Unrequited Page 2

  I grabbed my smock and supplies, slipped into the most comfortable cute shoes I had, and headed to the country club. My plan was simple. Get in. Get out. All I had to do was style Novalee and get the heck out of dodge. I would be a fool to stick around.

  ∞∞∞

  "DO YOU, QUENTIN JAMES V, take Amelia Manchester to be your lawful wedded wife? To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do you part?"

  And then our eyes meet. Through the sea of all those stuffy ass people, and with me sitting in the back row, Quentin found me. His eyes burned into me like blazing embers. I silently cursed, wishing I had my sunglasses on to shield my eyes from the blinding sun and from him. Because underneath all the makeup, the jewelry, the designer clothes, and the sex—he always saw me. And I couldn't risk him seeing me now. Not as my heart was splitting in two.

  It had been nine years since I'd seen Quentin James in the flesh. I should have looked away, but I couldn't. Not even when the awkward moment of silence caused people to stir in their seats. The only two people who seem oblivious to the uncomfortable silence was Novalee and Quentin's brooding/slutty BFF, Conner Brathwaite. Novalee chewed on her bottom lip, messing up her lip gloss, while she blushed underneath Conner's glaring stalker stare.

  The officiant repeated his question. "Do you, Quentin James V, take Amelia Manchester to be your lawful wedded wife? To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do you part?"

  The crowd started to murmur. I began to squirm in the wooden chair, only to be reminded of the ache between my legs from my night with Hunter. A hot knife of guilt sliced through my ribcage.

  "I do," Quentin finally answered, the moment I looked away.

  "Do you, Amelia Manchester, take Quentin James V to be your lawful wedded husband? To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do you part?"

  "I do," she answered confidently.

  This is some bullshit. A woman seated beside me narrowed her eyes at me. Oops. I uttered that out loud. Offering a half-hearted, apologetic smile, I grabbed my bag and prepared for my exit. I excused myself just as the officiant pronounced Quentin and Amy as husband and wife.

  The kiss was something I shouldn't have seen. But like car accidents on the side of the road, you know you should look away, but you can't help but look at the carnage. In my case, the carnage was part of my life. I wasn't some unrelated bystander who could continue to drive onward, forgetting about the wreckage I'd just seen. The kiss was uneventful and unimpactful. And their lips met with their eyes opened and their mouths tightly sealed.

  The devil is a lie. Quentin was the best kisser I'd ever known.

  Chapter 2

  After The Wedding

  QUENTIN

  AMY AND I SAT ON opposite sides of the town car, creating a much needed distance between us.

  "Jacob, drop Amy off at the hotel and have my car waiting for me at the rear exit." I released the intercom button and untied my bowtie.

  "Yes, sir, Mr. James."

  "You've got to be kidding me," Amy huffed.

  "Enjoy the suite, dear wife. It's all yours," I said dryly, not even stealing a glance at her.

  When Amy and I first agreed to marry, I didn't totally hate the idea. We were never friends, but we weren't enemies, either. Our fathers were best friends. Had been since they were kids. This was their idea.

  Politics had always been in my future. I was the son of a Senator. The grandson of a Presidential Chief of Staff. The great-grandson of a President. My entire life had been planned before I even knew that my dick had other purposes besides pissing.

  My father, Senator Quentin James IV, didn't take chances. Not anymore, at least. So in an effort to further redeem his reputation and secure my political future, he and Robert Manchester—a billionaire railroad tycoon—manufactured a romance between the next generation of the James and Manchester heirs.

  Amy and I were both single and tolerable towards each other. And even though my best friend, Conner, had shagged her back in high school, I didn't hold it against her. Conner had fucked most hot blonds within a thirty-mile radius. And I'd hooked up with her cousin, Maggie Manchester, one night at the Sigma Nu Delta sorority house back at Brown.

  Amy and I agreed to this farce of a marriage one year ago. She knew that I would never, ever love her. And I knew that her heart yearned for another. Not to mention, Amy loved pussy just as much as I did. And threesomes weren't high on my to-do list. Not since college, anyway.

