Текст книги "Tryst"
Автор книги: S. L. Jennings
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
Chapter Seventeen
The Royal is not the usual haunt for celebrities, or even celeb wannabes. To be frank, the only thing royal about it is its name. It’s considered boutique in its size and amenities, and while the décor is posh and modern, it doesn’t scream opulence. And right at this moment, I could not be more grateful for that.
The lobby is completely empty, with not even a doorman in sight. Our driver helps Ransom from the backseat, who finally has decided to wake long enough to walk inside. Thank God for that. There was no way I could carry him.
By some miracle, Ransom successfully staggers to the elevators and stays upright long enough to press in his code to the penthouse suites. Funny. I don’t remember there being one last week when we were here. But then again, I was with Caleb, and far too high on champagne and nervous energy to really pay attention.
When the elevator begins to lurch upward, he slumps back against the far end wall, opposite where I stand. Although we’re not even close to touching, his glassy-eyed gaze sweeps over me with what can only be described as pure fire and malice. He looks at me like he hates me, like I disgust him, yet I can’t find the nerve to abandon him. Not when I know that he needs me more than he hates me. More than I hate what we’re doing to Tucker.
The doors slide open once we reach the top, and I go to help Ransom out to the hall. At first, he flinches at my touch, but his body can’t support its own weight, so he lets me lead him to the door of the suite. The odor of alcohol and smoke singes my nose, but it’s almost completely overshadowed by the heat of his body against mine.
“I need your key, Ransom,” I tell him.
He looks perplexed at my words for a split second before stuffing a hand down his back pocket and fishing out a keycard. He hands it to me instead of sliding it in the card slot attached to the door. When I take it from him, our fingers brush against each other, and while I’ve had him literally asleep in my lap for the last twenty minutes, this . . . this seems more intimate. Like maybe it’s a subconscious thing for us to want to feel the other’s skin. Be in the other’s skin.
I usher him into the suite, which is as meticulous as I remember it with no signs of permanent residency. I can’t believe he actually lives here, considering that he’s in the city for at least a third of the year. The other two-thirds? I have no idea. And I’m not sure if I want to know.
“Can I get you anything else?” I ask, going straight to the wet bar to grab a bottle of water. I crack the seal and hand it to him. He takes it without provocation and flops onto the sofa. “Food?”
“Nah,” he answers before taking a swig. “Order yourself something if you want.”
“That’s ok. I’m not staying,” I reply, looking at the door. I really should get home. Tucker will be home any minute and although I left a note, he’ll still be worried sick.
He snorts out a sardonic laugh before draining the rest of the bottle. I grab another and hand it to him. “What?”
Ransom shakes his head. “Nothing. Of course you’re not staying. I’m too fucked up to give you anything.”
“What?”
He struggles to his feet and staggers to the bedroom. “Nothing, H. Go on home to your husband. Don’t worry, whiskey dick usually wears off in a few hours.”
I’m right on his heels, filled with renewed pisstivity. “What the . . . what are you talking about, Ransom?”
He spins around, not as coordinated as he usually is, but successfully startling the shit out of me. I follow the swift movement of his hand, completely enraptured and unable to look away as he cups his manhood for the second time tonight. “I said, don’t worry, baby. I will still get hard for you. That is what you want from me, right? That is why you’ve left your warm, marital bed to come save me from myself, abandoning poor Tucker, right? But don’t worry. He looks like he has no problem taking care of himself.”
I don’t know what possesses me in the next pivotal moments. It’s like having an out of body experience as I watch my right hand pull back and lurch forward to connect with Ransom’s stubbled jaw with enough force that his chin meets his shoulder. Slowly, he turns back to look down at me, his nostrils flaring and his dark eyes brewing with ire. A single trickle of blood escapes the corner of this luscious mouth, and he sluggishly drags his tongue to his lip to lap it up, those sultry, onyx eyes never straying from my face.
“I see how you want it,” he rasps, his voice husky with anger and alcohol. “You like to give it just as much as you like to take it.”
“Fuck you,” I spit out. “Fuck. You.”
“You did, baby. Don’t you remember? We talked. We laughed. We drank. We fucked. We came. Hard. Or was I that forgettable for you?”
