The Inheritance (Volume Three) Page 5

  Neal’s smitten with me. As much as it makes my stomach twist with butterflies it also makes me break out into a sweat. We’ve fallen for each other but it won’t matter come Friday, when I step on the plane to leave Chicago for good.

  Neal’s kiss soothes my nerves, his arm thrown around my waist as I tilt my head up, our lips meeting in the middle.

  Alanis punches Neal’s shoulder. “Hello to you too,” she says. She takes the pizza from me and heads towards the kitchen. “What do I get for bringing lunch?”

  We eat in the living room, balancing wooden trays on our laps that Alanis finds atop Gina’s refrigerator. I’m careful not to spill anything on the plush white rug, or the pile of shopping bags around us.

  “I’m going stir crazy in here,” Neal says, licking a pulp of sauce from the corner of his mouth.

  Alanis taps away on her laptop. “You won’t have to be here much longer. I got an e-mail from my source.” She looks up at me. “We’re meeting with Lee tomorrow afternoon.”

  My palms begin to sweat. “Fantastic,” I say.

  Alanis raises an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

  Neal turns towards me. “You’re allowed to be afraid.”

  I straighten my shoulders. “I’m not scared…I just…how are we going to get him to stop hunting down Neal?”

  “When your father died he passed down the rights, to you, for some of the most prime real estate in Chicago. The South Side is a shithole but in a few years it’ll be home to million dollar condos and ritzy shops. It would’ve made your father the richest man in the Midwest. It’ll make you the richest woman in the Midwest,” Alanis says.

  My eyebrows furrow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Martin should’ve told you about it,” Neal says. “It was in your father’s will.”

  “It wasn’t mentioned during the reading,” I say. “Was it?”

  Alanis shuts her laptop. “Who’s Martin?”

  “He was Julian’s assistant,” Neal says. “His right hand for over twenty years.”

  “He explained everything my father left to me, but he never mentioned any land,” I say.

  Alanis nods. “Do you have your cell phone?”

  “Of course,” I say.

  “Then fucking call him.”

  I call Martin from Neal's temporary bedroom. His phone goes to voicemail.

  “You’ve reached Martin Simmons, I'm unavailable to take your call at this time but leave your name and number and I'll get back to you.”

  “Martin, it's Caitlin,” I say. “Caitlin Wheeler. I wanted to talk to you about my father’s will, specifically concerning some land on the South Side. I'm sure you just forgot to tell me about it. But um, call me back as soon as you get this.”

  In the living room Alanis is back on her computer, fingers flying over the keyboard. She barely looks up when she says, “So?”

  “He didn't pick up.”

  She throws her hands in the air. “We're sitting ducks until you figure this out.” She closes her laptop and stands. “Have an answer for me before tomorrow afternoon or we’ll have to reschedule and I'm not sure it'll be before you leave.”

  Alanis lets herself out, leaving Neal and I alone.

  He takes another bite of his pizza and another drip of sauce hangs from the corner of his mouth. His tongue snakes between his lips as he licks it off, lounging back against the couch.

  I collect Alanis’s tray, her plate and her orange-stained napkins. I kick her crumbs beneath the white wingback chair. In the back of my mind I imagine Gina’s face tightening when she sees the mess.

  I drop her dishes in the sink, glass clanking against metal, a disruptive sound, like a hammer to a drum, ringing out against my temples.

  A sharp pound grows on either side of my head, like clusters of nerves contracting and expanding. My eyes close and the sound of Neal rummaging around in the living room, ignites in my brain. I can hear him shuffle on the couch, his feet scratching against the rug, his fingers swiping across the plate, the last piece of pizza sliding down his throat.

  He enters the kitchen and freezes when he spots me at the sink, clutching the silver basin.

  “What’s wrong?” he says, setting down his plate and tray.

  “Nothing,” I say, plastering on a smile. “I just have a small headache.”

  A frown tugs at his mouth.

