Fallen Foe (Cruel Castaways, #2)

by L.J. Shen

“You look haggard. Sure, you still dress the part, and your haircut probably costs more than my entire outfit, but there’s no light behind those eyes. No one’s home. I can take you down, Mr. Corbin. And you can bet your last dollar that I can hold my own.”

Pushing the door open, I tell myself it’s almost over. I’m almost out of harm’s way. But then he opens his mouth, each of his words like a bullet through my back. “It should’ve been you.” I stop. My feet turn to marble. Move, my brain instructs them desperately. Don’t listen to this awful man. “I think about it every day.”

“If only you hadn’t been given that stupid role, she’d still be here. Everything would have been fine.” Would it? Would Grace still be his, even though she went to Paris with another man?

“Oh, Mr. Corbin.” I let loose a bitter smile, glancing behind my shoulder. “Maybe you’d have been happy, but you can’t say the same for your fiancée. That’s why she was on that plane to Paris.” I deliver the final blow. “To be loved by someone who knows how to love.” Finally, I manage to move my legs. I stalk off before the first tear falls.

Like your heart, Winnie’s annoying voice points out in my head. She’s there now?

The reason why I decided to spare Winnifred’s job is simple. I still have questions about the night that changed my life. And Winnie? She might have the answers.

“We do.” Chrissy slams her tumbler back on the table. “You don’t. Everyone around you knows. They just don’t say anything because you’ve been through enough.” Do my parents and sisters think the same thing? That Paul had an affair?

“Look.” I groan. “Even if he did cheat on me—which I’m not saying that he did—we’d shared an entire history together. We’d been through a lot. I can’t just forget about him. It’s not that simple.” “My point exactly! Another reason why you should move on. If he did this to you after everything you’d gone through, then I’m sorry, but he shouldn’t be forgiven, nor mourned. No one’s gonna judge you if you move on.”

Somehow I get through the entire rehearsal without having a meltdown over not having a meltdown about the poster. Am I ever going to feel anything again?

“You’re fine. Everything’s fine,” I tell myself out loud. “I beg to differ,” someone drawls behind me, making me jump out of my skin. “Not many people who talk to themselves are considered fine.”

more than I can stand him. “You grew up with a sister too. Though I can’t say you felt very brotherly toward her at all.” I cross my arms over my chest, leaning against the door. “Cut to the chase. I have things to do today.” “I didn’t know they taught you sarcasm in God’s Country, Bumpkin.”

think it’s time we exchange notes about what happened that night.” He drapes his arm along the back of the couch. “Everything we found out in the aftermath. I’ll show you mine, and you’ll show me yours, so to speak.” “I don’t like to be shown anything by you.” I wrinkle my nose. Truthfully, I want to do this. Badly. The amount of times I’ve considered reaching out to this man to ask him what he knows is countless. But I also don’t trust his intentions, considering our brief history. His lips twist in a grin. “How many Hail Marys do you need to say for lying, Winnifred?” “I’m not lying.”

“Yes, you are.” His smirk widens. “I know because your lips are moving.” “Even if I do want to exchange notes”—I roll my eyes—“how do I know you’ll tell the truth? You could lie just to spite me. What if I fulfill my part of the bargain and you bullshit your way out of it?”

“And you want to get this information from a—quote—gold-digging bitch like me?” I fail to keep the hurt out of my words. “Winnifred, darling!” He tips his head, roaring with laughter. I really want to stab him. Right in the throat. “Don’t tell me you got offended? Sweetheart, you being a gold digger earns you nothing but brownie points from me. Don’t forget I work on Wall Street, where greed is welcome—even celebrated.” “You’re a horrid person.”

“What’s wrong with my current clothes?” I look down. I’m wearing a pink tank top and a pair of casual jeans from the GAP. My sandals are a hand-me-down pair from Lizzy. “Nothing at all,” he assures me smoothly. “All the same, I do need you to look a little more masculine.” “Masculine?” “Yes. You need to dress as a man.” “Where the hell are you taking me?” He is already out the door, his back to me. “You’ll see.”

haven’t had this much adrenaline coursing through my veins since . . . since . . .

Never. No one ever pushed you that far out of your comfort zone.

“You do amuse me, Winnifred. You haven’t surrendered your odd individuality in order to fit in just yet. This uninhibited, innocent vibe? It’s growing on me.”

