Staying On Top(43)
I took a deep breath and found a truth stuck to the side of my heart. Peeling it away cost me, but it would be worth it if it made Sam feel better. “I know about living inside a bubble, Sam. Inside a life that people think they understand. I grew up that way. My neighbors, my teachers, the kids at school . . . they saw Blair Paddington in her Upper East Side penthouse, with her big-time accountant father and full-time staff and thought that, despite the lack of a mother, my life must be better than the average. They had no idea that my nights and weekends were spent swindling people out of their fortunes with my toothless fourth-grade smile. That my dad looked at my innocent little-girl face and only saw what he could gain by using it.”
His hand snuck over and covered mine, fingers squeezing. I fought the urge to pull away and, after a moment, comfort and warmth started seeping through my skin. The breath I took shuddered and my throat burned—the confession had turned out to be something I needed to say as badly as Sam needed to hear it. “Be thankful that other people live inside your strange world, Sam. It may not be normal, but at least you’re not alone.”
“I’m sorry, Blair.”
I laughed, trying to dispel the emotion built up in my chest. “For what? It’s not your fault.”
“That you’ve been alone for so long. For saying you’re fucked up.” He tipped my chin up so I had to look at him. “I mean, you are. But you’ve earned it.”
“So we’re good?” I asked, the hopeful tone in my voice catching me off guard.
It freaked me the fuck out that I couldn’t tell fantasy from reality anymore. I’d been with Sam a little over a week, only eight days, and everything I felt sure of had started to slip away. The harder I dug my fingers into it, the faster it poured through them.
“We’re good, Blair. I trust Mari’s instincts, but you’re a special case. I’ve spent every hour with you for a week solid, plus those few days last spring, and you’re probably the hardest person to read that I’ve ever met.”
Little did he know that he read me better than anyone. He just didn’t want to believe I’d rip him off. Yet.
My phone finally uploaded a map and the electronic voice startled us both with directions out of Mari’s neighborhood. It was a short ten-minute drive across the older part of Belgrade to the rivers. I’d never been to the house here, but the addresses were stored in my phone and my dad had a particular taste and style when it came to real estate—opulent and modern, lots of glass, set high on a hill if possible, where the commoners could look on and genuflect before his superiority.
There were a few e-mails from my professors, which I returned, and a text from Audra making sure everything was okay—I replied to that, too. Sam had taken a couple of calls from his management team on the train yesterday, but we’d started to ignore our phones. It felt as though we were living inside a film, or a book, or some kind of alternate reality that would dissolve if too many people peeked behind the curtain. By some unspoken agreement, we’d delayed the inevitable crash and burn by separating ourselves from the world. Our respective worlds, because we didn’t share one. Could never share one.
Sam had to move his hand from mine to pilot the standard transmission. My fingers twitched more than once, suggesting that I reach over and lay a hand on his leg, begging to touch him, but I didn’t listen. Being with Sam confused me. I needed some time, some silence, to try to figure out exactly how to proceed.
It didn’t help that, more than once in my mostly sleepless night, I entertained the idea of helping him find my dad for real. Stop pretending. Get his money back.
I couldn’t do that. Sacrifice my future, end up with nothing in exchange for the childhood my father had stolen from me . . . not for a guy I barely knew.
Except it didn’t seem as though I barely knew Sam. Not anymore. Maybe not ever again.
The electronic voice said we’d turned on the right street, which made sense because there was nothing but a No Trespassing sign to greet us. No other houses dotted either side of the lengthy drive, which opened up to a gorgeous view of the Danube a few thousand yards in.
The house at the top of a steep cliff had Neil Paddington written all over it, from the manicured grounds to its ostentatious appearance. The entire glass-covered front, which overlooked the water and houses down below, glittered. The rest of the house appeared to be modeled after a Manhattan high-rise as opposed to the turn-of-the-century Gothic influence prevalent in the historic areas of Belgrade. It stood out, didn’t fit. It made people look, if only to comment on how ugly it was.