His words are ice but the look on his face is all fire. And even through all that . . . even through the bitter bite of his insults, I see his pain. I don’t want to—I want to hate him—but I see in him the same thing that I see every time I look in the mirror. The same thing I see reflected in Tucker’s eyes when he gazes at me in pity and confusion.
“I didn’t forget you.” I say it because he needs to hear it. I say it because it’s true.
“Then why do you want to leave me?”
I don’t expect that from him—that raw, unguarded truth—but it’s right there. And he’s not taking it back.
His strangled words are barely a whisper, but I hear them loud and clear. “I can make you feel young again, Heidi. I can make you feel things that he can’t. Let me be your second chance.”
I shake my head—at him, at myself, at our whole fucked up situation. Now I understand . . . I see why Tucker often looks at me the same way. Shaking his head in resignation, sighing in reluctance.
You can’t win with a broken person. Because you don’t want to. It’s just not a fair fight.
And Ransom—somehow, some way—is more broken than me. And something within me wants to put him back together again.
“I’ll stay,” I find myself saying. “I’ll stay if you lie down and rest. Ok?”
He seems to sober with that promise and allows a small smile to slip from his lips. “Ok,” he agrees.
I help him to the bed, assisting him with the buckles on his boots and belt. And while there’s absolutely nothing sexual about me undressing him right now, I can’t help the way my skin prickles when my fingertips graze his taut waist. Or the way my breath catches when he removes his shirt to reveal the most spectacular torso that I’ve seen in more than three decades.
He climbs into bed in nothing but his fitted boxer briefs, and while I know he should probably shower, I can’t see how I can coax him into getting up now that his head has hit the pillow.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, his eyes closed. I bring the duvet up to his chest, more for my comfort than his.
“For what?”
“For wanting you. For hating that I want you. For wishing you’d hate me too.”
“It’s ok,” I whisper.
He releases a sound from the back of his throat, something more out of pain than eroticism, and within seconds, he’s asleep, snoring soundly.
I click off the lights and gather up his dirty clothes to send out to be laundered before tiptoeing out of the room. Before I stuff the smoke-saturated garments in a plastic bag, I remove all the personal effects from his pockets to ensure he doesn’t lose anything.
At least, that’s the reason I tell myself.
Oxy. Ativan. And what’s left of an eight ball of coke.
Fuck.
Ransom isn’t just broken. He’s still breaking.
Chapter Eighteen
Pure morning sunlight filters through the curtains when I finally allow myself to go home. I’m convinced that Ransom won’t notice anyway. He probably wouldn’t even remember last night or my presence whenever he came to. However, I would never forget the things he said to me. Or the look of sheer desolation on his face. Or the drugs I found in the pocket of his jeans.
I’m still not sure what to do when I arrive at my building. If anything, I’m even more confused.
“Hey, baby,” Tucker rasps, his voice hoarse with too-little sleep. “Everything ok?”
“Shhhh, go back to sleep. It’s fine. We’ll talk later,” I smile, leaning over to kiss his lips. He returns my grin before rolling over and drifting back off to dreamland.
I slip out of my clothes that still stink with the aroma of beer and bar, and head into the bathroom for a quick shower. Just before I step under the hot spray, a pang of guilt attacks my chest. I’m washing away what little bit of Ransom I’d taken with me. He was afraid I’d forget him . . . that I’d leave him. And that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.
I’m still trying to convince myself that it’s the right thing to do when I slide into bed next to my husband.
“YOU SHOULD HAVE told me.” I stir my latte for the tenth time, trying to expel the nervous energy. If I look up, I may slap him across his pretty face.
Caleb heaves out a sigh. “I know. But if I had, would you have taken him on?”
“Of course not! Jesus, Caleb. He’s a junkie. You tricked me into representing a fucking junkie and had me in there blind. Can you imagine what could have happened once you sent me off in the middle of the night with him?”
He lifts his hands in surrender. “He’s harmless, I swear. He’s more of an emotional addict. And come on . . . what entertainer isn’t coked out of their minds every night?”
I shake my head, refusing to agree with him although I know it’s true. “This is different. Ransom is . . .”