“That you’re the cleaner. You know that Jupiter vacuums and absorbs comets and meteors? One estimate I read suggests if Jupiter didn’t suck objects into its sphere, the number of massive projectiles hitting the Earth would be ten thousand times greater.” “That is . . . good to know.”

“And how old do you think I am?” “Twenty.” “Eight,” I correct. Twenty-eight. “You’re eight? Well, may I suggest a visit to the dermatologist? You certainly look past puberty, and now I feel all kinds of guilty for entertaining improper thoughts about you in Italy.” He did, now?

“Fine, I’ll play.” “It’s been a while since I did something fun.” I readjust my hat, tucking a ribbon of strawberry blonde hair back inside. “What are we playing for?” he asks. I think about it. “If I win, I want you to pay for a huge billboard sign and advertise The Seagull. You know, one of the fancy Times Square placements. Three days minimum.”

“I’ll do you one better. An entire week, best block available. And if I win, you quit,” he fires back, standing on the opposite side of the pool table from me.

“And here I thought you were mildly human,” I huff. “I should’ve—” “Winnifred.” He smirks, delighted. “What?” “I won’t win.” “But you—” “And just for the record, I love that out of all the things I could’ve done for Calypso Hall—repair the floors, the seats, put a fresh coat of paint on the walls—you chose something for yourself. Very telling. I find altruism such a boring trait.”

“I suppose our starting point is that we both agree they were having an affair.”

“No. We don’t.” “They did.” Arsène stands back, his voice steady and low. “Why? Because you always choose to believe the worst about people?” I lean against my cue. “For at least nine months.” He ignores my question. “Nine months?” Something inside me goes slack. That can’t possibly be right. “Yes.” Arsène takes his turn, striking the stripy red ball straight into a pocket. “How do you know?” I try to angle my stick on the table and, again, it slips. If this is right . . . if Arsène is telling the truth . . . then that means . . . For the first time in months, I feel. Oh, do I feel. Anger. Wrath. Pain. I want Paul’s blood.

“I hired a private investigator.” He crosses his ankles. “Grace and Paul had been frequenting a hotel not very far from their office. All the receipts are from the nine months prior to the plane crash. All paid in cash.” I drop the cue noisily.

Arsène’s face is unreadable, a blank mask. “September thirteenth.” “The thirteenth, you say?” He nods. I close my eyes, bile coating my throat. “I’m missing context here.” Arsène’s voice seeps into my body. “What’s significant about the date?” I shake my head. It’s too personal. Besides, it has nothing to do with why we’re here. “I need a minute.” I put my glass down, my drink sloshing everywhere. “Where’s the restroom?” Silently, he points me in the direction. I make my way there in a daze. I lock myself in one of the cubicles, rip my vest off my chest, stuff it into my mouth, and scream into it until my vocal cords are raw. I bite down on the fabric until my gums are bleeding.

“What’re you looking at?” I lash out. “Never seen anyone have a nervous breakdown before?” “I’ve seen plenty. And believe it or not, yours doesn’t even give me particular joy,” he says dryly. “But your hat’s off, and so is the vest. I take it you want to spend the night at the police station.”

I return to my whiskey glass, take another sip, and fall down into a leather recliner. “Tell me something nice about space.” “What?” He lifts an eyebrow. I caught him off guard. “Distract me!” I roar. “All right. Close your eyes.” Unbelievably, I do. I need a second to breathe, even if my designated therapist right now is Satan himself.

“About three billion years ago, Mars probably looked like a tranquil resort by the ocean. There’s some interesting fossils and craters on Mars that suggest a river ran through it. This means that, possibly, there was life on Mars. Maybe not as we know it, but life nonetheless.” “Do you believe in aliens?” I murmur, eyes still closed. “Believe in them?” he asks, surprised. “I don’t know any, so it’s hard to say I put my faith in them. Do I believe in their existence? Certainly. The question is, Are they close enough to be discovered, and more importantly—do we want to discover them?” “Yeah,” I sigh. “Maybe not. Humans have let us down. Why try our luck with other species?” He laughs, and I realize that he is oddly entertained by my humor. “I do think it’s only a matter of time before we find biology somewhere that’s not on planet Earth.

