Текст книги "Tryst"
Автор книги: S. L. Jennings
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
Chapter Sixteen
Tucker gets home just minutes after I do, which is later than usual. I have to be honest; I was stalling for time, wandering the city in search of clarity. Or maybe just a small reprieve from my marital woes. And nothing soothes the soul better than a little retail therapy.
“You went shopping,” he remarks, eyeing the bags strewn about the bed. There’re a lot of them—Saks, Bloomingdale’s, Barneys. Plus I had to replace the pajama set from La Perla that I ruined the night before.
“Yeah.” I make busy work of arranging my new garments in our closet, which is almost as large as the little love nest we had years back. I smile at the memory. Ikea furniture, a bathroom the size of a coat closet, and a kitchen that was barely large enough for us both to fit in at the same time. But we were happy. Happy and in love.
“I made us a reservation at Nobu for tonight. Thought you might like a change of pace,” he says from behind me, his voice tentative. He’s feeling me out, studying my movements, searching the tiny lines in my face that tense together when I’m agitated and smooth when I’m amenable. I turn my back fully to refuse him those little clues. I shut him out, shut him down, just as he did me last night. If he wants to make this right, he’s going to have to do it the old-fashioned way.
“Bunny . . .” I turn to shoot him a terse look that says, Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare try to butter me up with that name. It will not work. He clears his throat and starts again. “Heidi, what I said last night . . . I didn’t mean to hurt you or make you feel defective or deviant. You know how much I adore you.”
I turn back to my rack of clothing, refusing to let him see the flash of pain that goes along with the knot in my throat. “But you don’t take it back. You don’t regret saying it, you’re just remorseful that it hurt me.”
“Of course, I regret saying that, baby.” He steps in closer to me, so close that I can smell his cologne and feel the heat of his body caress my back. “I don’t want to hurt you. That’s the last thing I want.”
I shake my head, not to refute his claims, but to try to shake away the frustrated tears collecting in my eyes. I’m not upset at his words. I’m upset that no matter how much he may claim to love me, I’ll always feel like a charity case in his eyes. The little monster he tamed and domesticated. He walks on eggshells to avoid disturbing the wildness in me that simmers right at the surface.
“Tuck . . . I don’t want to fight anymore. But I don’t want to have to lie about who I am and what I want.”
He places a hand on my shoulder and I lean in to his touch, starved for affection . . . acceptance. “Then let’s not. Let me take you to dinner. Let’s just be Heidi and Tucker tonight. Let’s laugh and joke about my feeble attempt at using chopsticks and drink too much sake. And maybe . . . maybe we can try again. Just you and me.”
I turn around, my breast brushing his chest. “Really?”
“Yes. If that’s what you need me to be, then I can try. For you.”
I hug him tight to my body, so tight that every cell within me fuses to his. His embrace is warm and comforting, and he kisses me on the top of my head.
“Let me grab a shower,” he says after a few moments, pulling away, taking that warmth with him. “Long day today.”
“Everything ok?” I ask, flipping through the racks. I stop on something sexy and appealing. Perfect to start tonight’s mood off right.
“Yeah. Patient in the hospital. Rough few days but I think we’re out of the woods now.” Translation: One of his patients has gone off the deep end and OD’d, either intentionally or accidentally, prescribed or street pharmaceuticals.
“Will they be ok?” I’m genuinely concerned. Tucker takes on a lot of entertainers and society types, most of them young. Last year, one of his patients—a teenage, rising starlet—overdosed on Klonopin and washed it down with her dad’s collection of aged scotch. All of it. The doctors did what they could, but her mind had given up, soon after her body did. It killed Tucker, and he carried a bit of the blame with him for months afterward. He knew the girl was suffering inside, and he put his all into helping her fight her demons. In the end, they were just too strong to combat.
Tucker sighs, and I turn around just as he sinks onto the edge of the bed. Now that I am just really seeing him for the first time in days, I find that he looks exhausted. His eyes are sunken in, his usually meticulous hair too long and a little disheveled, and he probably hasn’t eaten real food in days. God, have I really been that much of a selfish brat to see that my husband is suffering? That he just needed me to put my own bullshit aside for once and just be a wife?
