His Belt (Part Fourteen) Page 2

  “Yes, Abigail,” he says, still smiling. “We’re getting married.”

  Chapter 3

  ABIGAIL

  “Hello!” I yell like some kind of crazy person as we walk into the bridal shop around the corner from city hall. “Hello! I’m getting married!”

  Elijah looks around at the place distastefully. “Buying off the rack is bullshit,” he murmurs.

  I turn to look at him. “Don’t be a snob.”

  “Who’s being a snob?”

  “You are. And if you think that kind of attitude is going to be tolerated when we’re married, you’re sorely mistaken.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that sometimes we’re going to be eating ramen and generic brand ice cream in front of the tv at night, instead of going to movie premieres where we’re served lobster and fancy wine.”

  He looks shocked at this. “Ramen?” he repeats. “I will eat my own suit before I eat ramen.”

  “Then you better get used to eating off the rack.”

  His eyes darken. “You’re the one who needs to watch your attitude, Ms. Bennett.”

  “You can only call me that for a couple more hours,” I say. “And then it will have to be Mrs. Armstrong.”

  The weight of this settles around us, and the two of us are grinning like idiots, when a woman steps out of the back of the shop. Her long dark hair hangs all the way to her waist, and her nails are so long they curve. She’s wearing bright red lipstick and bright red nails, and her suit jacket flares out at the sleeves, like two bells.

  “Oh, hi,” I say. “Hi, yes, I’m the bride.”

  “Wonderful!” she says, her eyes shining. “And when is the wedding day?”

  “Today,” I say happily.

  “In an hour or two,” Elijah reports.

  “Oh, dear,” the woman says.

  “Is this considered eloping?” I ask two hours later as we step out of the limo and onto the sidewalk in front of city hall.

  “I’m sure it won’t surprise you that I don’t know the exact definition of eloping,” Elijah says.

  “It actually does surprise me. I thought you knew everything.” I gaze up and blink my eyes adoringly at him, teasing, and he sighs.

  “You do not want to test me today, Ms. Bennett. I have been cataloguing your indiscretions in the time we were apart, and you don’t want to add to that list.”

  I swallow at the timber in his tone, the edge and the promise that resides there. If there was any doubt in my mind that his dominant nature would be curbed by us getting married, it’s gone now.

  He takes my hand and we walk up the stairs to city hall.

  I’m wearing a simple pleated chiffon wedding dress, with a lace inset and tiny flowers adoring the back of the bodice. The women who worked at the bridal shop were sweet and nice, helping me to do my hair and makeup in the bathroom while another fitted Elijah into a black tuxedo that makes him look dashing.

  When we get to the top of the stairs that lead up to the building, I squeeze his hand and close my eyes.

  “Hold on,” I say. “We need a picture.” I reach into my tiny clutch and pull out my phone, then take a selfie of the two of us. The picture turns out beautiful, the two of us looking happy, cheeks flushed, smiles on our faces.

  And then he takes my hand and pulls me inside, ready to make me his.

  We obtain a marriage certificate, and then we’re led to a waiting area where three other couples are already sitting, waiting for their turn to get married.

  The actual ceremony is mercifully short – we’re married by a gray-haired woman with navy blue glasses and the most soothing smile I’ve ever seen. We forego our own vows – it’s not like we had time to write them, and besides, anything we could say couldn’t compare to everything we’ve been through. And the look on Elijah’s face conveys exactly what he’s feeling.

  At the end, when we’re pronounced husband and wife, the other couples that are getting married that day clap their hands as Elijah pulls me in for a kiss.

  “I love you, Mrs. Armstrong,” he murmurs into my ear.

  He takes my hand and leads me back outside. I pause for a moment, looking out over the city from the top of the steps. Everything looks the same – the cabs and the traffic and the bustling and the energy -- and yet everything is wonderfully different.

  “You sure do love to stop at the top of these steps,” Elijah says. “Shall I buy you an apartment at the top of the building?”

  “I can buy my own apartment if I want. As of two minutes ago, I’m a very rich woman.”

  He laughs, throwing his head back, the sound deep and wonderful.

  “Touché,” he says, and then he picks me up, the way a groom picks up a bride, and I wrap my arms around his neck.

  “This is how you pick someone up when you take them over the threshold,” I say.

  “We are over the threshold, Mrs. Armstrong,” he says, and his voice is gruff.

  And as we start down the stairs, I close my eyes and inhale the scent of him, realizing I know exactly what he means. This is the start of something, of everything. The threshold between before and after, the delineation of our lives being intertwined.

  Forever, he is mine, and I am his.

  Chapter 4

  ELIJAH

  In her wedding dress, she’s the most beautiful I’ve ever seen her. At first, I resisted when she slipped into a random bridal shop and announced to the salespeople that she was on her way to get married and needed a gown right that moment.

  I thought she deserved more. A private showing with the most expensive, exclusive gowns, saleswomen doting over her, designers creating something exclusive, her hair and makeup done by the best in the world.

  But it’s not those things that make her beautiful, or happy.

