Love, Chloe
Page 47
I heard the screech of his stool and looked over, seeing him push my purse aside, his hand on my drink and he met my eyes, lifting it to his lips.
Shit. I imagined him, sitting at home, his fingers across my screen, flipping through my photos, reading my texts … I had the insane urge to get dressed and run back to his bar, or his penthouse, or wherever the damn man was. Find him and rip my phone back from his freshly manicured fingers.
I punched on the bed with a hard fist, Carter sitting up, his hand touching my elbow, asking if everything was okay. “It’s fine.” I tried to smile, turned and crawled under the covers, my body sliding alongside his. I kissed his neck and burrowed into his side.
Right then, I should have told him about my missing phone. Full disclosure, open communication, and all that good-for-relationship stuff. But with his lip freshly split from Vic’s punch, our minds finally off the night’s events, I just couldn’t. Instead, I laid my head against his chest and stewed. Pretended to be asleep while, inside, my mind went crazy.
I never wanted to see Vic again. Not even for my phone. But then, I thought of everything on it, the personal invasion of him pawing through it…
As soon as Carter fell asleep, I crawled out of bed. Borrowed his cell and called Cammie from the bathroom. She was awake and cut me off mid-sentence, as soon as she understood the dilemma.
“Wipe your phone.” She spat out the directive as if it was simple.
“What?”
“He knows your passcode, right?”
My passcode. The four-digit code I’d used since high school. “Yeah,” I said glumly.
“Remotely wipe it. Now. You can do it through iCloud.”
iCloud. The thing I’d cursed so many times before… could it actually be my savior? I winced at the thought of the last time I’d backed up my phone. At what I’d lose in the wipe.
“Now, Chloe. Before he gets every naked selfie off it.” Cammie’s voice broke through. Naked photos. My mind tripped and fell over every sexy pic I’d taken in the two years I’d had that phone. I should have known my vanity would have come back to bite me.
I cracked the bathroom door and eyed Carter’s laptop, one I didn’t have a password for. “Can you do it? I’m at Carter’s.”
She jumped into action and a few minutes later, my phone, wherever it was, had been completely erased. I would have the headache of paying for a new phone. But the satisfaction of not having to call Vic? To not go crawling back to him, hand out, asking for it back? That was worth it. That felt better than anything else.
That night, for the first time all week, I slept soundly.
A woman in New York City couldn’t survive without a cell phone. It was a fact. Especially not a woman working for Nicole Brantley. My old self would have marched into the closest Verizon and walked out with a shiny new phone. My new self had to wait three days for my phone insurance to ship out a refurbished replacement. My new self agonized over the two-hundred-dollar fee. I hated Vic a little more with every inconvenience caused.
My job probably wouldn’t have survived the three-day period if not for the set walkies—a giant radio that hung on my hip, a cord running from it up to an equally sexy headpiece that Nicole insisted I wear. I looked ridiculous but could hear Nicole’s voice loud and clear when she barked. And she barked constantly. It turned out pregnancy was hell on a bitch’s hormones. Her taste buds had gone crazy too. She’d been demanding the weirdest food. Olives, coffee-flavored ice cream, feta cheese, and banana popsicles. Try and track down banana popsicles. It was impossible. I called seventeen stores before she decided she’d rather have cherry.
There was one benefit of the constantly affixed headgear. I could tune into the general set chatter, which was usually snooze-worthy except for today, when a PA mentioned that Victor Worth was on set. I immediately ducked into Wardrobe and hid, my butt settled down behind racks of clothes, my fingers picking absentmindedly through the fabrics. I was stuck there for the forty-five minutes it took for word to finally circulate that he’d left.
When I returned to Nicole’s trailer, there was a box for me, too big to hold just a phone, and I growled a little under my breath. I ripped at the ribbon with angry hands, the white lid yanked off to reveal the purse—a Balenciaga City Bag—black, with a card hanging off one strap. I flipped open the card, steeling myself for the message, ready for something sexual and inappropriate, as was Vic’s style.
This one zips shut. Better for not losing things.
I had to roll my eyes at that. Peeking in the bag, I spied my phone.
So he had returned it. No face-to-face meeting required, no lording the phone over me in exchange for contact.