I hang my sexy outfit back on the rack, putting it on ice and step out of the closet, going straight to the bed. Without a word, I climb up behind him and begin to massage his shoulders, which feel as hard and unyielding as boulders.
“Hey, you. Let’s skip Nobu tonight and just stay in and hang out,” I suggest.
He lifts his head a fraction, but not enough to deter my kneading. “Are you sure? You love that place.”
“I know, I know, but we can always go some other time. Besides, I’ve really been craving pizza. Angelo’s?”
Even with his head turned, I know he’s smiling. “I’ll call it in.” He turns to face me, his eyes just a shade brighter. His smiling lips press against mine for just a split second before he’s on his feet, instantly reenergized by the word pizza. “Thanks, baby. I owe you one.”
After calling in to place an order for a large pepperoni, sausage, and mushroom, Tucker takes a quick shower and dresses in a pair of comfy, flannel pants and nothing else. His body is magnificent, the muscles tight and toned without even a hint of aging. Even the ridges leading to the waistband of his pants form a perfect V before disappearing under the nuisance of fabric. I’m a lucky woman—the luckiest. A gorgeous man adores me, worships the very ground I walk on, and has for a decade. Never once has he made me feel less than beautiful or confident in my skin. And he’s never, ever made me feel guilty or ashamed for wanting a less than noble career, even though I know he hates it.
We’ve had a good marriage—a solid marriage. Up until now, neither one of us has had to question our fidelity. And other than his desire for children—that mostly stems from his overbearing, southern belle mother—Tucker has always appeared to be happy with our life.
Maybe that’s what all this is about. He gave me something, now it’s time for me to give him something. I mean, I’m not opposed to motherhood. I just don’t see the need for it. He’s aware of my circumstances; he knows I could never conceive on my own. And while IVF is definitely an option, it’s not 100 percent guaranteed. Hell, it’s not even 50 percent guaranteed. And I can’t say I’m comfortable with those odds.
In any case, Tucker hasn’t brought it up within the last few weeks, so maybe his sudden interest in my sexual deviance hasn’t been sparked by his need for fatherhood. He’s getting older, and forty will be knocking at his door in a couple years. And we’re both incredibly busy with work. So maybe he feels that ship has sailed for us?
“What?” he asks, breaking me from the reverie of my thoughts.
I smile and shake my head. “Just looking at you. I honestly think you get more handsome every day, if that’s even possible.”
“Oh, it is, baby,” he jibes, slinking over to the bed, where I’m perched. “Just wait a few more years. You won’t be able to keep your hands off me.”
“I can barely keep my hands off you now.”
He leans over onto the bed and I help him by pulling the waistband off his pants. Even fresh from a shower, I can smell the hypnotic scent of his most sensitive skin. His smell is so erotic, so incredibly masculine, that sucking him off is a feast for the senses. I feel myself get wet at just the remembrance of him pulsing down my throat.
His mouth crushes against mine, and I part my lips immediately to welcome him inside. We’re all lips and tongue and teeth, absolutely starved for each other. I moan in the back of my throat, and Tucker uses the opportunity to kiss me even deeper. I need to feel him. Right now. I need to erase the ugliness of the night before. All the ugliness that has caused a rift between us.
I’m pulling up my skirt with one hand and trying to yank down Tuck’s pants with the other when the intercom buzzes.
“Shit,” he curses against my lips. He stands up and straightens himself, and makes his way to the buzzer. “Yeah?”
“Dr. DuCane, it’s Norm from downstairs. I’ve got a pizza delivery guy here for you.”
“Right, thanks, Norm. Send him up.”
I huff out an aggravated breath and stalk to the closet to get out of my day clothes. Great. Now I’m even more sexually frustrated than I was before. That delivery guy better have a free order of garlic knots for me or I might lose my shit. Can you actually explode from being overly aroused?
After snatching up Tuck’s worn dress shirt and sliding it on, sans bra, I might add, I make my way out to the kitchen where my husband is already divvying out slices and servings of salad. And dammit, there are no garlic-fucking-knots.
“So what do you want to do tonight?” he asks, settling in beside me on the bistro table.
“I don’t know. Just chill? Have a couple glasses of wine, maybe? I think Lucia picked up some Stella for you.”
“That sounds amazing,” he says, jumping up to inspect the fridge. Sure enough, his beer of choice is fully stocked.