  Once we started spending more time together—mostly for the cameras and the nosy reporters who had nothing better to do—we realized that we were incompatible. We couldn't even get through dinner without sneaking glances at our phones for a distraction. Not to mention, Amy was emotionally unstable. The bitch was crazy. She cried. All. The. Fucking. Time. Maybe most guys responded to that sort of thing out of frustration or pity, but I was incapable of most rudimentary feelings. Whenever she would have one of her crying fits, I would stare blankly at her, already checked out and thinking about an upcoming court case or a legal brief, which only made her even more hysterical.

  I had no illusions of grandeur. I wasn't a catch. Other than my big dick and the outer shell that it was attached to, I was as inauthentic as they came—a total fucking fraud. I presented myself as a charming and compassionate southern gentleman. My parents raised me to have normal social graces. I opened the car door for women passengers. I stood when a lady entered the room. I made eye contact and gave firm handshakes. I gave a substantial amount of money to the poor. I defended the guilty in court, believing that everyone deserved to have someone fight for them. I did all these things because they were expected of me, as a man and as a defense attorney. But behind closed doors, I was a heartless, cold prick. I wasn't a brooding asshole, per se, like Conner. But for the most part, I was just…numb, and one hell of an actor.

  When I was a child, my mother and father fought a lot. During their fights, I would lock myself in the bathroom and stare at my reflection in the mirror. And I shit you not, like a little psycho in the making, I would practice numerous facial expressions. Maybe I'd try to laugh, or smile, or look bored and unaffected. I willed myself not to get angry, scared, or sad. I became a fucking pro at hiding my feelings, and it came in handy. At eight, I went to live with my dad. Or better yet, I was dumped on my dad. And due to all my practice, I was able to internalize my feelings, until one day they simply ceased to exist.

  My father and my stepmother didn't seem to notice. I was the perfect fucking son. I was a straight-A student. I never talked back. And I never got into trouble at school, like my best friend Wes did. That motherfucker was born angry. Colton, his twin, was a lot like me. He was more chill and always inside of his head.

  One day, Colton showed me how to use physical pain to connect with my emotions or the lack thereof. We were thirteen.

  "Does it hurt?" I asked.

  "Yeah." Colton shrugged, taking a long drag of his cigarette before handing it to me.

  "Does Wes do it too?"

  "Nah. He likes to do other stuff. With girls."

  I took a long drag of the cigarette. "No shit?" Cigarettes didn't make me cough anymore like they used to.

  "Yeah. Girls are overrated, though. You know?"

  "I mean, not really. Especially the ones with boobs."

  He laughed at that, taking the cigarette from my outstretched hand. "You sound like Wes."

  "I mean…they're boobs." I wiggled my eyebrows.

  "Whatever," Colton said before standing and pulling up his shirt. Tiny marks—some fresh, some old, some white, some yellow —covered his skin below his belly button. I stared wide-eyed as he lowered the cigarette to his skin, hovering it over his flesh. "This is how I forget."

  "Forget what?" I tugged at my baseball cap and gave h
im my "unaffected face."

  "Stuff."

  He pressed the lit cigarette to his flesh, wincing immediately. I managed to hide my cringe as the ash hissed on his skin. I quickly looked away from the burning flesh and stared up at him. He closed his eyes and let out a deep gratifying breath.

  "It might help you too. It might make you feel something." He handed me the cigarette.

  I shook my head and swallowed. "Nah, man. I’m good." How the heck did he know? How did he know something was wrong with me—that I couldn't feel basic emotions like happiness, or sadness, or anger, or fear, or love?

  "Suit yourself," Colton said, before flicking the cigarette to the ground.

  No one knew the real me—save for my father, Conner, and Colton. And Colton was dead. I warned Fatima, once upon a time, but she only chose to see certain versions of me until it was too late. Until I fucked it all up. Amy was starting to get a glimpse of my true colors. And what she saw, she fucking hated. But it was the least I could do. She needed to know what she was getting herself into by marrying a man like me.