Call me paranoid, but I didn’t necessarily want it back. Not when it had been in his hands. Not when he could have gotten his geek squad to do God-knows-what to it. Tracking software? Keylogger programs? Remote access? Probably all of the above. I opened up the lid to the trash and ditched the phone, hearing the thud of it hit the bottom. One problem solved.
The bag … I ran my hand slowly over the supple leather, its clean and beautiful lines. Then I opened an upper cabinet and pushed the bag inside, hiding it behind all of Nicole’s junk. There was a limit to pride, and it stopped at insanity.
77. The Thing I Didn’t Want to Talk About
Parents. The one word no relationship needs. Carter said it and I took my time chewing my bite of salad. Beside me, my new phone chilled on the tabletop, freshly synced, my life back in order. Or rather, it was. Until Carter brought up his parents. And dinner with them.
“Saturday night,” he continued. “They suggested a French restaurant on Park.” He speared a piece of fish and looked up at me. “Do you like French food?”
“Yes…” I said cautiously.
“You don’t have to come.” He shrugged. “I know it’s been a crazy week for you with work … and with it raining tonight…” His words got lost in another bite of food and I set down my fork. It wasn’t that crazy of a week at work. And what did the rain have to do with anything?
“I can come.” My curiosity spoke for me, something about the casual invite; coupled with the reluctance of his voice … I was suddenly dying to meet them. How bad could parents be? I warmed to the idea, my head nodding. “I’d love to meet your parents.”
“You would?” Carter looked wary.
“Yeah.” I stabbed at another piece of salad. “I love parents.”
“Have you told yours about us?”
I slid the fork slowly out of my mouth, chewing the bite, trying to think of the proper response. “No,” I finally said. “I—I haven’t spoken to my parents in a while.” I stared down at my bowl, picking through the mixed greens. Our last contact had been my dad’s birthday. Since then, I’d left four or five messages, all unreturned. After the last, I hadn’t had the heart to try again. And that had been almost two weeks ago.
Odd that Carter and I had discussed almost everything but our parents. I’d planned to tell him about mine. Next week I’d kept thinking. The next weeks had piled up on themselves and turned into … God. Five months. Five months since we’d first met. And now … I shifted in my seat. It didn’t seem the time. Not when I’d asked him so little about his. I knew they’d been strict. Neat freaks who withheld sustenance. Nothing else. “Your uh—parents. They’re still married?”
Shit. I imagined him, sitting at home, his fingers across my screen, flipping through my photos, reading my texts … I had the insane urge to get dressed and run back to his bar, or his penthouse, or wherever the damn man was. Find him and rip my phone back from his freshly manicured fingers.
I punched on the bed with a hard fist, Carter sitting up, his hand touching my elbow, asking if everything was okay. “It’s fine.” I tried to smile, turned and crawled under the covers, my body sliding alongside his. I kissed his neck and burrowed into his side.
Right then, I should have told him about my missing phone. Full disclosure, open communication, and all that good-for-relationship stuff. But with his lip freshly split from Vic’s punch, our minds finally off the night’s events, I just couldn’t. Instead, I laid my head against his chest and stewed. Pretended to be asleep while, inside, my mind went crazy.
I never wanted to see Vic again. Not even for my phone. But then, I thought of everything on it, the personal invasion of him pawing through it…
As soon as Carter fell asleep, I crawled out of bed. Borrowed his cell and called Cammie from the bathroom. She was awake and cut me off mid-sentence, as soon as she understood the dilemma.
“Wipe your phone.” She spat out the directive as if it was simple.
“What?”
“He knows your passcode, right?”
My passcode. The four-digit code I’d used since high school. “Yeah,” I said glumly.
“Remotely wipe it. Now. You can do it through iCloud.”
iCloud. The thing I’d cursed so many times before… could it actually be my savior? I winced at the thought of the last time I’d backed up my phone. At what I’d lose in the wipe.
“Now, Chloe. Before he gets every naked selfie off it.” Cammie’s voice broke through. Naked photos. My mind tripped and fell over every sexy pic I’d taken in the two years I’d had that phone. I should have known my vanity would have come back to bite me.
I cracked the bathroom door and eyed Carter’s laptop, one I didn’t have a password for. “Can you do it? I’m at Carter’s.”
She jumped into action and a few minutes later, my phone, wherever it was, had been completely erased. I would have the headache of paying for a new phone. But the satisfaction of not having to call Vic? To not go crawling back to him, hand out, asking for it back? That was worth it. That felt better than anything else.