“Hey, bring me one of those, will ya?” I say, ripping off a bit of crust and popping it in my mouth. Tucker looks surprised—I’m not a beer drinker—but complies, even pouring it in a glass for me.
“This is great,” he remarks around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni. “Pizza, beer, and my favorite girl. I so needed this.”
I smile and nod. “Yeah, me too. Busy week.” I take a sip of beer, which turns out to be crisp and refreshing on my tongue. It’s not bubbly, but it definitely hits the spot.
We polish off the pizza and settle onto the couch with our second round of beers, which is pretty risky considering that our living room set is ivory. But I’m trying this new thing called being a supportive wife that just lives in the moment. And in this moment, Tuck needs to be comfortable in his own home. This is his refuge away from all the horror he must experience at work. I can provide that for him. I can be his refuge.
He grabs the remote and starts to flip through the channels, bypassing E! News, VH1, MTV, and Bravo. Nothing that would pique my professional interest and take me away from him and our little slice of normalcy. We’re not even twenty minutes into some slapstick funny sitcom when his cell phone rings.
“What? When did this happen?” He’s pacing the floor, his brow wrinkled in concern. “Dammit. I’m leaving now.”
Tucker looks to me with a mixture of regret and fear. “Bunny, I have to get to the hospital. There’s been a turn for the worse.”
“Is everything all right?”
He shakes his head, heaves out a resigned sigh. I can already see the rigid tension creeping back into his shoulders and his expression is bleak and ragged. “I don’t know. I hope so. I’m sorry, babe. I’ve got to get over there.”
“Go, go,” I wave. “I’ll be fine, honey. Do whatever you need to do. I’ll be here when you get home.”
I really wish that statement could be true.
Sixty minutes after Tucker rushed to Mount Sinai, my own cell phone is chirping. I pick it up and look at the number, then immediately set it back down.
Ransom.
I know why he’s calling. Saturday Night Live begins in less than an hour. But I’ve already made a conscious decision not to attend. Granted, that decision was much easier to stick to when Tucker was here, but I’m committed to my word. I’m committed to my husband . . . to my marriage. Talking to Justice really put things into perspective for me. Letting Ransom into our proverbial marriage bed wasn’t the issue here—we both enjoyed that walk on the wild side. The problem was, and is, that he’s still in it, lingering in our unsaid words and unmet desires.
The only way I can exonerate him from our lives is to cut him off cold turkey. I’ll draft a letter of resignation, and we’ll split amicably. I mean, I was his publicist for less than a week. I’ve had relationships with badly cut bangs longer than that.
Still, I’m a glutton for punishment. And instead of changing the channel and picking up a book or magazine, I keep it on NBC. And soon I’m watching the show, anxiously awaiting Ransom’s musical performance.
As soon as Rebel Wilson introduces them, I’m on the edge of my seat, struggling to breathe through my undefined angst. The lights go up, revealing the band, and their singer positioned front and center, his head down. The music begins, and he lifts his chin slowly, dramatically pulling the audience in to his world. God, he looks good. Black jeans that fit him like a glove, charcoal gray tee, and a black leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The silver hoop in his nose matches the rings on his fingers and the crucifix hanging from his neck. He briefly spoke of the faith he was raised in, and how it affected his family ties. Maybe religion is his last link to his parents. Or maybe it’s merely a fashion statement.
The music curls around the first lyrics of the song, and I audibly gasp when I realize what song they’re performing. It’s the song—the song—he sang to me that night. The song that fell from his trembling lips as he surged inside me, filling my body and soul with his lustful submission.
I never thought I’d be able to hear that song again.
Yet, here I am, glued to the screen, watching him sing it with so much zeal and conviction that I swear I hear the rasp of his voice quiver with emotion. Not sadness or distress. Maybe longing . . . desire. As if he’s remembering the last time he sang it too. I’ve never heard it like this before. I’ve never listened with ears that have felt the brush of his soft lips and the tingle of whispered words. And now that I do, I’m right back to where I started. Drowning in denial, falling in the farce that I could somehow be over him.
The crowd erupts into wild cheers at the end of the song, and the show cuts to commercial. I force myself to turn off the TV. If I watch any more, I may find myself hailing a cab to Rockefeller Center.