  Neal moves behind me, his arms thrown around my waist, his chin resting against my shoulder. “I’m sure I can fix that,” he says, his lips brushing across my cheek.

  A sharp shiver rolls up my spine. “Neal?”

  He kisses the spot below my ear. “Yes?”

  “Who’s Louis Romero?”

  Neal doesn’t flinch. He scatters kisses down my neck, stopping at the curve of my shoulder. “I don’t know,” he says, mouth stretching the neck of my blouse.

  “You’ve never heard that name before?”

  Neal hooks his tongue beneath the strap of my bra, the wet muscle licking at my skin. “Not once,” he says, cool hands sliding up my stomach.

  His fingers dance beneath my blouse, trailing the underwire of my bra.

  “Why do you ask?” he says, squeezing my breasts.

  A sharp gasp ripples through me. My hips instinctively press back against him.

  I should tell him about the police station, about the autopsy report and Detective McManus. He’ll get a kick out of it, my father, the criminal, fucking a police officer. But I keep the truth locked in my throat.

  He pushes his fingers beneath my bra, palms sliding over hardened nipples.

  “It’s nothing,” I say, hands tucked in his elbows, pulling his arms from beneath my shirt.

  His mouth leaves my skin and I spin around to face him. His eyes are wide and dark with lust, his erection thick in his jeans.

  I cradle his face, the pads of my fingers and thumbs pressing into the underside of his jaw. His stubble scratches against my skin as he turns his head to place a kiss to the outside of my fingers. I want to trust him but Neal’s lied to me before, he’s withheld information for his own benefit. Who’s to say he isn’t doing it again?

  “Stop thinking,” he says, lips inches from mine. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  I know you’re lying to me. “Nothing’s wrong,” I say, forcing a smile.

  Neal kisses me with my back against the sink, the cheap edges of the counter catching against my blouse. He presses himself against me, both hands tangled in my hair as my fingers curl around his upper arms. The gentle caresses of the night before have been replaced by desperate, sloppy kisses – our tongues battling in each other’s mouths.

  Neal unbuttons my jeans and I return the favor, denim sliding down our legs before we kick them off. He pushes up my shirt and I undo the buttons of his, discarding our layers on the kitchen counter.

  My bottom lip slides between his teeth and my leg hooks around his waist. If we were near a bed this would be an ideal position. He would clamp down on my mouth before hooking his hand beneath my right thigh, carrying me over to the mattress. But we’re in a kitchen – Gina’s kitchen.

  My leg comes down and my mouth is released. Neal spins me around, both hands on my hips, until my stomach is pressing into the sink.

  Neal wants me more than he wants me naked. My panties come off, dangling around my ankles, but my bra stays on.

  I lean over the sink and spread my legs.

  My breath tightens in my chest as Neal’s fingers dip into my wetness. He’s lathering them up, coating them until they’re slick. He reaches lower and pushes them inside, two fingers at once, readying me for his cock.

  I’m not eighteen and virginal. I’m ready for him now.

  He pulls out his fingers and pushes them in again, a groan growing in his chest as he watches himself finger-fuck me.

  “Come on,” I say, throwing my head back. “Fuck me.”

  He pulls out hi
s fingers and a quiver rolls between my legs.

  The wet digits curl against my hip as he says, “Since you asked nicely.”

  He enters me in a single slow thrust and for a second, the world only exists for us. Neal’s fingers pressing into the flesh of my hips, my toes curling against the tile, his cock stretching me open. He draws a long grunt from the pit of his stomach and my lips part to release a moan.

  He waits, his balls against my ass, savoring the feeling of being enveloped by me, of being surrounded by my heat. I look over my shoulder and know the sensation drives him mad, his eyes slipped close, his mouth parted in ecstasy.

  I move against him, pushing my hips up, his cock slowly sliding out before I push them back. He drops out of his daze and watches me move, fucking myself on his cock. Another moan passes my lips.

