Easy Virtue Page 5

  My last thought before falling asleep is that I’ve been with Walker for months now and he doesn’t even know the color of my eyes.

  The next morning, we’re in his expensive kitchen surrounded by black marble countertops and stainless steel appliances, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee floating around us. Walker stands in front of me, looking perfect as usual, wearing an expensive Tom Ford suit. I watch as he pulls out a white envelope from the inner pocket of his suit. “Before I forget … here you go. This should cover your rent for the next couple of months.”

  I take the envelope from his hands and open it, eyeballing the amount of bills inside. There’s more than two months worth of rent in there. “This is too much.” I frown, lifting my eyes to stare at him. “Are you planning on dumping me and that’s why you’re giving me all this money?” I tease.

  Walker rubs his eyes with his palms.

  Okay ...

  “About that, Blaire … ” He sighs. “How can I say this without hurting your feelings?”

  I take a step back, feeling the edge of the countertop behind me. “What is it? Just spit it out, Walker.” A sick feeling settles in the pit of my stomach.

  “My girlfriend is arriving from Paris tomorrow and I’m expected to propose to her in the next couple of weeks. So yes, I can’t see you anymore.”

  I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.

  “Wait … what? You have a girlfriend?”

  He lifts a hand to touch me, but I smack it away. “Fine, be that way, but I was hoping you’d take the day off so we could have more time to talk about this. And yes, I have a girlfriend. Her name is Emma. I thought you knew, Blaire. Anyway, what did you expect? Guys like me don’t settle with girls like you.”

  “No, you just fuck us until you’re bored.”

  “Oh, don’t give me that righteous bullshit, Blaire. I pretty much paid to fuck you every single time we got together. The clothes you’re wearing, your fancy apartment …” He looks down at my feet, then back up, derision shining in his blue eyes. “The shoes you’re wearing.”

  I don’t know why I’m so shocked. It’s almost Shakespearean, really.

  The user got used.

  “Yeah, you’re right. My pussy for your money. But at least I never pretended to be anything else. But you, on the other hand, lacked the balls to be honest and up front with me. And you better hope that your friends don’t rat you out to your fiancée because I won’t take you back.”

  “They won’t say anything if they know what’s good for them.”

  “I pity your girlfriend because there’s nothing worse than dating a coward and a liar.”

  He takes two steps until he’s standing so close to me, our chests rise as one. Anger reflects in his eyes, my eyes, poison running in our blood streams. “You didn’t have to. Don’t you know we can always smell the gold diggers?” He wraps my hair in his hand, giving it a painful tug. “And I might’ve been honest if you were worth it.” Then he lets go of me, the force of his release making me hit the countertop painfully.

  “You know, I give you a couple months until you’re back begging me for another chance because your perfect fiancée won’t let you fuck her in the ass. We both know how much you like that. But I won’t. I’ll find someone else like you in no time. I always do.”

  I watch him flinch with the ugliness of my words.

  His nose flares in anger. “You’re nothing without me but trash, Blaire. Now get the fuck out.”

  I laugh. I want to say that I’m obviously too good for him, but the words get stuck in my throat.

  They are all lies.

  I’ve always known who I am. No point pretending I’m a good girl with great values because that would be a complete lie. I like money too much. I like the safety it offers. The power. And all the things I can buy with it. But as I turn around, walking out of his kitchen and leaving Walker behind, I realize I’ve done it again. I’ve made myself vulnerable, breaking my promise, a promise that I would never let someone hurt me.

  And that’s exactly what Walker has done.

  I may not have physical scars. And in many ways my life has been easy compared to others who grew up on the streets or have faced cruelty at the hands of people who’re supposed to protect them. But there’s nothing like a bitter dosage of neglect and lack of attention from your parents while growing up to fuck with your head and sense of self-worth.

  Trust me. I know.