I can’t find the words. Special? No. Better than that? Hell no. Using only to stifle a much deeper compulsion? Ding, ding, ding.
“I know, Heidi.” He nods, his eyes fixed on the wood-grain of the table. It’s the most sincere and humbled I’ve ever seen the man in all the years I’ve known him. “That’s why I asked you to meet me today. I wanted you to understand why I couldn’t tell you. And why I can’t let you give up on him, even though I know you tried to.”
“What?”
Caleb lifts his eyes to meet my gaze. They stir with a kindred somberness. “I know you. You wanted to drop him. I couldn’t let you do it. Not now.”
“And why is that?”
“Because everyone else has. And if you did, he may not survive it. And the band would be dead.”
I purse my lips and smirk knowingly. “And that’s your only interest in his well-being? The future of the band?”
Caleb shrugs before picking up his cup of overpriced mocha. “I’m a businessman first. But I’m also human. Ransom is a good kid. He just needs someone to believe that so maybe he can start to believe it too.”
I roll my eyes and cross my arms in front of my chest, leaning back in my seat. “Oh, spare me the bleeding heart bullshit. He’s a grown man, Caleb.”
Caleb matches my cynical glare, and a slow smile creeps onto his thin lips. “You would know, now wouldn’t you?”
Poker face intact, my face and body language don’t flinch a muscle. “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs, backing down from what would have been a fight to the death, and pretends to check his phone. “Nothing at all. It’s just interesting that he’s grown so attached to you, is all. So attached that he refused to leave that bar until you showed up. He kept saying that he had a song for you, and that you wanted to hear him sing. Quite fond of you in such a short time, wouldn’t you say?”
I don’t say a word. Fuck Caleb and all his suspicions. I would cut off my arm before I surrender my secrets to that gossip queen.
“Anyway,” he presses on. “I need a favor from you, seeing as he seems to listen to you.”
“And that is?” My voice is flat, my face unreadable.
“I need Ransom to lay low for a while. Get out of town. After last night’s antics, I’m sure the publicist in you would agree that taking some time away would be beneficial.”
“And why the hell do you think I’d do something like that? Better yet, how do you think I could convince him to even agree to it?”
Caleb shrugs for the eighth time since we’ve sat down. It’s not like him to be so indecisive. “You’re a resourceful woman. Use your God-given resources.”
I absorb the jab of his words and retaliate, leaning forward across the table so he can clearly see the seriousness on my face. “Careful, Caleb. I like you and all, but be very fucking careful about what you insinuate.”
He brushes it off with a phony laugh. “I’d never, love. Just a thought. Hey, if he lands in jail, he’s your problem—not mine. Last night, he only got into a fight with a brick wall and a few barstools. But who knows what tonight has in store for us. Hey, we’ve got Fallon tomorrow night. That should be a riot.”
With that, he climbs onto his Prada loafers, throws a bill on the table, and straightens the lapel of his crisp oxford. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I actually have work to do.”
I watch him strut away with more sass than necessary, sipping what’s left of my cold latte and wondering what the hell to do next. So I can’t quit on Ransom, for fear that he’ll spiral even further. But I can’t control him either. I thought getting into bed with him was the pinnacle of my problems, but it seems that getting into business with him is just as messy, if not messier. I’m just not sure what I’m willing to sacrifice—my marriage or my sanity.
I don’t hear from Ransom for the rest of the day and I assume he’s drying out after last night’s antics. So I focus on the person who’s really important—my husband. Tucker needs me more than anyone else right now. When I left, he was still asleep, which was surprising considering that I’ve never known him to sleep past 7 A.M. even on the weekends. I was only able to squeeze in a couple hours of shuteye when Caleb hit me up for coffee.
“Hey babe, you hungry?” he calls out from the kitchen over the sounds of Coltrane. The aromas of griddle-melted butter, fried pork, and syrup caress my senses.
“Starving,” I answer, kicking off my shoes and stowing my purse before padding toward him on bare feet. “Whatcha making?”
He waves his spatula like a magician’s wand toward the various pans on the glass range. “I’ve got scrambled eggs, bacon—the real stuff, no turkey crap—and I’m almost done with the pancakes. Champagne is chilling in the fridge along with the OJ for mimosas.”
