Текст книги "Tryst"

Автор книги: S. L. Jennings

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter Nineteen

Convincing Ransom of getting out of the city is much easier than Caleb and I anticipate, and we’re left wondering if the young rocker was already getting burned out of “the life.” We knew that confronting him after his grand performance would only lead to tragedy, so we waited until Tuesday—today—to give him the ultimatum—take some time out or we walk. Both of us. I can’t understand why that would be a big enough incentive, but apparently, it works.

Now, convincing Tucker? That’s a different story. One that I’m not quite prepared to hear.

I get home from work at my usual time, knowing that coming in late would only agitate him and make it harder to plead my case. He’s sitting at the bistro table, sipping a cup of tea and reading a document from a stack of papers in a file folder. The scents of fresh herbs, tomatoes, and lemon waft from the kitchen, and my stomach growls. Even though Lucia has already left to go home for the evening, she always leaves dinner in the oven. Tonight smells like her famous citrus herb chicken.

Tucker looks up as soon as I approach and smiles, although I can tell it’s forced. He looks tired . . . even older. I can’t imagine what must be troubling him, and I make it a point not to ask. That’s our thing—work stays at work. Still, I can see the past few days have worn on him, and I am yearning for him to let me comfort him.

“Hey babe,” I say, wearing a genuine grin. “Something smells good.” I kiss him on his full lips and go into the kitchen to pour a glass of wine. I’ll need it for the conversation we’re about to have.

“Lucia made chicken and a Caprese salad.”

“I was talking about you.” I turn to give him a wink and see him soften just a fraction. Ugh. I hate to spring this on him, especially with how up and down things have been for us this past week. “Want a glass?” I ask holding up a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

“No thanks,” he sighs, looking back down at the papers. I watch him for a beat, sipping my wine, when he looks back up at me, the defeat in his eyes so strong it takes everything inside me not to run to him and fall at his feet. “I lost someone. I lost a patient.”

“What?” This time I don’t hesitate. I put down my glass and go to him.

“Yeah. Young kid, seventeen. There was nothing I could do, but still . . . I feel responsible. I knew him. I knew he was struggling, and I tried everything I could to reach him outside of moving him in and making him sleep on our couch. He was alone . . . he was lonely. His parents were in Monaco when he was brought in after he OD’d. Took them two days to get back here to see about their son. Two days. Apparently, they had been planning that trip for months.”

Without a word, I slide onto his lap and wrap my arms around him, just trying to absorb his pain. He cared for that kid, just like he does all his patients. He knows he’s not supposed to, but Tucker can’t help it. He’s one of those genuinely good, kind souls. He went in to psychiatry because he wanted to help the people whose wounds weren’t visible to the outside world. He understood that suffering inside the prison of your mind was far worse than any iron shackles inside a jail cell. And he had helped people . . . tons of them. But sometimes, he lost them too. They were just too far gone . . .

“I was thinking . . . maybe it’s time we took a vacation. I need a break, Bunny. This one . . . this one was difficult. Think you could take a week or two? I could just really use some time away from here . . . from this. I just need to escape reality with you.”

I sit up in slow motion, and look at him with all the understanding I can muster. Oh no. This isn’t what I needed. I just don’t have two weeks to give him right now, not after the deal I made with Ransom.

I shake the thought from my head. Tucker is my husband. Husband. And he needs me. My loyalty lies with him. He comes first. And my career . . . Shit.

“What were you thinking?” I ask him, trying not to picture the image of my reputation going down like a sinking ship.

“I don’t know. Somewhere far from the city. No traffic, no social media, no paparazzi. Just peace and quiet. And us.”

I smile and nod. That sounds nice. In a perfect world, that would be all I’d ever need.

“So can you make it?” The optimism in his voice is undeniable. I can’t crush him—not now. Not when he’s already in ruins.

“See . . . the thing is . . . I have to go out of town for a little while, but maybe I can just cut it down to a few days and be back by this weekend to leave with you.”

“Out of town?” he frowns. “Since when?”

“Since today. I just found out and planned to tell you tonight. I have a client that needs to lay low for a while and stay out of the press. I told . . . them . . . I’d ensure they were set up and comfortable. But honestly, I don’t see why—”

“A client like who?” I hear it—the accusation. The skepticism. Still, I play dumb.

“Huh?”

“Your client. Who is it?”

This was not how this was supposed to go. He was not supposed to already be on the edge when I told him. I was going to wait until after dinner and a couple glasses of wine. Then I was hoping we’d break our recent dry spell and make love. I wasn’t even going to ask him for anything remotely kinky. Hell, if he wanted to do me in a floor-length gown, I’d let him.

He sits there waiting for me, growing more and more suspicious with every second of my silent unease. I just have to tell him. If I want a snowball’s chance in hell at gaining his trust and support, I just have to tell him.

“Ransom Reed.”

He opens his mouth, yet snaps it closed immediately, as if he doesn’t trust his words. I wait for the jealousy, the rage, the disappointment. But they never come. And part of me—a rather large part—craves them. At least I’d know he cares. At least I could feel like he loves me just as furiously as he cares for his patients.

“So, Ransom needs to get out of town?” he finally asks.

“Yeah, um, he’s been in some trouble; Caleb and I think it’d be a good idea for him to gain some perspective, away from the craziness of the city.”

He nods, maybe out of empathy. “And where were you planning on taking him?”

