Heartless Lover by Faith Summers

8

Summer

It’s starting to get dark, and Eric’s not back yet.

He left me in the care of his staff a little after lunch.

He introduced me to Lyssa, his maid who is here for six hours a day, Oleg, one of his personal bodyguards who would be looking after me—more like watching me—when Eric’s not here, and Borya his second in command. Borya was the guy who came in this morning when I first went out.

Both he and Oleg look exactly like what you’d imagine Bratva men to be like and not the kind of men who stand for nonsense. Both look like they’ve been trained to kill without question, and they barely said anything to me.

I spent the day going over what I was going to say to Dad. Now my head is more than the mess it already was.

I mostly stayed in my room because I wanted to gather my thoughts. That’s where I am now, and I’m no far forward than I was earlier.

I have no idea what I’m going to say to my father. I’m sure Eric is going to want to hear that I’ve spoken to him when he gets back.

At least I can be grateful I’m now wearing actual clothes, and I’m out of his shirt, out of his shirt and away from the scent of him, like he’s making his mark on me that way too.

Just before Eric left, a pretty little blonde woman stopped by with bags of clothing from Neiman Marcus. Although she saw me briefly, I made myself scarce because of my inappropriate-for-visitors-wear. I was, however, inclined to think she could have been his girlfriend—or one of them. She didn’t stay long. She was probably here for ten minutes tops.

I wasn’t expecting clothes of the Neiman Marcus variety and would have been just as happy with something from a cheaper store. Or not at all because I had clothes at the cottage. Granted, nothing I own is as nice as the little summer dress I’m wearing that looks like it belongs on a model. Everything else I had looked like I was ready to dig around in a garden or milk the cows on a farm.

When I looked at the clothes, I was surprised to see she got my size right, and she got some really nice things as well as the essentials like underwear and skincare. It seemed thoughtful of her like she’d tried to think of everything I might need.

Pulling in a deep breath, I push to my feet and gather courage once more. This is the second time I’ve had to gather courage today, but this is harder.

I should do it, though. I already feel bad that I haven’t called my father, and I know I’ll feel worse if I leave it any longer or wait until Sunday to speak to him.

I find Lyssa in the kitchen. When she sees me, she lifts her head and greets me with a bright smile that makes her green eyes look bigger but also deepens the wrinkles on her face. With her gray beehive updo she seems more like she’d be more at home in a 1960’s TV show, but it gives her a warm presence.

I picked up on that warm presence straight away when she was showing me around the apartment and gave me a motherly look I’ve only ever gotten from two women in my life—Grandmama and Marquees’ wife. It was a genuine look of concern for another’s wellbeing. She’s doing it again now.

“Hi,” I say nervously.

“Hello dear, how are you feeling?” she asks, speaking in a Russian accent.

I’m not sure what Eric told her regarding me being here, but since that’s the second time she’s asked me that today I’m assuming he must have told her about Scarlett. Not the full details of what happened, but maybe that my sister just died.

She has that flicker of sympathy in her eyes that shows the compassion you’d feel when you know a person has lost a loved one.

“I’m not too bad.” That’s my default answer. “Lyssa, did Eric speak to you about the phone?”

She smiles and nods. “You want to talk to your father?”

“Yes, please.”

“Okay. Follow me.”

She’s leads me into the living room, where she opens a little cupboard and takes out a silver cellphone.

When she hands me the phone, my hands shake, and she gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“I’m sure you’ll feel stronger when you start speaking to him.”

“I hope so.” I think if I try to keep the discussion focused on Dad’s health, it might be okay. Not that I’m going to avoid mentioning Scarlett. I definitely couldn’t do that. I just think it’s best to speak to him face to face when it comes to her.

“If you need me, I’ll be out on the terrace,” Lyssa says. “Just come out and get me.”

“Thank you.”

Her kindness is soothing. With her around, I feel different from when the men are here. Maybe that’s done on purpose, though, like a way to control me. I’m used to people trying to manipulate me, so this wouldn’t be a new tactic I haven’t seen before. I just don’t have the strength to do anything more than what I’m doing.

Besides—even if it’s fake—her kindness is perhaps what I need now to balance the emotions colliding inside me.

“You’re welcome, dear.” She leaves, and soon as she goes through the door, the nerves come rushing back, and I freeze up again.

I have Dad’s number programmed into my head, and I’m ready to call. I’m just stuck on what to say.

It’s amazing; I can’t believe I’m the same girl who used to be the first to run into my father’s open arms when he’d come home from work every day. I can’t believe I’m the same girl who used to bawl her eyes out when he’d go traveling to Europe with his gallery. Dad used to do art shows, and while it must have been so exciting for him, I was miserable when he was away and happiest when he was with me.

It’s hard to believe I was that girl.