  It’s her.

  Everything about her is exquisite. And nothing money can buy can improve on her.

  “You’re my husband,” she says, snuggling into me in the back of the limo.

  “Yes,” I say. “You know the thought of that word used to fill me with dread.”

  She glances up at me, pulling back just a little. “What do you mean?” She frowns, and for a moment, I wonder if I should have said anything at all. But what I’ve learned during my time away from her is that if I want this to work, I’m going to have to be open with her.

  “I used to pity anyone who thought they needed to be married to be happy. Hell, I used to pity anyone who even wanted to be happy. To me, it denoted weakness.”

  “And now?”

  “And now I know that letting someone in, being truly vulnerable, is actually the strongest thing you can do.”

  She smiles and I kiss her. She tastes like strawberries and mint, and I part her lips with my tongue, the kiss deepening.

  It’s been so long since I’ve had her, really had her, the way I need, and the dominant part inside of me roars to life as my hands move over the curve of her hips, her waist, then up to the swell of her breast.

  She sucks a breath in through her teeth, then pulls back, her breathing fast and heavy.

  “Now that you’re my wife, it means I really own you,” I tease, running my finger over the in the front of her dress, pushing into the dip of her cleavage.

  She rolls her eyes and pulls back, settling her head back onto my chest. “Maybe in the eighteen hundreds, when…” She sits up suddenly. “Hey,” she says, looking out the window of the limo. “Where are we going?”

  “I thought we could go to your apartment and get anything you need to bring back to our place. I assume you need your computer?”

  She nods, biting her lip, and my cock gets heavy and hard. Jesus.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She shakes her head. “It’s just that there might be paparazzi there. They’ve almost given up, you know, um, following me. But sometimes there are still a few.”

  “And you don’t want them to photograph us?”

  S
he thinks about it, then looks down at herself. “I’m wearing a wedding dress.”

  “Not for long,” I murmur, my eyes sliding over her body, taking in the spot where the material nips in at her waist. I can already imaging sliding my hands up under that dress, pressing along the elastic of her panties, the warm, tight wetness that I know is waiting for me.

  She rolls her eyes, and my hands tighten at my sides.

  “I want everyone to know you’re mine,” I say. “I’m not ashamed of marrying you. Quite the opposite, Mrs. Armstrong.”

  Her brow furrows as she thinks about it.

  “But if you’re not ready, if you don’t want a picture of yourself -- of us --out there, I understand.” I pull my phone out, ready to dial my assistant as the limo glides to a stop in front of her building. “I’ll call Marissa right now and have her take care of everything.”

  Abigail bites her lower lip again, the pink flesh soft and moist. Jesus, this woman is trying to kill me.

  “No.” She shakes her head. “No.” Her voice sounds determined, like she’s trying to convince herself, and I’m about to ask her if she’s sure when she steps out of the car.

  Okay, then.

  “No paparazzi,” she says, sounding relieved.

  But inside, there’s a girl waiting in the lobby. She’s wearing a gray hoodie and a pair of faded jeans, Converse on her feet and a backpack slung over her shoulder.

  She’s sitting on the ground, her back against the wall, a textbook open on her lap. She’s reading from it, lips moving as she marks passages with a yellow highlighter.

  When she sees us, she scrambles quickly to her feet.

  “Abigail Bennett?” she says, flashing a nervous smile. “Hi.”

  I step quickly in front of Abigail. “She’s not talking to the press.”

  “The press?” The girl frowns. “Oh, because of… right. But I’m not the press. I’m Joy. The one who was emailing you about Will?”

  Abigail’s face dawns with recognition a split second before I realize who this woman is. Of course. The girl who was stalking Will, the one he got a restraining order against.

  She’s obviously unhinged, and Abigail has had enough unhinged people hanging around her, including, but not limited to, Josh and my own mother.

  “She’s not talking to you,” I say, starting to herd Abigail up the stairs. “Leave. Now. And if you try to contact her again, Will Manning won’t be the only one who’s taken out a restraining order on you.”

  “Is that what he told you?” she calls after us. “That he took out a restraining order on me?” She shakes her head. “He didn’t. I took it out on him. And he violated it the next day.”

  Abigail stops and starts to move back down the stairs.

  “Abigail,” I warn her. It’s not that I don’t believe this girl – it’s that it doesn’t matter if she’s telling the truth or not. Will is dangerous, and Abigail shouldn’t be having any kind of contact with anyone who’s even tangentially related to him.

  But Abigail pushes by me, holding up a hand to me in warning.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, taking the girl’s hand. “I didn’t know.”

  “It’s okay.” Joy smiles tentatively. “It was probably pretty weird getting those emails from me.”

  Ahh. The emails. The ones she kept sending, the ones I would delete and take care of before Abigail saw them. My hands tighten around the bannister as I fight the urge to take care of her now, to rush down there and scoop her into my arms, carry her up the stairs like some kind of deranged caveman.

  But how did that work for you, Elijah? a voice whispers. Did it help you at all when you tried to protect her and deleted those emails, forbade her from responding to them? This girl could have told her about Will, could have told her the truth before she got hurt. All your protection did nothing.