  As I get in the elevator with its cherry wood covered walls, smelling the fake clean cotton aroma embedded in the rug, feeling my heels sink in it, I wonder how I got here. I don’t love Walker, but it still hurts. It hurts because someone else just proved how unworthy of love I am. So as I wait to make it back to the lobby, watching the numbers of floors decreasing, I recite that old and familiar chat.

  Love is selfish.

  Love is unkind.

  Love hurts.

  It wasn’t his fault though … he didn’t make me do anything. It was all me, and maybe that’s why it’s so painful. I have no one to blame but me.

  I look down and try to slow down my breathing. I’m not a crier, so I can’t say that I want to cry, but I am hurt. And my pain is clearing a path for anger to follow with regret one step behind.

  When I step outside the building, the doormen avoid me as if they already know I’m an outcast and not welcomed anymore. I glance down at my body dressed in the same outfit from last night; I look like a hooker and feel like one. As humiliation and heartache fill every crevice of my body, I decide I need to move. I’m attracting too much attention standing on the corner while I wait for a cab. Maybe my feet will take me away. Maybe my feet will take away the pain that comes with the knowledge of who I am.

  After a couple of minutes pass, I’m calmer and standing in front of an entrance to a subway station. Laughing, I have to be honest with myself. What did I expect? How can I be angry with Walker for using me when I was pretty much doing the same? It was his money, his name, and his handsome face that attracted me to him at first, so if I’m hurting at the moment, it’s my fault because I let my guard down.

  As I walk down the stairs, submerging myself in the subterranean darkness, the acrid smells of pee and sewage fill my nose. I scrunch up my nose at the subway perfume while I avoid stepping over a homeless man sitting on the bottom step. And because it looks like he could use a cup of coffee more than me, I take a twenty out of my clutch and hand it to him.

  “Oh, thank you, miss! Thank you!” he says, smiling a toothless grin.

  “No problem,” I say as the kindness in his eyes makes my heart contract.

  I’m about to close my clutch when I see my ticket out of this mess. My heart starts to beat faster as I grab the card and hold it in between my fingers. Maybe that upgrade came sooner than I’d expected.

  That night…

  I STAND IN FRONT OF MY MIRROR once more and take in my appearance, applying lipstick over my bruised lips until they are a dark red. I observe how, layer-by-layer, I create my phony façade until I’m Blaire again. Until I hide all of my flaws.

  But I’m a fraud.

  As I continue to stare at my reflection, I remember a memory I had forgotten about. And it paralyzes me.

  “Mommy! Mommy! Don’t leave!” I cry desperately. My arms are wrapped tightly around her middle. My mom tries to push me away, but the harder she pushes, the harder I grip her. I can’t let her go. “No, Mommy, please stay! Don’t leave me. Please, please, pl-lease.”

  Tears stream down my face. The pain goes on and on, but I continue to beg her and hold her. I hope that she will hear me this time. I hope that she sees how much I need her.

  “Blaire, let go,” she says, struggling to break free from my hold. “I can’t stand being in this house with your drunk of a father for one minute longer. It’s driving me insane.”

  I hear wild laughter behind us. I turn to look at my daddy as he walks into their bedroom, making his way toward the edge of the bed where my mom’s suit
case is lying open. His eyes are bloodshot, his untucked dress shirt has a greasy stain in the middle that spreads like spilled ink, and he’s slightly swaying with every step that he takes. My heart contracts when the smell of alcohol surrounding him hits my nose. Grief laced with fear flows like a muddy river through me.

  “Don’t beg, Blaire. Only weak people beg. Let her go. She’ll come back, like she always does,” my dad says.

  My mom turns to look at my dad, scorn in her eyes. “Don’t fool yourself, Oscar. I’m not coming back.”

  “But what about me?” I cry.

  My mom’s gaze lands on me, softening a little, but then she turns to look at my dad and hardens instantly. “I’m sorry. I just can’t do this anymore.” She closes her suitcase and walks out the door.