“Thank you,” I say. “For what?” he asks. “For putting my mind off that thing I thought about when you said September thirteenth.” There’s a brief silence between us. I’m the first to speak again. “Paul had an apartment in Paris.” “Come again?” Arsène takes a seat opposite to me, attentive and alive all of a sudden. “After he died, I started taking care of the bills. He was good with numbers, so this was normally his jurisdiction. One of the outstanding bills was an overdue rent payment on an apartment on the eighth arrondissement.” I stare into the bottom of the glass. “The Champs-Élysées area,” he supplies. I nod. “Nice geography. I Google Mapped it.”

“Have you ever seen those hotel reservations?” “Now that I think about it . . .” I take another sip. I haven’t. I’d taken Paul’s word for it. Arsène stares at me, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. I feel stupid enough already. “He never intended to take me with him.” I let my head slump between my shoulders. “It’s possible he knew you’d get the job. It was a small production, wasn’t it? He could’ve even pulled a few strings to make it happen. Silver Arrow Capital has a wide range of clients. Some of them are on off-Broadway boards.” Leaning forward, I bury my face in my hands. My hair spills out on either side of me. Arsène doesn’t say anything. I don’t expect him to. In a way, I even prefer it. I’m tired of empty words. The amount of clichés that are hurled at me is exhausting. It gets better, kiddo. This too shall pass. Have you tried therapy? It did wonders for my niece . . . “Mr. Corbin?” I hear Cory’s voice. “I just wanted to make sure everything is to your satisfa—”

The words die in his mouth. My head snaps up. I know I’ve been caught. He can see, by my hair and slight frame, that I’m a woman. I stare Cory in the eye. Arsène stands up. He is about to say something. I don’t want to stay to find out how much trouble I’m in. And I’m definitely not spending a night in jail. I grab my messenger bag and bolt out the door, pushing Cory on my way out. His back slams against the wall. “Sorry, sorry,” I mutter. “I’m so sorry.” I don’t look back. Don’t falter when I hear Arsène calling my name. I continue running, blasting through doors, through corridors, through air, pushing guests and waiters and employees. I spill onto the street and rest my hands over my knees, the sun beating down on my back. Paul cheated on me. Chrissy was right. He never did love me.

not to your face, but behind your back—but he was also terrible in bed, remember?” I choke out a chuckle. He wasn’t terrible. I’d had better. That’s all I ever told her, one drunken night when Paul was in Europe, ironically probably screwing Grace.

In the sea of blow-dried dos and painted faces, I find one that I recognize. A mass of strawberry blonde hair arranged in a high, unfashionable ponytail. I can tell it’s her even when her back is to me. She is wearing a spaghetti-strapped flowery dress to a goddamn gala and still manages to steal the entire show. Her neck is long and elegant, swanlike even, and seems just as fragile. As if sensing my gaze on her, she turns around. Her face is wide, open, smiling. She is radiant, and I remember the last time we met, when she almost gave Cory a heart attack and nearly annihilated me in billiards. She also drank like an Irish sailor, defended that idiotic late husband of hers, and exhibited general adorableness I couldn’t decide whether revolted or amused me. She also took interest in my astronomy obsession. Nobody else ever did. Which is the only reason why I’m not completely disgusted by seeing her here.

“Our boy is showing signs of life. Can’t blame him, though.” Riggs grins into his drink. “Those legs would look great wrapped around my neck.” “Winnifred Ashcroft,” Riggs’s date provides readily, glad to be of use. “She’s an actress. Came here with her agent. Well, our agent,” she amends, a brittle bite in her voice. “Chrissy has her favorites, obviously.”

“Why, if it isn’t my favorite boss,” a sweet southern drawl greets me from behind. “Boss?” Christian asks in surprise, peering behind my shoulder. “Arya’s not gonna love that.” “You must have the wrong person, sweetheart.”

“This man

right here can’t be anyone’s favorite anything. He’s about as lovable as a juicy, pus-filled z...

“Hey, Tiff! Heard you killed it in that romcom pilot.” My employee gives her a warm hug. Her need to be cute and selfless grates on my nerves. She turns her attention back to me. “Didn’t know you were the philanthropic kind.” “He isn’t.” Christian tucks a hand into his front pocket. “I dragged him here kicking and screaming.” “Don’t forget the wailing,” I deadpan. “I was inconsolable.” Despite being an annoying Goody Two-shoes, she doesn’t look horrid in her simple dress and ponytail. The realization is unwelcome and alarming. I don’t even like blondes. This must be Mother Nature’s way of telling me it is time to stick my dick somewhere wet and warm. It’s been almost a year, after all. “Arsène?” Winnifred frowns. “Everything okay?”