I take that as my cue and, after giving him a quick peck on the cheek, go to prepare our drinks. Even though I was hoping to catch a few extra hours of sleep, there’s no way I can deny us this rare, uninterrupted quality time. Sundays used to be sacred to us—we’d go to the farmer’s market, cook together, listen to Tuck’s records, and just relax and recharge for the week ahead. Yet for the past couple years, we’ve used the day to catch up on unfinished projects and separate activities. Seeing Tucker move around the kitchen, grooving to “A Love Supreme” makes me miss the old us. It makes me crave the togetherness we once shared. Seeing him now is like looking through new eyes. It’s still a wonderful sight, but it’s not familiar to me. And that makes me sad.
“Feel free to change the music if you want,” he offers as he flips the last batch of pancakes. “Or turn it off if you want.”
“No, this is fine,” I smile between sips of my cocktail.
And actually, it is.
MONDAY REARS its ugly head before I’m ready, but at least I feel better than I have in ages. A lazy Sunday was just what the doctor ordered, and I get to the office ten minutes early, bearing donuts no less.
“Oh, shit,” Tamara remarks, taking a peek at the glazed confections. “And these aren’t even gluten free. Girl, Dr. D must’ve put it on you real good this weekend!”
She holds up a hand for me to slap but I ignore her and retreat to my office, shaking my head the entire way.
“We will not talk about my sex life, understand? So go eat your deep fried breakfast before I replace them with bran muffins.”
Tamara laughs me off and comes to sit on the edge of my desk. Why the hell do I let her get away with this shit? Anyone else would be limping out of here if they’d done that. Metaphorically, of course.
“So you want to tell me what’s going on with you and that sexy ass rock god?”
I power on my iMac and busy my eyes and hands with reading messages from last week. Anything that will help school my features into something other than What-the-fuck-am-I-really-that-transparent shock. “Who? Ransom?”
“Uh, duh. What other fine-as-fuck musicians were you damn near tonguing down this weekend?”
“Tam . . .”
“I’m just saying . . . that boy wants you like fat chicks want fat-free cupcakes.”
“Well . . . I don’t want him.” Lies.
“You don’t? Not even a little bit?”
“Nope. Not interested.” All lies.
A devilish grin broadens her plump, red-stained lips. “Well . . . can I have him?”
“Um . . . I don’t think you’re his type, Tam,” I snicker.
“What? You don’t think he likes brown girls?”
“No. I don’t think he likes dick.”
Tamara rolls her eyes and waves off the remark like I just told her he prefers red wine to white. “Girl, please. A man doesn’t know what he likes until he tries it. And trust me . . . once you get a taste of this chocolate bar, you won’t ever wanna satisfy your sweet tooth with nothing else. I’ll turn that pretty boy into a full blown chocoholic!”
Great. Yet, another addiction for Mr. Reed.
“Look, this has been fun,” I say, lifting a slender, arched brow. “But I don’t pay you to talk about your raunchy fantasies. Don’t you have some work to do?”
“Yeah, yeah,” she answers, sliding her round backside from my desk. “Just one more thing. Can I go with you to The Tonight Show taping today? My new ex-boyfriend is going to be there!”
“No,” I shake my head. “Hell no.”
“Aw, come on, boss lady. I’ll be good.”
“No, Tam. I’ve got enough to deal with. I don’t need your out-of-control libido to be one of them. Now go do your job before I find someone to do it for you. Those interns are just itching to knock you off your stilettos, and I’m starting to feel like letting them.”
“Fine! I’m going. But you can’t keep him all to yourself if you’re not going to do anything with him, you know,” she retorts before quickly shutting my office door before I can fire back.
The day crawls at a snail’s pace, and I find myself staring at the clock more often than not, waiting for five o’clock to hit. Ransom will get to Studio 6B earlier for necessary sound checks, and while I am tempted to show up for that, I don’t want to seem too anxious. Caleb is there; he’s got it. And while it’s perfectly reasonable for one’s publicist to be present for all publicized events, it just seems a little thirsty to pop up for rehearsals. Lord knows we don’t need any speculation from anyone else.