  “No, no, no, no!” I cry desperately, running after her, but she doesn’t stop walking. She doesn’t stop until she’s out the door, leaving me behind …

  Sick to my stomach, I want to run toward the bathroom and throw up, but I fight the feeling like I fight everything else. I won’t let Walker or memories of my parents win. Like the strong conquer the weak, I will conquer my emotions. And really, it’s not like Walker’s desertion is the first one in my life.

  So I’m going to do what I do best. I’m going to erase Walker from my life. I’m going to pretend that he never happened or existed, burying any kind of feeling and emotion so deep within me that my heart and head will forget they exist in no time. And like the vicious cycle that my life has become, I’ll find someone else.

  I always do.

  I have one goal in mind. To find out who Mr. Rothschild was.

  I sit on my bed, open the computer, and Google his name. I skim the articles written about him in magazines and newspapers such as Time, The New Yorker, NYT, and Forbes. To say that he is rich would, honestly, be such an understatement. It becomes very obvious that he could, in fact, easily afford that necklace we saw and many more. He comes from old money from the Gold Coast of Long Island, and he is now the sole survivor and ruler of a media empire worth billions of dollars.

  Once the truth settles in my mind that he is indeed as rich as King Midas and has a golden touch to boot, I decide to look at pictures of him. My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. There are images of him kissing more than a few of my favorite actresses on the mouth. He was married and divorced to a famous author, and was once engaged to a socialite with ties to European nobility. Apparently, at the age of thirty-eight, he has been married and divorced three times, plus countless numbers of flings. He has no kids. The word on the street is that he suffered a really bad breakup when he was young, from which he never fully recovered.

  Hmm.

  As I sit there, staring numbly at his picture on my screen, I can’t believe my luck. Have I really met the goose that laid golden eggs?

  The image of Walker’s blue eyes and the poison reflected in them as he told me I was trash waltzes through my mind, but it already hurts less than it did a couple of hours ago. It already seems like a distant memory from my past.

  Here’s the thing: I erase people from my life.

  The moment you become a liability, I discard you. If I get the sense that you will hurt me, I’ll remove your existence from my mind and my heart, leaving a vacant place amongst so many holes within me. And I’m good at it. Once you’re out of my life, I’ll never think of you. I move on. You won’t even have the pleasure of being an afterthought.

  You can call me heartless if you want, but the best way not to get hurt and not to get your heart broken, is by pretending that you lack one. And sometimes, I believe it. Almost.

  So as I finish getting ready for work tonight, I erase Walker from my mind once and for all. It’s better this way. And I decide to give Mr. Lawrence Rothschild a call since I have some time to spare before heading to the restaurant.

  I reach for my discarded clutch on the floor, get his card, and grab my phone.

  Sitting on my bed, nervously running my hands over my leather leggings, I wait for him to answer. After his phone rings four or five times, I’m about to hang up when he picks up.

  “Hello,” he says in that toe curling voice of his.

  I grip the phone harder. “Hi … um … okay … this is so odd, but we met last night at the Met. You gave me your business card.”

  “Ah … did you grow tired of that boy you were with?” he says mockingly, sounding cool and detached.

  “How do you—? You know what … never mind. It’s not important. I’m calling because I want to know what you meant exactly when you gave me your card.”

  “It means that I’m interested.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But nothing. I can tell that you’re a smart girl. Why do you think a man my age would be interested in you?”

  I grin, the nerves finally leaving my body. I know how to play this game. “I could ask you the same question, you know … why would a girl my age be interested in a man of yours?”

  He laughs in return. “Touché. It seems to me that we understand each other perfectly then.”

  I’m silent for a second, biting the inside of my lip. “Yes, I think we do.”

  “I’m flying to Hong Kong tomorrow morning for business but I should be back next Saturday. Meet me for drinks and dinner. We can discuss, for a lack of a better word, what exactly it is I’m interested in.”

  “Do you ever ask?”

  “No. Why bother?”

  It’s my turn to laugh. I shake my head and say, “I’ll think about it and give you a call … or not.”

  “I get the feeling that you enjoy having the last word, don’t you?”

