“Marc’s not here,” Jill said, though of course Cush would know that better than anyone.
“Yeah. He sent me a text asking me to come over because he’s not sure you’d want to see him.” Cush leaned against the doorframe. “Marc doesn’t want this, Jilly.” His voice was heavy, regretful. Fake. “You’re the one who asked him to leave.”
“I did,” Jill countered as she crossed her arms across her chest. “Did he happen to mention that he’d been sleeping with a woman young enough to be his daughter?”
Cush looked away and for a moment Jill imagined she saw something like genuine regret, until she realized that both he and Marc were master manipulators.
“Yeah.” Cush grimaced. “And that was wrong. It was incredibly stupid, but it was a mistake—one he deeply regrets.”
“It wasn’t just one mistake. He’s been sleeping with her for months.”
“He wants to make it right, Jillian. He knows your situation and wants to—at the very least—see that you’re taken care of.”
She eyed the briefcase he carried and was curious as to what Marc thought could possibly make this better. Then, from the kitchen, Jill heard the coffee machine sputter to a stop. She inhaled the heady scent of fresh coffee that had wafted through the air. At that moment, all she wanted was a cup.
“Five minutes,” she said as she stood aside to let him in.
He followed her down the hall and into the kitchen. Jill gestured to a place at the table. As he settled in, she saw him take in the mess she’d left—the spatter on the wall, the dented pot on the floor, the melted ice cream on the counter.
He didn’t ask and Jill didn’t explain.
She reached past the sink, piled with dirty dishes, into the cabinet for a pair of mugs. “You take it black, right?”
He nodded, though she knew it wasn’t true. He drank his coffee with generous amounts of both cream and sugar. She used to like the taste of creamy coffee too, before Marc side-eyed every pour of half-and-half and she gave it up. Forcing Cush to drink the same black coffee Marc had encouraged her to drink was petty, but she enjoyed it anyway.
Jill set his coffee down and took a seat opposite. She glanced at the briefcase and arched an eyebrow, though it aggravated her headache. “So what’s in the briefcase? A payoff?”
His eyes widened in surprise and she regretted her comment the moment it left her mouth. Needling him was childish and counterproductive. Her argument was with Marc and she was taking it out on Cush. She drew a breath and apologized, which also seemed to surprise him. He’d clearly expected her to be angry and seemed thrown to discover that she wasn’t.
Jill sipped her coffee, feeling knots of tension loosen as the warm liquid spread across her chest. She hoped Cush would leave soon, so she could lose herself in a hot shower. She had packing to do.
The tap of Cush’s coffee mug as he set it on the table pulled Jill from her thoughts. She brought her attention back to him, saw him sitting with his hands folded and an expression of grave concern on his face.
“As you know, Marc and I go way back. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had so I want you to think of me as your friend too—”
Jill’s response was immediate—laughter bubbled from her chest so quickly she couldn’t stop it. Cush looked so affronted that she only laughed harder.
“You can’t be serious,” she snorted. “You’ve never been my friend.”
Cush opened his mouth in shock, then closed it again.
“Don’t worry. I’ve never told him. Though I should have.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Last Christmas at the Weingolds’ party, you propositioned me with your new wife not three feet away.”
“I would never—”
“At the fundraiser last spring at the Summit Club, just outside the coat check. Then again, at the Dewberry Beach house not two months ago. Don’t you remember? The ‘best friend you’ve ever had’ went to get you a drink and you used that opportunity to corner me in the butler’s pantry.” She glared at him. “We’re not friends, Mr. Lawrence. We never have been.”
It was then that his mask slipped, and the change was chilling. He looked away to hide it, but Jill saw the transformation, the hardness of his expression, the flint in his eyes. It was gone by the time he looked back, replaced by an icy calmness that seemed worse somehow, unpredictable. It made her wary.
“I told him not to marry you.” His voice dripped with contempt. “But he wouldn’t listen to reason. He was crazy about you.”
Cush’s eyes were wild, and it occurred to Jill that the two of them were alone in this house. Even so, she held his gaze, refusing to back down.
“There were others before you, and others after,” he sneered. “But you were the one who got under his skin. You were the one he wanted.” He pushed the mug away and coffee sloshed over the side, pooling onto the table. “I reminded him you were nothing but a tramp from South Jersey. That all he had to do to keep you happy was rent a crappy two-bedroom in Paramus. But no. He insisted on giving you the very best of everything. And look what a mistake that was.”
“You don’t scare me.” Jill leaned back, recognizing him for what he was. “We’re the same, you and I, as much as you pretend we’re not. And I know you’re terrified to be sucked back to where you came from, so you do whatever Marc tells you. You’re a lackey, Cushman. Nothing more. Without Marc to give you a job and a fancy title, you’d be just another ambulance chaser.”
Cush’s jaw clenched and for a moment, Jill was afraid that she’d gone too far. When he spoke again, his voice was even, though rage simmered beneath it. “Marc made me promise to ask you directly if you would consider taking