I clasp the small of her back, brushing my lips against her cheek noncommittally. “Winnifred, would it be improper to tell you that you look beautiful?” “No, which is why you wouldn’t do it.” I laugh. The most surprising thing about this boring, one-dimensional, cookie-making blonde is that she possesses wit. Or something that resembles it, anyway. She studies me intently, like a concerned parent. “Are you . . . okay?”

“Never better.” I’m waiting for her to leave. I’m drunk, tired, and not in the mood to milk information out of her. “You sure you don’t want me to call you a taxi?” She frowns. And she would. Little Miss Sunshine. “Positive, but thank you.” “Well . . .” She lingers. “Enjoy your night.” “I intend to.”

“I’ve never seen you like this.” Riggs’s smile is slow and taunting. “Like what?” “A teenager ushered into the ER with his ball sack stuck between his girlfriend’s metal braces,” Christian articulates poetically. “You looked flushed. Uncomfortable. Dare I say it? Embarrassed.” “Mortified.”

“He blushed. I saw him. Did you see him blush, Tiff?” “Yes!”

“His face is all red. That’s so sweet. Winnie’s a great gal.”

didn’t blush,” I say shortly. “Yes, you did. You’re going to have to explain the last five minutes to us,” Christian announces. “Nothing to explain. She works at Calypso Hall,”

“And, for your information, even if I wasn’t still mourning the untimely death of my fiancée, pursuing an employee is tacky and frowned upon.” “I’m getting weird vibes.” Riggs licks the ball of his index finger and raises it in the air, closing his eyes. “Yup, there it is. There are horny winds coming from the east.” I stand to the moron’s east. “Even if there are hurricanes of horniness, I demand you don’t act on them.” The voice belongs to Arya. I turn around, studying her. “I don’t like to be ordered around. What’s your angle?” “That girl is an angel on earth. She visits the children at Saint John’s hospital once a week. Dresses up as a fairy and paints their faces. They love it. They love her,” she says desperately. “And I love her! She’s a widow, you know. She knows what pain is. I don’t want her to get hurt again.”

“Met the girl before. She seems kind, talented, and attractive. Don’t worry, my love. Arsène doesn’t stand a chance even if he tried.”

underwhelming existence. “She was married to someone super rich and signed a really shitty prenup or whatever. Then when he died, he left her with pretty much nothing. She’s been doing odd jobs to make ends meet.” Collective murmurs fill the air. My eyes follow Winnifred. Is this true? Was she really left with nothing? Knowing what I know about her late husband, I wouldn’t put it past him. And she’s naive enough not to protect herself. “Anyway, she’s off limits.” Arya snaps her fingers in front of my eyes, trying to catch my attention. “Got it?” “My apologies, Arya. I must’ve given you the false impression I give two craps about what people think.” I flash her a sincere smile. “Once I make up my mind about a woman, no one can save her. Not even God.”

Not that I’m contemplating suicide. This banister is wide and not very long. I can do it. Just one time, for old times’ sake. Grace’s voice is throaty and tempting in my head. Even beyond the grave, she entices me to do the wrong thing. Glancing behind my shoulder, I make sure the coast is clear. It’s just me outside. I hop on the banister, righting myself until I stand up straight across the surface. I don’t look down. The first step is solid. The second makes me feel alive. I spread my arms in the air, like Grace and I used to do when we were kids. I close my eyes. “Time me,” I mouth. And I can hear her in my mind answering. Three. Two. One. Go! I take another step, and then another. I’m almost at the end. One more step . . . and my foot doesn’t land the hard surface this time. It’s all air beneath it. I sway. Lose my balance. Tip to the left. It all happens fast. The memory of Grace falling slams into me again. The tears. The pleas. The silence. I’m going to be pancaked to the street in a few seconds. You shouldn’t have done that, idiot. I’m falling. Out of nowhere, sharp, desperate claws sink into my right arm. They rip at my suit, pulling me back into safety. My body slams against a hard surface. The balcony’s floor. I’m a jumbled mess of limbs. Not all of them mine. Some of them small and lean and hot and all foreign flesh.

Im rooting for you and winnie but im still sorry yall both lost love that was never yours