  "What if someone sees you leave? We didn't…" The rest of what Amy said faded into a bunch of inaudible sounds that threatened to give me a migraine. I craved a cigarette, even though I'd quit a year ago.

  I rested my head against the headrest and closed my eyes, already feeling the throb of an impending headache. Whenever I got headaches of this magnitude, I would think of Fatima, and the headache would ease. Then I would wonder where she was. Or what she was doing. Or who she was with. If she hated me. Or worse, if she thought of me and felt absolutely nothing. It was probably the latter, even though she was my everything. Then, my easing headache would increase tenfold, and my chest would tighten to the point of pain. But I welcomed the heart-stabbing tension, as well as the guilt, the longing, and the regret that followed. At least it was something. It was better than feeling nothing at all.

  "Quentin." Amy snapped her fingers to get my attention. "Hello?"

  I cracked one eye open and looked over at my aggravated bride before dismissing her again and closing my eye. "I'm only going home. I'll be back in the morning."

  I needed some time to process the fact that Fatima was back. How did I not know? I usually stalked her social media pages but hadn't had time as of late, due to the mindnumbing wedding planning.

  "Whatever, Quentin," Amy snapped.

  "Relax. People will believe what we want them to believe. No one's the wiser. Everyone loves me. Well, except for you." A chuckled bubbled in my chest. Except for Fatima. My laughter died down as quickly as it began. "We'll give the people what they want—a happy marriage. We'll act like we're head over heels in love. But behind closed doors, do whatever the fuck you want. You can fuck the entire Dallas Cowboys team and the cheerleaders. I'll even pay for the condoms."

  "God, you're such a sociopath." She laughed bitterly. "If only they knew how much of a heartless bastard you really are. I think you're even worse than Conner. At least he feels something, even if it's hatred. You feel absolutely nothing. You'd make a great serial killer."

  I lazily shooed my hand in her direction. I knew I was acting like a fucking dick, but I didn't have it in me to care.

  Moments later, the car came to a stop. Dozens of photographers waited outside. No doubt, Mrs. Manchester's machinations. "Let's get this over with, my dear husband," Amy sneered.

  Bright lights flashed in our faces as we exited the car. "Let's make it look good," I whispered into the shell of her ear before kissing her on the forehead.

  Amy looked up at me adoringly before we faced the cameras with rehearsed smiles on our faces. After waving at our audience, I guided her through the throngs of press, with my hand on the small of her back. At the entrance of the Brathwaite Hotel, we turned and waved at our eager spectators one more time, all bright smiles and shit.

  We stood at the private elevator, both staring at our reflections in the mirrored doors. Once the elevator doors opened, we stepped inside and turned around with our stupid smiles once again in place. When the elevator doors closed, so did our pretenses.

  I stood with my hands in my pockets, and my eyes downcast to my feet. "Don't wait up."

  "I ask that you be discreet."

  She thought I was going somewhere to fuck. I didn't blame her. I hadn't fucked her in months. "Of course," I replied curtly, before texting my driver.

  Nine Years Ago…

  Chapter 3

  FATIMA

  QUENTIN WAS THE MOST popular boy at Covington High School. He was our homecoming king, crew star athlete, senior class president, and head of the legal club. Girls gravitated to his poster boy smile, warm hazel eyes, god-like sculpted body, and model good looks. The boys admired his athletic prowess and his effortless ability to bed any girl he chose. The boys wanted to be him, and the girls wanted to do him. He looked like he belonged on a print ad for Ralph Lauren, the sharp angles of his jaw making his otherwise pretty face look sinfully masculine. The loose waves of his dark blond hair were always cut and styled impeccably, never a strand out of place. To sum it up, Quentin James was nauseatingly perfect. And he was also my friend. My very hot, very platonic friend.