I make it a point to arrive on time to show that I’m all about business. And while I may be decked out in new Stella McCartney, my look is chic and professional. I’m here to work, and nothing else.
“You’re here,” Caleb remarked, looking genuinely surprised when he spots me in the green room.
“Of course, I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“It’s just . . .” He shakes his head, not even bothering to finish. And, honestly, he doesn’t have to.
“So where are the guys?” The guys . . . yeah right.
“You know the drill. Quiet meditation before performances. Ransom has been insisting on it since as long as I can remember.”
I peg him with a look that screams, Oh, come on! “So you mean to tell me, even knowing about his”—my eyes dart around to ensure no listening ears are near—“issues, you never questioned what he was doing before every show?”
The answer seems painstakingly obvious. He’s getting high, for Christ’s sakes! Ransom wants to be left alone so he can get lifted in peace. Meditate, my ass.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Caleb claims before I have to say it out loud. “And you’re wrong. Music is the only thing that kid is serious about. He never performs less than completely sober, not even a drop of beer. It’s the one pure part of him that he keeps for himself. The one thing that he can offer with one hundred percent honesty.”
I stare at Caleb for a long beat, waiting for the rest of the joke, but he only gazes back with total confidence. He’s telling the truth. He really believes that the only time Ransom isn’t high is when he is on stage. Humph. Interesting. Maybe what they say about artists is true. Maybe their art truly is the source of their sanity and the villain of their demise.
We watch the show from backstage, jamming out to The Roots and laughing at Jimmy’s witty banter. He slow jams the news and plays Password with Reese Witherspoon and Josh Duhamel. It’s great, all lighthearted fun and games. But when Jimmy introduces tonight’s musical guest, Ransom, to the stage, I instantly know that shit just got real.
“Fuck,” Caleb spits out under his breath as the lights go up to reveal the foursome, all decked out in black. The music starts, and the roaring crowd simultaneously calms into hushed silence.
“What?” I know something isn’t right, but I’m just not sure what it is.
Caleb pulls out his phone and starts texting furiously. He doesn’t look up when he answers. “The motherfucker changed the song they rehearsed. This isn’t what they prepared at sound check.”
“Fuck,” I say, mimicking Caleb’s earlier sentiment. “He can’t do that. He can’t do that, right?”
“He just did.”
I look around, my mind working double time to find a way to fix this debacle, but it’s too late. The sounds of electric guitar are already echoing throughout the studio, along with the hypnotic rhythm of drums. Even though the band could play just about anything on their own, The Roots accompany them to add an extra dimension of sound. Luckily, they know this, which is surprising, since it’s not a Ransom original. I can’t even place what it is exactly.
Until he sings.
I should have known. I should have fucking known. Of course, he’s still pissed at me and wants to let the world know just how much of a mind-fucking slut I am. And maybe he should. If this is what it takes for him to let this go, then better to do it in song than let it play out on TMZ.
But as he belts out the first verse of Prince’s “Darling Nikki,” a cover they featured on their last album, I know that this is so much more than musically venting. Ransom isn’t . . . right. He looks good, and he’s engaging the crowd in that wildly sensual way that gets them screaming for more, but there’s just something off about his movements. Even his voice isn’t as crisp as it usually sounds. There’s something lying underneath it, be it pain or desire or shame. I just know this isn’t the Ransom Reed I saw kill it in front of the massive audience at Madison Square Garden just two Fridays ago.
Still, the band finishes to a cheering crowd and a standing ovation, which is a good sign, despite the glaring truth staring us in the eye. Ransom wouldn’t know it though. As soon as the music stops and Jimmy appears on stage, holding a vinyl copy of their last LP, Ransom drops the mic on the stage and walks off, brusquely pushing past the host and his bandmates. And me.
“Never performs less than sober, huh?” I say to Caleb, both of us too stunned to do more than just stand there.
“Holy fuck. Holy fucking fuck,” he groans.
“Yeah. My sentiments exactly.” I look over at the shell-shocked agent and sigh, releasing my last bit of resolve. “So about getting him out of town . . . I think I might be able to help with that.”