I take a hot shower, and slip on my new pajamas, and resign to call it a night. It’s late, yet Tucker still isn’t home. I don’t expect him to be. The way he ran out of here, wearing that solemn look that spoke of death and despair, I doubt I’ll see much of him for the rest of the weekend.
Sleep comes easier than I expect, and I’m caught within the deepest, warmest parts of my mind when something startles me awake. I blink rapidly, wondering if it was a dream, when I hear the piercing ring of my phone.
“Hello?” I answer, my voice choked with sleep.
“You need to get down here.”
I clear my throat and push myself up on tired limbs. “What? Who is this?”
“Caleb. Now get your ass out of bed and get to the Monkey Bar, pronto.”
I look over at the red-lit numbers on my bedside clock. “Caleb, it’s 3 A.M. What the hell is this about?”
“Our client, that’s what this is about. And right now, he is pissy fucking drunk, high out of his fucking mind, and asking for you. I was able to get the bar cleared out, but the rest is on you. You wanted the job . . . now it’s time to work.”
“Caleb . . . I can’t . . . I don’t.”
He heaves out a frustrated breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is low and gravely. “If I could deal with this shit on my own, do you think I would call you? Obviously, you’re needed. So wipe the drool off your lip, and get down here before this kid completely ruins his career.”
With that, he hangs up, not even giving me a chance to ask for directions, or even an address. Luckily, the cab driver knows the place, and once I throw on some clothes, I’m whisked away into the wee hours of the morning to play babysitter to a shit-faced Ransom Reed.
“There she is!” I hear as soon as I walk in. I look around the dark, dingy place and cringe. Thank God, I’m up to date on all my shots. The bar top looks like it’s been spit-shined in Hepatitis. There’s music playing—piano—but it’s not from a stereo system. And while the place looks relatively empty, there seems to be some commotion toward the stage.
Caleb approaches me first, and the alarmed look on his face tells me that he is in no mood for jokes. “Took you long enough,” he grumbles. “Look, try not to stay here too long with him. The papzz are bound to show up any second.”
“Stay here with who? What the hell is going on, Caleb?”
“Ransom. He’s . . . having one of his moments. We’ve done everything we can to get him to come down, but nothing is working.”
Before I can inquire anymore, the ear-splitting racket of glass shattering sounds from the front of the room. There’re shouts, then laughter, just as Cash Colby comes stalking up to us.
“Is this her?” he barks, clearly pissed off. He runs an agitated hand through his sandy blond locks and sucks his teeth.
“Yeah,” Caleb answers. “Cash, this is Heidi DuCane. Heidi, Cash Colby.”
I extend a hand, but he completely ignores it, looking back to Caleb with eyes the color of polished steel. “I’m fucking sick of this, man. Every week, there’s something new with him. We can’t keep covering for his ass.”
“I know, I know,” Caleb assures, his expression anything but confident. “He just needs time. Maybe if he takes some time off—”
“Fuck that. We have an international tour in a matter of months. If he doesn’t get his shit together, I’m done.”
Cash stalks toward the entrance and disappears into the night without so much as a goodbye to the rest of his bandmates. Rude ass. Maybe he does have Bieber’s cuntiness, as well as his looks.
Soon after Cash leaves, Gunner Davies comes to stand beside Caleb, placing a hand on his shoulder. Caleb drops his head and nods. “I know, Gunner. I know. I’m just not sure what else we can do.”
With that, Gunner presses his hauntingly light blue eyes into me so intensely that I nearly gasp. They’re so pale that the stark contrast of his black hair and clothing make him seem almost otherworldly. He gives me a single, stiff nod and walks away without even uttering a word.
“What was that about?” I whisper to Caleb, unnerved by their one-sided conversation and the force of Gunner’s stare.
“He doesn’t want you to get involved in this. He doesn’t think it’s fair to make this someone else’s problem.”
“Not fair to who?”
Caleb shrugs. “To you. To the band. They’re a tightly knit group. Involving someone else is risking exposure.”
“Exposure? What would I possibly expose?”
Before Caleb can answer, Striker Voss approaches us, his silver adorned face looking more distraught than I’ve ever seen it. He always seems so playful in public, so energetic on stage. Now he looks exhausted, drained both mentally and physically. Kinda like a father who has just had to bail his teenage kid out of jail in the middle of the night.