  My grip on the bannister tightens, so tight that the wood shakes slightly under my fingers, and I wonder what the hell kind of building this is. Obviously highly unsuitable and dangerous. I make a note to get my investigator to look into the landlord who’s running this ridiculous place.

  “Why didn’t you tell me in the emails?” Abigail says to Joy. “That Will was the one who was bothering you?”

  “My lawyer told me not to put too much in writing,” Joy says. “You know, just in case you shared the emails with Will. That’s why I wanted to talk to you, to meet with you and warn you. He talked about you a lot, and I just...I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Abigail says. “If I had known, I would have done something.”

  “No, no, I’m the one who should be apologizing,” Joy says, giving her a wobbly smile. “I should have tried harder. I’m just glad that he’s in jail now.”

  Abigail nods. “Did he hurt you?”

  For the first time, Joy’s smile fades and her eyes go dark. She gets a faraway look in her eyes, and Abigail rushes to fill the silence.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says. “It doesn’t matter what he did. All that matters is that you’re here, and I’m here, and he’s in jail.”

  Joy nods, but she doesn’t look as convinced.

  The two of them exchange phone numbers, typing them into their respective devices before embracing. The whole time, I watch from the stairs, my hand still so tight on that bannister it feels like it’s going to break.

  Finally, Joy turns to leave, and when she walks out the door, Abigail and I watch as she crosses the street, neither of us turning away until her red backpack is out of sight.

  Chapter 5

  ABIGAIL

  Elijah’s mood has suddenly changed.

  He’s all business when we get upstairs to my apartment, quietly brooding as I collect my things, staring out the window of the limo as we’re driven back to his apartment.

  As soon as we’re inside, I drop my things on the floor.

  “Okay, spill it,” I say.

  “Abigail, that is an extremely expensive computer. You shouldn’t just go flinging it everywhere.”

  “It’s not an extremely expensive computer,” I say, shrugging as I make my way into the living room and flop down on the couch. “I got it refurbished from some shop up in Harlem.”

  Elijah looks scandalized at the word “refurbished.”

  “Now tell me what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing is wrong.”

  “You’re pacing around the room and you were quiet all the way home. This is our wedding day, we’re supposed to be joyous.”

  “I am joyous.”

  “You have a sour face.”

  “A face cannot be sour, Abigail.”

  “Really? You should look in a mirror.”

  The side of his face twitches, like he’s trying to hold back a smile. “If I’m sour, it’s only because of that place you were living in. It was extremely dangerous, Abigail, I touched the railing and it almost fell off.”

  “The railing is fine.”

  “I’m calling the city building inspector tomorrow. He’ll be incensed that –”

  “Elijah.”

  He turns from the window to look at me, the sunlight streaming in behind him. My breath catches, my heart speeding up at the sight of him there, in his tuxedo. My husband. Holy shit. My husband.

  “You’re my husband,” I say softly. “And if something is bothering you, we need to talk about it.”

  He opens his mouth to start in about the stupid railing again, but I stop him.

  “Not about the stupid railing. About what’s really bothering you.”

  He comes to sit next to me on the couch, pulls my legs onto his lap and slips off my shoes. His hands start to massage the arch of my foot.

  “If you’re trying to massage me into submission, it isn’t going to work.” I pull my foot away and sit crisscross applesauce on the other side of the couch. “Now talk, husband.”

  “It was that girl,” he says finally.

  “Joy?” I frown. “What about her?”

  “If I h
ad just let those emails go through, you would have known about Will,” he says finally. “And if you’d known about Will, I could have done something. You wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

  “That’s why you’re upset? You think what happened with Will is your fault?” I shake my head and move over to him on the couch. “That was not your fault.”

  “But I –”

  I place my finger against his lips, and his eyes widen at surprise at my disobedience. “No. That was not your fault. You couldn’t have known. And even if I had ended up talking to her, I probably wouldn’t have believed her anyway. Will was my friend, or at least, I thought he was. And he was a charming, conniving sociopath. I probably would have just written her off as another crazy chick who was obsessed with him.”

  He shakes his head. “I could have found out about who he was, looked into his past.”

  “Really? Because they just found the DNA that linked him to the man my mother killed.” I take his hand in mine. “You have to get over this idea that you can control everything. Sometimes things just happen, Elijah. You have to understand that.”

  He looks at me then, his eyes dark. “I’m trying.”

  “I know you are.” And I do know this. Telling me what he told me about his father was a huge step.

  “I don’t know how to let go.” As if to illustrate this point, his hand tightens around mine, and I look down.

  “I can see that.”

  He smiles sheepishly and unfurls his fingers just a little.

  “I’ll help you,” I say. “Because there are definitely things that are going to be your fault. And it’s my responsibility, as your wife, to point those out to you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Probably any fight we have. The stupid ones, like over what to watch on tv.”

  “We won’t be watching tv. It’s a waste of time.”

  “Speak for yourself. We are in a golden age of television.”