Collide (Off-Limits Book 2) Page 3

  “You’re the least convenient way for him to get off.” Kat gets that psychologist look in her eyes. “He’s gotten a taste of you, and now he’s hungry. He’s decided he can’t get that anywhere else.”

  It’s hard to imagine me as some seductress, but if it is true and I’m a habit Sawyer can’t kick...

  I bounce off the couch and straighten my clothes. “Then I hope he starves.”

  The leaves are turning, but as I drive home to New York, they’re a blur of red and gold I can’t process.

  I glance at the texts to my sister.

  Liv: How’s your week going? Didn’t see you in the social posts from the first pep rally of the year.

  Emma: That’s because I wasn’t there.

  Liv: ??

  There’s been no other answer since, and I’m worried about her. She has friends, but no one to look out for her where Mom and Dad are concerned. Emma’s cheer captain won’t be happy about her skipping the pep rally, and Mom won’t be either.

  When I get to the townhouse, I breathe in the familiar scent. “Hello?” I call, starting to set my bag on the floor before the habit kicks in that we don’t leave things on the floor.

  “Olivia. There you are.” My dad stalks into the hall, pointing to his tie. “I hate these things and your mother always does them too tight.”

  I drop the bag long enough to help him with his tie. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s the annual fundraiser for youth services. My firm is a big supporter.”

  My heart lifts a little. The business must be doing better than it was.

  “Your sister’s date canceled at the last minute. She had better be ready in half an hour.” My mom breezes in, wearing an elegant black sheath dress and fixing on diamond earrings. “It’s bad enough we have an extra ticket.”

  “It might be two extra tickets,” my father murmurs.

  I finish making the perfect knot and brush past him. My sister’s door is shut but there is a pile of fabric in front of it on the floor.

  I pick it up to find a shredded skirt, and a top with our high school’s team emblazoned on the front.

  Still holding the fabric, I knock once on the door before turning the handle.

  The room is almost as familiar as my own. All my sister’s favorite artsy things around, photos of her with friends, ones with me. One from camp with her covered in paint, which Mom hates. But the grinning girl in those pictures is nowhere in sight.

  Emma is sprawled on the bed, her face buried in the pillow.

  “Hey. Did I miss some ritual sacrifice?”

  She rolls onto her back and takes in what I’m holding with tear-stained triumph.

  “I quit cheerleading and Mom freaked out.” Emma props up on her elbows, swiping at her face. “She scared off Trey, so I had to retaliate.”

  “By stopping something you love too?”

  She rolls her eyes. “She escalated.”

  “It’s family. Not war.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  Except it’s not. Sometimes it feels like negotiating a peace accord. A series of progressive sacrifices in the hope of the kind of acceptance and openness and love other families seem to have naturally.

  I shake my head. “Mom said you have a date for the fundraiser.”

  “Yeah, one she approved of. I called him and told him my herpes was acting up.”

  I bite my cheek. My sister doesn’t lack in the drama department. Act first, think second.

  Not unlike Sawyer.

  I push that thought from my mind. I’m not letting the man who haunts my thoughts at school follow me home to New York.

  “Remember we used to go to this event every year? We’d kick each other and play silent games during the speeches.”

  She scoots off the bed, heading for the walk-in closet.

  Half a dozen cocktail dresses hang in one section of the closet.

  She grabs a green one and a pale yellow one and carries them out to drop them on the bed. “Why don’t you go in my place?”

  I stare at the dresses in surprise. Emma didn’t get them out for her, but for me. “My boobs are bigger than yours.”

  “Way to rub it in.” She holds up the green one, tugging at the bodice. “This might work.”

  I take the dress out of her hands, the satin fabric soft on my skin. “It’s obviously yours. You’d look amazing in it.”

  “Trey thought so too. But now, he won’t call me back. I know he’s just a guy and it shouldn’t matter and I have my whole life ahead of me, but it does.”

  “I’m sorry, Ems. I know what that feels like.” I try not to think of the missing text chain on my phone. A month ago it didn’t exist, and now, I’m not sure how I lived before it.

  “Emma! You had better be dressed.” My mother’s voice comes from beyond the door.

  My sister’s eyes flash, but before she opens her mouth, I cross to the door, opening it a crack.

  “Mom, give us a second.”

  This peace keeping has a familiar chafing, like a pair of shoes that don’t quite fit but are too expensive to throw away.

  But for the first time in a while, it feels as if my family has a chance for a nice evening together. Emma doesn’t think she wants a night out, but she’ll stay home and lose herself in feelings if she doesn’t.

  “I’ll go if you take me as your date. It could be fun.”

  Emma cocks her head. “You want to go?”

  “Yeah,” I say, honestly. “I do.”

  It’ll feel like a slice of normal after so much craziness.

  “And you’re going to wear this dress,” I declare, pointing to the green one.

  “Fine.” Her eyes glint before she turns back to her closet. “But I get to pick one out for you.”

  “She’s a Rockefeller who briefly ran off to join the circus as a trapeze artist,” I murmur to Emma as we make our way toward the ballroom.

