Page 83 of Jane Deyre
“For Chrissake, get in the goddamn car!” I shout out again.
“No! Leave me alone!” Drenched to the bone, she keeps moving. Fuck. She’s hobbling. She’s hurt! Alarm whips through me.
I trail her slowly in the Rolls. Barely able to see two feet ahead of me. The rain is coming down so hard the windshield wipers can’t keep up.
“Jane, what’s wrong? Why are you limping?”
Without looking my way, she gimps ahead. “I tripped. I’m fine. I lost my shoe.”
Relief shoots through me. But now she’s pissing me off. Royally.
“Okay, now, get inside, Cinderella.”
She picks up her pace. It’s like my words have fallen on deaf ears.
“Just do it!”
“Go away!”
That’s it. I’ve had it. I’m done with her stubborn sassiness. I throw the car into park, shrug off my jacket, and jump out. I’m instantly soaked by a massacre of rain.
“Jane, wait up!”
Not stopping, she pretends I’m not here.
Well, if she thinks she can get away from me, she’s wrong. So fucking wrong.
Taking giant steps, I catch up to her in no time. I spin her around. The look on her face is something between hatred and heartbreak. Inky rivers of mascara snake down her cheeks.
I brush a wet tendril of hair from her forehead and then tilt up her chin. The pressure of my thumb firm but gentle. Her watering eyes meet mine.
“Don’t touch me.”
I move my hands to her heaving shoulders and grip her tightly.
“Let go of me!” Writhing, she tries to free herself, but she’s no match for my strength, especially in her condition. She looks like a drowned rat, albeit a beautiful one. My eyes travel down her body. Her hair is drenched and disheveled, her little black dress is torn, and her knee is bleeding, the blood mixing with the rain and trickling down her shin.
“Jane, you’re hurt!” My alarmed voice rises above the pouring rain.
Her lips tremble. “You don’t know what hurt is.”
“Try me.”
Impetuously, she lifts her arm and slaps my face. The impact of her hand against my cheek cuts through the downpour. I wince. It must be my night for getting slapped. The rain cools the sting, but makes me burn with fury.
“What in God’s name is wrong with you, Jane? You could have gotten yourself killed walking alone late at night on Hollywood Boulevard.”
“I’d be better off dead!” she sobs, her voice raw.
“What the hell makes you say that? Adele needs you! I need you!”
Her smudged, rain-soaked eyes bore into mine. “You don’t need me. You haveher!”
“Who are you talking about? My daughter? Edwina?”
Her eyes grow fiercer. “Do you think I am an automaton—a machine without feelings? Just because I’m poor and obscure and haven’t seen the world like you have... and God hasn’t gifted me with the beauty and wealthshehas, it doesn’t make me inferior. Or inhuman.”
“Jane, I don’t understand. Who are you talking about?” I repeat.