  We existed in each other's worlds, blotting out everyone else around us. While everyone thought they knew America's golden boy, I knew the boy behind his smiles, his popularity, and his manufactured image. I knew the boy who cursed like a sailor and smoked cigarettes and weed as if he had a personal vendetta against his lungs. The one didn't believe in the church, even though he went to mass every Sunday with his family. The one who loved reading law books, instead of comic books and girly magazines. The one who was achingly bored with his privileged life.

  ∞∞∞

  THE UNTOUCHABLES, SO APTLY named by outsiders, were Covington High's top one percent. They were the hottest. They were the richest. And while they ruled our school, their parents ruled empires. Their surnames were recognized throughout the great state of Texas and also garnered national recognition. The Untouchables had their parents' resources at their fingertips and an unearned privilege that their birthright afforded to them. They were like a family—loyal and exclusive. They usually didn't venture off and befriend mere mortals, a.k.a. the other 99% of the Covington's population. But most of them were nice to me, knowing that I had a special connection with Quentin, who was their leader.

  One perk of being an Untouchable or dating one was the invites to their wild parties. Rumor had it, some of their illicit parties were nothing more than drug-filled orgies. Quentin personally saw to it that I never received an exclusive invitation to those types of parties. Not that I had a desire to have public sex and do drugs with people I only halfway tolerated, but an invite would have been nice. A closer look at Quentin's dark side was fascinating to me, even if it made me a little wary and jealous.

  ∞∞∞

  IT WAS A FRIDAY night, and my friend, Marley Chambers, had received an invite to one of their exclusive lake parties. She had recently hooked up with Daryl Foxworth, son of a retired NFL player. Marley and Daryl had bumped uglies in Cancun during Spring Break. Everything was going great. Marley began doodling his name in her notebook and pairing their first names together. Their couple name was Darley. Yeah, I know. I threw up a little when she told me.

  They had a glorious two weeks together, resulting in him inviting her to their next lake party, before dumping her one week later. He gave her the whole it's not you, it's me speech. And never the one to go away quietly, Marley made plans to crash the party and catch him with the slut-bucket he dumped her for. Hence, she called me—that one ride or die friend.

  Marley and I held our breaths as she entered in the six-digit code on the metal panel beside the rod iron gates. When the gates opened, we gave each other a conspiratorial smirk. "It is so on," she said, as she drove her pink Hummer down the paved road, towards a castle-sized lake house.

  "Are you sure they're here?" I peered around the secluded grounds. The lakehouse was about a half a m
ile away. Lights shone from every window of the lake house, but no one appeared to be home.

  "Daryl said they park their cars in the back of the house near the lake. No has access to the house except for Jessica since it's one of her mom's properties. Everyone hooks up outside."

  "Well, aren't they the kinky ones."

  "And bored, I reckon. They're probably looking for ways to spice up their uncomplicated and predictable lives."

  "Nothing says danger and excitement than swapping bodily fluids and risking an indecent exposure charge if they get caught," I said dryly.

  "As if they'd get in any trouble," Marley chuckled.

  "Their parents would make sure it's all swept under the rug."

  "So true."

  Turning on her bright lights, Marley headed down a narrow single lane road, nestled between tall forest trees. "Thanks for coming with me, girl. I need some moral support."

  "Or someone to bail you out of jail," I teased. "You know I got you. Handle your business, then we leave. I have no desire to partake in the festivities and leave with herpes."

  "Eww." She scrunched her nose.

  "And don’t forget, I promised my aunt that I would stay with her this weekend while my dad is out of town. That means curfew is in full effect."

  "Dang. They are so strict."

  "Girl," I said on a huff, agreeing with her.

  Marley alternated her eyes between the road ahead and her rearview mirror, running her fingers through the fake curly ponytail that I installed for her just a few hours prior. "Do I look okay?"

  "Bomb. But make sure you don't get your ponytail pulled out in a fight."

  "I'm not fighting over him. He is so not worth it."