  The woman ahead of us wears a long fur with impeccably styled hair. When she turns her head there’s the glint of expensive jewelry as her red lips press in a firm line.

  “Really?” my sister whispers back. “I thought Anderson Cooper was the last surviving Rockefeller.”

  “No idea. But the fur is vintage, and there’s that ‘early capitalist’ vibe even though her eyes keep darting toward the exit like she’s waiting for her ride.”

  She laughs and my dad glances over with an absent smile.

  “Your mother always put on a brave face about being dragged to these”—she’s now trading air-kisses with the woman Emma and I were making up a backstory for—“but I’m glad you girls are enjoying yourselves.”

  He’s in a better mood than the last night we spent together as a family, taking in the basketball game at Russell. But the bitterness barely imprinted on my memory because Sawyer followed me home, made me sandwiches without crusts, and put me back together with his rough hands and patient lips and hooded eyes.

  We pass through the entrance to the ballroom, the sign gracing an easel proclaiming that the charity has already raised a million dollars thanks to ticket sales and sponsors.

  Several dozen tables with crisp white tablecloths fill the ballroom like a hundred stars. Some are starting to fill in, and we find our way to a table two rows off the stage.

  Dad greets business colleagues, shaking hands and trading stories.

  “Dibs,” Emma mutters, grabbing two seats facing the stage—it’s harder to fall asleep with the bright lights. And this way we can see if there’s anyone interesting in the front row.

  “I’m glad,” I tell my dad, leaning over the empty chair he leaves between me and him for Mom.

  “About what?”

  I lower my voice. “That things are going better. I mean…” I go on at his blank look, “The company must be doing well enough to sponsor a table.”

  “We could check out the silent auction,” Emma interrupts. “You and Mom could use a few days in Italy.”

  His smile tightens. “I’
m sure we don’t. Now, you both look lovely. Let me introduce you to my colleagues.”

  We make small talk with some business partners of my father’s, and moments later, a whisper comes next to my ear.

  “Found another. Retired spy, eventually forced to quit because his face was memorable—he looked too similar to the Monopoly man.” She points to a short grey-haired man in a tux by an auction table, and I laugh.

  “Let’s go look. I think I see a turtle sculpture…”

  We link arms and head to the side of the room to inspect the long table.

  “Oh, it’s a real turtle.” Emma insists, pointing to the poor creature, preserved by some taxidermist.

  “Is that even legal?”

  “You can’t bring it back to life now. But you could buy it for your apartment.”

  I cock my head, feeling a pang of sympathy. “Kat and Jules might object.”

  She takes a sip of her drink. “Why do you think people want animals in their houses?”

  I think of Kismet, her eager brown eyes full of love and curiosity. Or Lancaster’s jeweled fish, each one with its own drive and habits that together create an entirely unique ecosystem.

  “Animals remind us we’re no different,” I decide. “We can put on designer dresses and drink champagne, but at the end of the day, we’re all just fighting to find a place we belong in this world. I can’t imagine why someone would want an animal dead.”

  “Probably the same reason.” My attention drags back to the turtle. “If it’s a trophy, a symbol that man has conquered all, we can pretend we have control over our lives. Then we’re not the animals.”

  I’m still turning that over as she looks past my shoulder.

  “One more. Disgraced royalty, kicked out of the castle for subversive philosophy and sleeping with too many nannies.”

  I turn and spot the familiar tall frame and slightly rounded shoulders down the row of auction tables. His hair is pulled back from his face, the profile sharp even in boredom as he talks to a man I don’t know.

  Sawyer.

  My stomach knots. The lump rises up my throat until I can’t breathe.

  “Wait, do I know him?” Emma’s words echo in my ears.

  Every man in here is wearing a tux, but he’s the only one who has this effect on me.

  “He’s my professor,” I manage. “From Russell.”

  “The one from the basketball game? No way.” Emma grabs one of the bidding sheets off the table and fans herself with it. “You look like you could use one too.”

  I wish I could question why he’s here, except of course he is. I’m thinking of him and trying not to, and there’s no corner of my life he can’t touch with his reckless confidence.

  A hand grabs my shoulder.

  “Don’t do anything,” Dad mutters, nodding to the slip of paper in my hand.

  “I wasn’t going to buy you an island. But”—I take a breath, smiling—“I do want to talk to you about school. Tuition for next semester.”

  “Unless things change radically, there won’t be any next semester.”

  I blink. “What do you mean? You bought this table for ten thousand dollars.”

  His smile clicks back into place. “The only reason we’re here is to show face and remind everyone we’re not bankrupt and hanging our heads in shame.”

  My face burns.

  Things aren’t going better. He’s clinging to hope by his fingernails.

  This isn’t a comforting night with family, it’s a reminder of how fucked up all of this is.

  I force myself to follow my father to our table.

  On the way, my gaze lands on the turtle again. This time it’s not pity I feel.

  It’s understanding.

  4

  Sawyer

  I came tonight to rub shoulders with people who could help my new venture with Tate, but also because of promises I made to this charity months ago.