  “Blaire. My name is Blaire White. And, yes, but who doesn’t?”

  He chuckles. “Ah … beauty does have a name after all. I’ll be here when and if you’re ready.” He pauses for a moment, contemplating his next words. “And I hope that you will be, Blaire. I truly do.”

  With the ball back in my court, the last word is mine once again. “We’ll see …” I say before hanging up.

  Unmoving, I sit on my bed as I wait for the beating of my heart to slow down, and wonder.

  “WHAT’S UP, GIRL?” ELLY ASKS when she sees me walking toward the bar. “You’re early tonight.”

  Before I answer, I take a moment to watch Elly polish a glass with a white towel. Dressed in a skin-tight black dress, her short brown hair blown out straight, Elly takes my breath away. It’s funny that the two of us are best friends. She’s the kind of girl who doesn’t need people’s acceptance to feel good in her skin—to know her own worth. Whereas me … well, let’s just say that I need constant reminders.

  “Um, you don’t want to know.” I sit on a black stool, spread my black leather covered legs in front of me and stare at my shoes to avoid meeting her eyes.

  “Oh, Blaire … who do you think you’re talking to here? Hello! I’m your best friend and I can totally tell that you’re lying to me.”

  I shrug my shoulders and continue to admire my shoes, tilting them in every possible angle. “Turns out you were right about Walker.” I look up and smile. “Apparently, now that his girlfriend—soon to be fiancée—is coming back in town, I’m no longer needed.”

  Elly's eyes widen and her mouth drops open. “Wait, what? No fucking way.”

  Bored with my shoes, I lift my eyes and stare at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. “Yep. What were his words? Let me think … Oh, got it! He said that guys like him don’t settle down with girls like me, and then he proceeded to tell me that I’m just pretty trash and that without him I’m worth nothing.”

  Elly puts the glass she's cleaning down on the counter before she makes her way toward me. Once she's standing next to me, she wraps an arm around my shoulders as though she is trying to shelter me from pain. Her touch is comforting, but the gesture makes me twitch awkwardly in my seat. Men can fuck my mouth, bend me over a table, or do anything they want with my body. I don’t find any of it as uncomfortable and unsettlin
g as Elly’s kind touch. I blame it on the years I went without my parents’ affection. Or maybe I’m just coldhearted.

  “Fuck him. It’s his loss,” Elly says.

  I tilt my ass to the side, pull out my red lipstick from my back pocket and apply it. I watch as the bright color fills my mouth, enhancing the paleness of my skin and the blackness of my hair. “Whatever. He’s officially part of the past. I’ve already moved on.”

  “But—”

  “Listen, I guess if my life were a movie, this is where I’d stay home and cry my eyes out for weeks on end because I just had my heart broken by the man of my dreams. But that’s not me, and that’s not what happened, Elly.” I turn to look at her, both of our gazes unwavering. “I dated him, yes, but it wasn’t love. So I’m not going to sit around in my apartment sulking while I wait for him to change his mind and call me back. And I’m not going to wait for an apology because that ain’t going to happen either.”

  “I get that, Blaire, but I don’t think you’re as indifferent as you—”

  “It’s fine, really. Anyway, does the name Lawrence Rothschild sound familiar to you?”

  “I hate when you change the subject like that,” she says, glaring at me.

  I extend a hand, offering her my lipstick. “Does it?”

  She shakes her head no, muttering, “Figures … another asshole. Just what you need.”

  I ignore her. Sometimes that’s easier than facing the music or reality. And reality can be such a cruel bitch.

  “We met last night at the exhibit. He gave me his card, which I’m glad I kept, by the way, since Walker ended up dumping me. I did some cyber stalking, and turns out he’s a gold digger’s dream come true. I gave him a call before I came to work.” I omit the part about deals and possible money. I always have relationships with the men I suck dry because I don’t do one-night stands. I’m not in it for the sex; I’m in it for the long-term benefits.

  I get the feeling that whatever Lawrence offers will be completely different, and Elly won’t like it one bit.