  “Fuck me,” I say, breathless. “Fuck me, hard.”

  Neal fucks me with an intensity unmatched by any man I’ve been with before. His hips slap against my ass, flesh against flesh singing out in the small room. My back arches like a cat’s, ass grinding against him, matching his thrusts as he moans from the pit of my stomach.

  My orgasm shoots up inside of me like a display of fireworks, starting at the tip of my toes and spreading beneath my bones. It appears without warning, my mouth dropping open as a soundless moan floats up from my throat.

  My muscles tighten around him and Neal’s movements stutter, his fingers curling against my hips, holding on as his orgasm rocks him forward.

  His forehead rests between my shoulder blades, his lips scratching against my skin as he catches his breath. He’s heavy against me but I welcome his weight, though I grow looser beneath him by the second. We remain this way until the front door opens and Gina shuts the door behind her.

  “Neal,” she calls out. “I got off early and was thinking we could order something to eat.”

  Her heels clack down the hall, growing louder with each step.

  Neal pulls out and warm liquid drips down my leg. I grab a handful of paper towels and quickly clean myself up but it’s too late. Gina catches us, Neal hoisting his boxers over his hips, me with my underwear still pooled around my ankles, vagina wet and exposed.

  Her eyes grow comically wide. She loses control of the bags in her hand – shopping bags that range from neon pink to bright yellow – and clears her throat.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, collecting them from the floor. Her eyes travel to Neal’s cock, softening in his briefs as he grabs his jeans. “I…” She glances at me, a hot heat spreading up her neck as her eyes make contact with my cunt. “Oh god…I…”

  She’s short-circuiting.

  Gina removes herself from the kitchen, carrying her bags along with her, up the hall and to the living room.

  Neal catches my eye across the short space, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. We laugh loud enough for Gina to hear and we don’t try to stifle it. I can almost see her, uncomfortably perched on the edge of her chair, mouth tight as she listens to us cackle at her expense.

  We dress through it, sneaking glances and ducking our heads, like teenagers caught fooling around in the supply closet. I feel somewhat sixteen again, silently judged by my step-mother who I live to piss off.

  “I should probably do some damage control,” Neal says, running a hand through his mussed hair.

  “Just show her your dick,” I say. “I’m sure she’ll forgive you.”

  Neal throws his arm around my waist and pulls me in for a kiss. He tastes like pizza and soda but I can’t get enough of him.

  He’s the one to pull away, his forehead pressed against mine, his eyes trained on my lips.

  “I’m gonna take a shower,” I say.

  He grins. “Maybe I’ll join you.”

  Another laugh floats from my throat. “I don’t think so. Gina might forgive us for this, but twice in one day? Now we’re just showing off.”

  ______

  The bathroom’s cramped like Neal’s bedroom, with just enough space for me to step out of the glass shower. My knee bumps into the toilet, my hip scratches against the lip of the sink.

  I catch my reflection in the steamed mirror, the muddled outline of my head and shoulders. Isn’t it odd how even when you can’t make out a single feature, you can still recognize yourself?

  I get dressed in Neal’s bedroom. My feet catching on the handles of plastic and paper shopping bags. I lather my skin in the same cheap lotion Gina bought for me when I was younger, a drug store brand that dries sticky. My hands are covered with it, from the tips of my fingers to the grooves between.

  I reach for a towel when my phone rings.

  It’s Martin. “I received your message,” he says, a sigh chasing his words. “Who told you about the property?”

  I check the bedroom door and make sure it’s locked. “Does it matter?”

  “No. I suppose it doesn’t.”

  The mattress creaks when I sit on the edge. “Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

  “Because it wasn’t my news to tell.”

  I pull the inside of my cheek between my teeth to keep myself from screaming. Martin’s speaking in riddles again.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The property no longer belongs to you. Your father transferred the rights to someone else before he died.”

  “Who?”