  It’s a reminder to myself of who I am. My annual gift to this charity has grown every year.

  But the second I walked in the door, disdain rose up. Money drips from the chandeliers and every person in this room.

  “Take the things you want, Sawyer,” my mother used to say with a smile. “No one will offer them to you, even if you’re owed them.”

  When I spot Olivia, I think I’m hallucinating.

  But it’s not a product of my messed-up head.

  Her hair is pinned off one side of her face, sending all those waves tumbling over the opposite shoulder. She’s half done up, half wild. She wears a nearly white dress, like a damned angel.

  And I’m the devil who made her fall.

  When her father grabs her arm and speaks urgently at her ear, every muscle in my body stiffens.

  “Tell me you’re not having a heart attack,” says the tall blond man next to me, his dry tone perfectly matched to the crisp British accent. “You’re too young and you don’t drink enough.”

  When Olivia turns to head for her table, I force my attention to my friend. “I should change at least one of those things.”

  Harrison King might be worth billions but his life was anything but easy. He’s an old school friend, like Daniel yet nothing like him at once.

  Daniel grew up in a loving home that continues to support him to this day. Harrison had everything, until it was ripped away.

  Yet somehow, he’s rebuilt himself and his life.

  The waiter assigned to our table brings me a gin. We’re in the front row near the center and I’ve chosen a seat on the side of my table.

  Harrison takes his seat between me and a twenty-something woman with straight dark hair and full lips. She’s wearing a gold dress, but it’s her that shimmers.

  “Sawyer, this is my fiancée, Raegan.”

  “The DJ,” I say.

  “I’m a lot of things, Professor.” She leans across Harrison to offer a hand, her eyebrow lifting in amusement. “I’m sure you are, too.”

  The enormous yellow diamond sparkling on her hand is worn as casually as the clothes.

  “Do you always stare at people that intensely?”

  She doesn’t blink. “I meet a lot of people.”

  “I’m Harrison’s friend with the long hair.”

  Raegan plays with a fork from her place setting. “I don’t remember people by the way they look. I remember them by who they are. We’ve all got our damage. Might not be easy to see from the outside, but that’s what makes someone worth knowing.”

  I shift in my seat, the hairs lifting on my arms under the tux.

  I’ve been wondering who could’ve gotten my old friend, the target of every upwardly aspirational woman in the world for a decade, to pledge himself to her.

  I get it.

  “She’s not who I pictured,” I murmur to my friend when Raegan turns to speak with the woman on her other side.

  “I don’t know what I like more. The ways we’re similar or the ways we’re different.”

  He slides a hand across the table and flips her wrist over, threading his fingers through hers without her so much as looking up.

  I was prepared to judge her. Instead, I’m envying him.

  Fuck. Am I actually jealous of them?

  Impossible.

  I don’t have that kind of faith in love.

  But as I shift in my seat and scan the room, I spot Olivia and her family in the next row back.

  She looks beautiful and miserable, and if I’m the one who caused that by my actions in my office, I regret it.

  But no matter what shit is between her and her parents, it’s not my problem.

  One of the organizers appears at my arm. “Dr. Redmond. We appreciate your support.”

  “Is there a change to the introduction?”

  “We’re not sure it’s best for you to speak.”

  “Because…”

  She flinches.

  Because I’m a pariah.

  I shouldn’t care. But there is a lifetime of mistakes that weren’t even mine. St
range how society asks us to pay for them.

  When I look up, Olivia’s watching.

  Our gazes lock, and it’s like lightning in my brain, thunder in my chest. I didn’t expect to see her but it feels inevitable that she’s here, witnessing my slow unraveling.

  What would it be like to have her sit next to me, like Harrison’s fiancée is next to him? To have not only the audacity to be in public together, no matter who cares, but that familiarity?

  “I will be making the introductory remarks,” I decide, pushing out my chair.

  Her eyes fly wide in alarm. “But Dr. Redmond—”

  I rise from my seat and head toward the microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the annual fundraiser for this important charity.”

  Polite applause fills the room.

  “I’m here to introduce the speaker and in a moment I will. But I want to ask how many of you grew up without your biological parents.”

  A few arms lift slowly.

  “Children raised in foster care are underrepresented in this room. And that’s how it works. Generosity of the upper class supports those who were born without, but systemic problems reinforce those gaps, and no matter how many dinners we have, we can’t fix it. So write your checks, and go home to your beds and sleep soundly, but if you have children, hug them. Tell them they matter. Because one day, you might not be able to.”

  The room is silent.

  A single pair of hands clapping slices through the pause.

  I lock gazes with Olivia.

  I expect her to be chastising, but she’s compassion. Salvation. Forgiveness. All the things I never dared to ask for.

  After, it’s Harrison who says, “Are you going to introduce me to the woman you can’t stop staring at? Because she’s coming this way.”

  She approaches and I clear my throat. “Olivia. This is—”

  “Harrison King.”

  They exchange greetings.

  “How do you know Sawyer?” Harrison asks.

  If I expect a flicker of nerves in her expression, there is none. “Professor Redmond teaches one of my engineering classes.”