That night, for the first time all week, I slept soundly.
A woman in New York City couldn’t survive without a cell phone. It was a fact. Especially not a woman working for Nicole Brantley. My old self would have marched into the closest Verizon and walked out with a shiny new phone. My new self had to wait three days for my phone insurance to ship out a refurbished replacement. My new self agonized over the two-hundred-dollar fee. I hated Vic a little more with every inconvenience caused.
My job probably wouldn’t have survived the three-day period if not for the set walkies—a giant radio that hung on my hip, a cord running from it up to an equally sexy headpiece that Nicole insisted I wear. I looked ridiculous but could hear Nicole’s voice loud and clear when she barked. And she barked constantly. It turned out pregnancy was hell on a bitch’s hormones. Her taste buds had gone crazy too. She’d been demanding the weirdest food. Olives, coffee-flavored ice cream, feta cheese, and banana popsicles. Try and track down banana popsicles. It was impossible. I called seventeen stores before she decided she’d rather have cherry.
There was one benefit of the constantly affixed headgear. I could tune into the general set chatter, which was usually snooze-worthy except for today, when a PA mentioned that Victor Worth was on set. I immediately ducked into Wardrobe and hid, my butt settled down behind racks of clothes, my fingers picking absentmindedly through the fabrics. I was stuck there for the forty-five minutes it took for word to finally circulate that he’d left.
When I returned to Nicole’s trailer, there was a box for me, too big to hold just a phone, and I growled a little under my breath. I ripped at the ribbon with angry hands, the white lid yanked off to reveal the purse—a Balenciaga City Bag—black, with a card hanging off one strap. I flipped open the card, steeling myself for the message, ready for something sexual and inappropriate, as was Vic’s style.
This one zips shut. Better for not losing things.
I had to roll my eyes at that. Peeking in the bag, I spied my phone.
So he had returned it. No face-to-face meeting required, no lording the phone over me in exchange for contact.
Call me paranoid, but I didn’t necessarily want it back. Not when it had been in his hands. Not when he could have gotten his geek squad to do God-knows-what to it. Tracking software? Keylogger programs? Remote access? Probably all of the above. I opened up the lid to the trash and ditched the phone, hearing the thud of it hit the bottom. One problem solved.
The bag … I ran my hand slowly over the supple leather, its clean and beautiful lines. Then I opened an upper cabinet and pushed the bag inside, hiding it behind all of Nicole’s junk. There was a limit to pride, and it stopped at insanity.
77. The Thing I Didn’t Want to Talk About
Parents. The one word no relationship needs. Carter said it and I took my time chewing my bite of salad. Beside me, my new phone chilled on the tabletop, freshly synced, my life back in order. Or rather, it was. Until Carter brought up his parents. And dinner with them.
“Saturday night,” he continued. “They suggested a French restaurant on Park.” He speared a piece of fish and looked up at me. “Do you like French food?”
“Yes…” I said cautiously.
“You don’t have to come.” He shrugged. “I know it’s been a crazy week for you with work … and with it raining tonight…” His words got lost in another bite of food and I set down my fork. It wasn’t that crazy of a week at work. And what did the rain have to do with anything?
“I can come.” My curiosity spoke for me, something about the casual invite; coupled with the reluctance of his voice … I was suddenly dying to meet them. How bad could parents be? I warmed to the idea, my head nodding. “I’d love to meet your parents.”
“You would?” Carter looked wary.
“Yeah.” I stabbed at another piece of salad. “I love parents.”
“Have you told yours about us?”
I slid the fork slowly out of my mouth, chewing the bite, trying to think of the proper response. “No,” I finally said. “I—I haven’t spoken to my parents in a while.” I stared down at my bowl, picking through the mixed greens. Our last contact had been my dad’s birthday. Since then, I’d left four or five messages, all unreturned. After the last, I hadn’t had the heart to try again. And that had been almost two weeks ago.
Odd that Carter and I had discussed almost everything but our parents. I’d planned to tell him about mine. Next week I’d kept thinking. The next weeks had piled up on themselves and turned into … God. Five months. Five months since we’d first met. And now … I shifted in my seat. It didn’t seem the time. Not when I’d asked him so little about his. I knew they’d been strict. Neat freaks who withheld sustenance. Nothing else. “Your uh—parents. They’re still married?”