“I got him to take a few swigs of water, but he still refuses to eat anything. Caleb, I hate to leave you with him, but I’ve gotta get home. The wife will already have my balls for this.”
“Yes, of course. Get home to your family, Striker. We can take it from here.” He extends a hand toward me and gives a weak smile. “This is Heidi. Hopefully she can talk him into getting into a cab and heading home.”
“Heidi,” Striker says, holding out a large hand for me to shake. He looks so different up close, even taller than I imagined. And although he’s inked and skewered to death, there’s a certain gentleness in his eyes. “Good to finally meet you. Sorry it’s under these circumstances.”
“Likewise,” I reply, taking his hand for a short second. “What exactly are the circumstances?”
Striker looks toward the darkened stage and exhales heavily before looking back to me. “Ransom,” is all he says, as if that’s all the explanation I’ll need. And truth be told, it kinda is.
He bids us both good night, waves to the barkeep, and follows his brothers into the night.
“Well, Blondie. You’re up,” Caleb says once we’re alone.
“Up against what?”
“Go see for yourself. I’ve gotta fix this shit before it gets any worse.”
Right on cue, Caleb fishes out his cell and barks a greeting into the receiver, stepping away for privacy. I roll my eyes. I didn’t even hear it ring. He probably just wants to escape like the rest of them.
On tentative legs, I make my way to the front of the bar. It’s dark and smoky, yet there’s a single spotlight focused on the stage. The room is tiny, but I couldn’t get a clear view from the entrance since it was blocked by a partition meant to ward off prying outside eyes. As I round the corner, I’m grateful for the visual obstruction. And sad that I can never unsee what sits before me.
Ransom Reed is slouched over a piano, the top of it littered with beer bottles and empty glasses. There’s an overflowing ashtray that looks to be filled with at least a full pack of butts, some of them still emitting wisps of toxic vapors. And that’s not even counting the stuff he can legally smoke.
My heart lurches at the sight of his disheveled clothing and mussed hair, so far from his usual fresh-sexed look. Now, he just looks sloppy, and a bit dingy. Still, he’s beautiful. Inebriated or not, I can’t fathom a world where he isn’t the most alluring man alive.
I’m only a few feet away from him when he finally looks up from the piano keys he’s been staring at. At first, his glossy-eyed gaze doesn’t register, but after a few blinks, he focuses on me. Twin flashes of pain and anger contort his features, before he quickly smoothes them into a lazy smile.
“Well, well, well . . . if it isn’t my hardworking publicist. Always there to answer my calls and show up to my appearances. Just like the good girl that she is.” His tone is casual, but I don’t miss the venom in his words.
I force myself to close the distance between us until I’m standing before him at the piano. The rest of the place appears to be empty now, but I don’t want to risk any eavesdroppers.
“I’m sorry, Ransom. Something came up, and—”
“Something came up? Something more important than me and what I need?” He barks out a harsh laugh, throwing his head back dramatically. “Of course, it did. Let me guess, your husband came up. Didn’t he, Heidi? Oh, he was up for you, all right.”
“Stop it, Ransom,” I grit out, looking around to see if anyone heard him. “That’s enough.”
“Is it enough, Heidi? Have you had enough of me? Because, baby, I assure you, I have so much more to give you. And that is what you want, right? For me to give you . . .” He reaches down between his jean-clad thighs and grips himself, gently squeezing more than a handful. “. . . this. All this. Every last long, thick inch fucking you crazy until your eyes roll to the back of your head. That is what you want, right?”
“No!” I retort, my face hot with frenzied anger. “How dare you. How dare you fucking speak to me that way.”
“Speak to you that way?” He leans forward, clumsily placing his hands on the keys so that it creates a composition of chaos. I look down to see that they’re all scuffed up, the top layer of skin on his knuckles caked with dried blood. What the hell? “You like it. You begged for it. Don’t try to act like I sought you out. And now that you’ve gotten what you want, you just throw me away, is that it? Just use me like a fucking dildo and throw me back in your lingerie drawer with all your other dirty, little toys.”
This time, he doesn’t even try to mask the truth on his face. There’s pain there. Rejection. Remorse. Even through the haze of alcohol and God knows what else, Ransom is hurt. I hurt him. And I don’t even realize how.