But I was, and I still am. Except this version of me hasn’t seen her father in eight years. And now he’s dying.

Pushing aside my worries, I dial the number.

I’m surprised when he answers on the first ring, and sounds exactly like he always did. Just like the father I loved so much. It’s like he was waiting by the phone. Waiting for my call.

“Hello,” he says again and waits a few moments like he knows it’s me.

Hearing his voice takes me back. Not to the darkness but to happier times when I lived to hear his voice.

“D… Dad, it’s me, Summer,” I manage, and I can hear him take a quick breath on the other end of the line.

“Summer, is that really you?”

The emotion in his voice grips me, and my eyes well with unshed tears.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Oh my God. I’m so glad you called.”

After the way he spoke to me last time, I’m compelled to clarify if that’s true, but I can hear it in his voice. He means it.

“Me too.”

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” he asks with a deep concern I haven’t heard in so long it sounds strange to me.

“I’m okay. I’m not hurt.” And I’m alive.

“Has… um, Eric been taking care of you?”

I’m not sure how to answer that—definitely not with the absolute truth. So, I go for the basic answer.

“Yes. He told me about you… your health.”

He’s quiet for a few moments, then he exhales. “Don’t worry about me, Summer.”

“I do, though. I wanted to talk to you about that. Of course, I want to say how sorry I am about Scarlett as well, but I wanted to see how you were.” I pause for a beat to take a measured breath. This is the moment I feared because it’s so hard. Just mentioning her name to him feels hard. “I’m sorry for what happened to her, Dad.”

“I know.”

I’m glad he knows.

“What did the doctors say about you? Is there nothing more they can do?”

“No, there’s nothing more. They did everything they could before. This is it. I have… well they said three to six months, so I guess the clock’s ticking.”

My hands go numb, and I choke back tears. I didn’t know that part, but it wasn’t for Eric to tell me.

“Did Scarlett know?”

“No, I was hoping to meet with the two of you and tell you both. I think right now, I’m still trying to process what’s happened. I’ve been trying to keep everything under control, but when reality sinks in, I’ll fall apart. I just can’t believe Scarlett’s really gone.”

“I am so sorry, Dad,” I mutter again.

“I’m sorry too, baby girl.” His voice breaks, and my heart breaks too when I can hear him crying. “The um…funeral is next Tuesday. It’s in the morning. Eric’s made the arrangements for us.”

Funeral.It’s next Tuesday. I automatically feel weak.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No. I think you need to follow Eric’s lead for the moment. The only thing that’s outstanding is the theater. Everyone thinks Scarlett’s on vacation, but she’s supposed to go back to work in a few weeks for the final rehearsals. I’ve been meaning to call them and tell them our concocted story that she wants to turn the job down, but I can’t do it.”

I didn’t know that’s what Eric wanted us to do, but it makes sense. Telling them Scarlett turned the job down is the only thing that could stop people from asking too many questions.

“My girl wouldn’t turn a job like that down,” Dad adds. His voice sounds stiff. As stiff as it did at Mom’s funeral before he launched his attack on me. I can just imagine his face. He’s right, though. I can’t blame him for being right. “So, the alternative is to see what happens next.”

“We have to tell them something.”

“Well, I suppose when you’re deemed safe, we can tell the truth, right?” he adds in the same rigid tone, and I can’t help but feel like he’d rather tell the truth now even if it were to put me in danger. “It’s hard to lie when that job meant everything to her. It feels like me trying to disgrace her name. It’s hard to lie when I know she will never be safe again, even if you are.”

I was right. The sting of his words cut me deep into my soul, and I tried to control the tremor shaking me from the inside out. The nagging voice inside my head I’ve pushed aside for the last eight years is saying he wishes I’d died, not Scarlett. It’s telling me he wishes her killers didn’t make the mistake they did.

Little does he know that I wish that too.

Like the coward I am, I don’t know if I can talk to him anymore, so it’s best to go before I break again.

“I’m going to have to go, Dad,” I stutter.

He’s silent again, and then I hear a sigh. “When can I see you, Summer?”

I almost thought I could do it sooner than Sunday, but I don’t think I can. This phone call was hard, and after hearing how he sounds, I know what I’m in for when he sees me. My father is a confrontational man, and I know he’s holding back with this conversation. He’s going to want to see me face to face to ask me why my sister is dead.

I need any strength I can gather before that happens.

“Sunday,” I reply.

“That’s so far away. Can’t you come sooner?”

“No,” I lie. “It needs to be Sunday.”

“Okay… I’ll see you then.” He sounds pissed, but I can’t care about that now.

He hangs up first, and I’m left with the phone still pressed to my ear with those tears clinging to my eyes. One tracks down my cheek, but the others hang on for dear life. It’s like they know that the moment they fall, I’ll be broken beyond repair.