes me. “Got it, boss.” I cringe at his words and pull out my cell to call Emma but she doesn’t answer.

Just as I go to slide my cell back in my pocket, it rings. Looking at the number, I don’t recognize it, so I go to slide it off, but for some reason, I press accept instead.

“Carla babes,” Aussie’s voice rings through.

“Aussie,” I say, confused. “How did you get this number?”

“My wife is his lawyer. Anyway, I was calling to invite you and Corton around for dinner. You free tonight?”

“Yeah, but—”

Before I can finish, he butts in. “Good. Texting you the address now. Aubrey’s already started cooking, so be prepared.” He laughs, then adds, “I’m ringing Corton next.” Then he hangs up.

I walk back to the bar and sigh as Clinton walks in with a giant smirk on his face.

“Clinton…” I say, confused.

“Didn’t expect to see me, Carla?” I shake my head. “I come bearing good news. Well, my version of good news anyway.”

“We aren’t open. It’s best you leave.”

“Words already out that he bought you this place.” Clinton looks around, runs a finger over one of the tables. “Though, I’m not sure why you would want this dump. I can offer you more.”

“It’s definitely time you left.”

“Don’t you want to hear what I have to say first, Carla?” I hate when he says my name, it always sounds so wrong coming from his mouth. It’s as if he’s trying to get something from me, but he can’t have it.