I take a deep breath and steel what’s left of my nerves before sitting down next to him on the piano bench. He reeks of booze and stale cigarettes, and I resist the urge to turn my head away. An action like that would only further alienate him, and the objective right now is to get through to him. To make him feel like he is wanted and respected, even in his debilitated state.
“Ransom, I’m sorry. Whatever you think I did, I’m sorry. You’re right; I should have answered your call. I should have been there for you when you needed me. How about you let me take you home and we can talk more?”
“Why?” he sneers. “Will your husband be there? Does he want to watch that too?”
“No, Ransom. I promise, just you and me. Let’s get you out of here, get you cleaned up, and have a cup of coffee. Doesn’t that sound much better than sitting in a grimy bar in the middle of the night?”
He almost smiles, but shakes his head instead. “Not yet. I want to play a song for you first.”
“A song?” I take a beat to erase the annoyance in my voice when he gives me a pointed look. “Don’t you want to play it for me later? After you’ve gotten some sleep and let your hands heal?”
He looks down at his battered knuckles and frowns, as if he’s just realizing that they’re raw and reddened. “No,” he replies, shaking his head. “I want to play it for you now.”
“Fine,” I sigh. “But then home after that, ok?”
“Ok.” He flexes his bruised fingers before lithely placing them on the keys. Even intoxicated, his hands are incredibly graceful. With the first few notes, his eyes close and his head dips back to face the ceiling, surrendering himself to the music. Giving over to pure, raw emotion that can only be translated through song. He begins to sing, and soon I am just as wrapped up in the ballad, completely swaddled in the sound of his voice.
Your lips taste like lies
So sweet that they sting my eyes
I lift my face to the sky
Drown in the sorrow of angel cries
It’s amazing, every note, every inflection of his voice accompanied by the piano . . . pure, unadulterated magic. But it’s sad. Much too melancholy to accompany such a beautiful melody.
I let him finish his song as I sit in silence, contemplating the inspiration of those lyrics. Where does such sadness stem from? How can a man who appears to have it all—youth, beauty, fame, fortune—exude so much pain?
When he slides his fingers from the ivory keys, his whole body slumps over and half of his weight topples on top of me while the other lands on the piano. I yelp underneath the heft of his frame and struggle to get him upright. Luckily, Caleb emerges from some hidden room and helps to get Ransom off me.
“I need to get him in a cab and get him home,” I grunt, trying to transfer the much larger man’s weight.
“I’ve got a car waiting out back. Take it. The driver’s discreet. I’ll grab a cab.”
He helps me to the back entrance where a black Lincoln MKT awaits. After maneuvering Ransom into the backseat, who appears to have passed out, I slide in next to him, allowing his heavy head to fall across my lap.
“Heidi . . .” Caleb begins from the doorway. He looks away into the black night and then back to us. “I told you to be careful with him.”
“What makes you think that I wasn’t?” I frown.
He purses his lips knowingly, flattening them into a thin line. “Just get him in bed. And call me later.”
He slams the car door on my blank expression and taps the roof of the car, signaling the driver to go. When we turn onto the main road, he asks, “Where to, ma’am?”
Shit.
I don’t even know where Ransom lives. And I damn sure can’t take him back to my place. And rolling up to a hotel at this time of night will definitely have the blogs talking by dawn.
I look down at Ransom’s sleeping form. He looks so sweet and small right now. So peaceful in his chemically induced dreams. I lightly slap his face, and of course, he doesn’t respond. I do it again, adding enough force to create a smacking sound. When that doesn’t work, I slap and shake his heavy body until he begins to groan.
“Ransom!” I shout directly in his ear. “I need you to tell me where you live.”
He groans again, as if every cell in his body aches. Considering the stench coming from his pores, I bet he’ll be feeling even worse in a few hours.
“You know,” is all he grunts out, before drifting off to sleep.
“Huh? Ransom wake up! What do you mean, I know?”
He mumbles something unintelligible before I pick up on a clue that immediately lets me know where to take him. Hell, I should’ve known.
“. . . I fucked you on my bed.”
I look to the driver with my face flamed with embarrassment, silently praying that he didn’t catch that last part. “Take us to the Royal, please.”