  Another sigh moves through him, loud enough to cloud the speaker. “You wouldn’t happen to know where Mr. Dietrich is, would you?”

  A cautious lump forms in my throat. “No.”

  “The police have been in the office all day. They’re concerned he might be,” Martin clears his throat.

  It’s harder to lie to Martin. Although our conversations were always short – “Hello,” “Hello,” “How are you?” “Good, and you?” – I’ve known him nearly my entire life. In my gut I know I can trust him, but there’s a nagging feeling of doubt that won’t stop nipping at the back of my neck.

  “The police told me they think he’s been kidnapped,” I say.

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “Is there anything we can do?”

  Martin pauses. “I’m looking into it.”

  “Good.”

  A small moment of silence passes between us.

  “Caitlin,” Martin says.

  “Yes?”

  “The property belongs to Neal. Your father signed the property over to him about a week before he died.”

  The knot in my stomach grows into my chest like a tree, the branches splintering off, wrapping around my ribcage, the thorns pressing into my heart. Neal’s face lights up in my mind.

  It was in your father’s will, Martin should’ve told you about it.

  He’s lied to me. Again.

  “Thank you,” I say, spitting out the words.

  “Caitlin,” Martin says again, my thumb reaching to end the call. “It took your father years to trust me. Please don’t make the same mistake.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you don’t.” He shifts in his seat, the leather squeaking beneath him. “But try to listen to me. Be careful Miss Wheeler. Be careful.”

  Seven

  I barely say anything to Neal when I leave. He presses his hand against my back and kisses me in the foyer but I don’t react. My mouth remains in a straight line, my hands hanging limp at my sides.

  He asks, “What’s wrong?”

  A wave of sickness settles in my stomach.

  For the first time since my return to Chicago, I walk. With my arms crossed over my chest I bypass the train station and continue South, passing liquor stores with crowded windows, trendy Indian restaurants hiding beneath red awnings, clusters of college students chatting loudly about their off-campus apartments, and bars.

  There are more bars than I remember and they run the gamut from inexpensive with sticky floors to joints with pricy craft oxygen cocktails. The sort
of place my father would take his friends, the group of them surrounding a table in the corner, buying bottles without asking the price, covering the bills of young, beautiful women, in hopes they’ll invite them home.

  I can’t imagine Detective McManus meeting my father this way. I can’t imagine her in a dress. She’s a beautiful cop, a woman who pales next to all the others. A woman like my mother. A woman with personality.

  Alanis has the best of both worlds. She’s gorgeous and mouthy and who I wanted to be, once. She commands attention but more importantly, she commands respect. She’s not the sort of woman you lie to, for fear of her hands around your throat. That’s probably the real reason she and Neal didn’t work out. He couldn’t play his games with her. She wouldn’t stand for it.

  But I will. I am.

  I’m allowing Neal to kiss me with his lies spread across his mouth; my eyes wide and oblivious, like Ashleigh’s. I’m willingly, silently, looking away, refusing to question the man who may have answers about my father’s death.

  It kills me to admit this but I wish my father was alive. He’s the only person who can answer the question: who the hell can I really trust?

  If I were more like Ashleigh I could find a quiet place – a park bench or a table in the library – and pray to him. I could ask him to send me some sort of sign, something to help me out. But even if I believed in all that, knowing my father, my words would go into one spiritual ear and out the other.

  ______

  My limbs are jelly by the time I make it back to the condo. I collapse on my bed and curl beneath the covers, exhaustion pulling me to sleep.

  I wake up a few hours later. The sky’s black, the moon sprinkling light through my window. The front door slams shut. Two voices fill the living room. It’s Ashleigh and Chris again, the pair of them cackling like drunk hyenas.

  Their laughter slows before it dies down. With one ear to the ceiling I make out the sound of lips smacking together, tongues licking at the corner of mouths. They’re kissing, Ashleigh wrapped up in his arms as Chris holds her impossibly close.