“Um, well, I’m not . . .” I’m stammering. Stammering is not a sign that I’m confident in my decision. “I was, uh, thinking of Oasis. Since Justice has beefed up security and gone public, the appeal for the papzz simply isn’t there anymore. No one wants to do an exposé on a couple’s spa.”

He nods again. “Good idea. I’ll come too.”

“You’ll . . . what?” I surely did not hear him right. Did he just say he’d come with me to take Ransom to a former sex school for bored, undersexed housewives, aka just about every married woman in Manhattan? (Ahem.)

“Yeah. I’ve always wanted to see that place and meet the guy. Plus it’s a five star resort and spa in the middle of nowhere. Sounds like fun.”

Sounds like fun? Does he know what he’s signing up for?

“Well, I haven’t actually talked to Justice about this yet. He’s sure to shut me down, seeing as it’s a couple’s resort. And plus . . .”

I can’t finish my thought. I can’t admit that I confided in Justice in something more than business, and divulged details of our personal lives, even if they were vague. The guy isn’t stupid. He knows exactly why I quizzed him about open marriages. And once I show up with Tucker and Ransom, I won’t be able to dodge that narrowed look of condescension. Because, let’s face it, no one does condescending like Justice Drake.

Tucker shifts and grips me by the hips, lifting me from his lap. “Why don’t you call and talk to him. I need to make a few calls myself and arrange for the rest of my patients to be taken care of.”

“Really?”

He kisses me on the forehead and smiles softly. “Yeah. This’ll be good. For all of us.” Then he shuffles away to his study, leaving me behind in an obscure cloud of what the fuck?

Ransom agreed easier than I expected. Tucker was borderline alien in his acquiesce. But Justice? Shit. I might as well pack my cutoffs and flip-flops and tell the guys we’re going to Disney World.

“You want to what?” he snaps after I present the idea to him. Most would wither under that clipped, cold tone, but not me. Justice is all bark, very little bite. Especially now that Ally has got him as tame as a teacup Yorkie.

“I want to bring Ransom there to Oasis to lay low for a week. Two weeks tops. The press won’t think to look for him there, and around all those old, boring ass married folks, he’s sure to stay out of trouble.”

“I’m still not seeing how this has dick to do with me and mine. This isn’t a fucking hotel, Heidi. I have clients—clients that pay me well to maintain a sense of safety and serenity. And how am I supposed to explain some young, single kid walking around when we have a strict Couples Only policy?”

“Well . . . tell them he’s with me.”

Silence, save for the sound of his unspoken accusations. He opens with a snort before continuing. “You? You’re coming too? And what does your husband think about that?”

“He thinks it’s a good idea. He actually suggested he come along too.”

Another snort, this time one of aggravation. “I said couple, Heidi. As in two. Not three, not four. Two.”

I purse my lips as I walk into the bedroom for more privacy. “And since when have you been the patron saint of monogamy?”

“I’ve always promoted the idea of it, Heidi. It was just in a slightly misguided, convoluted way. However, you can’t deny my success rate. You don’t become Justice Drake without knowing your shit.”

I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see it. “Oh, Justice. What a big ego you have. So are we doing that now? Talking about yourself in the third person?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Actually, I don’t. Is it cool for us to come or not? Or would you like to continue to judge me as if your closet isn’t bursting with more skeletons than a Tim Burton film. Please . . . tell me again how you met and seduced your current love interest aka your sister-in-law. And tell me again how she found you hiding out in Abu Dhabi, when someone went out on a fucking limb—sacrificing her own time and resources—to track you down for her. I particularly love that part of the story.”

I can almost feel the heat of his temper flaring from over two thousand miles away. And while his voice is arctic, he’s saying exactly what I want him to say, as I knew he would. I always get my way.

“Fine. Bring him. But space is limited. He stays out of the way, and he doesn’t pry into my business. Understand? And if I catch one single fucking inkling that he’s using, he’s out. Got it?”

I nearly gasp, but bite it down. “Using? What makes you think he’s using?” I hadn’t told anyone. Not even Tucker.

“I have basic cable, Heidi. God forbid the rest of the world outside of Manhattan has the use of modern technology.”

I manage to smile. He’s agreed. And while he may be pissed, I know Justice can’t stay mad at me for long. Above all, he owes me. He’ll always owe me. I’m the one who helped bring him back from the dead.

“You’re such a hater. Admit it—you miss it here.”

“Like a hole in the head.” I almost hear him chuckle, but being the hard ass that he is, he refuses to show any other emotion outside of pissed and horny.

“So, we’ll be there within the week. I’m shooting for Thursday if Tucker can get things squared away with work.”

“Fine. Shoot me your info and I’ll have your ride waiting.”

“Seriously?” I scoff. “I know how to get there. All that security bullshit isn’t necessary.”

Justice pushes right back, ignoring my attitude. “You’re bringing two strangers to my home and business. So yes, the security bullshit is necessary. Take it or leave it.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

We both hang up. And I smile. I kinda love that guy.

I don’t waste any time contacting the travel agent and Caleb and pass along the travel info. He’s stunned that Justice would agree to let us come, but downright flabbergasted that Tucker would suggest he come along too. I don’t let on that I’m just as shocked. I like Caleb, but not enough to share with him. There are industry friends and regular friends. Caleb is an industry friend. My regular friends can be counted on one hand with a couple fingers to spare.

Initially, I think I won’t be able to rest until our flight on Thursday morning, but both Tucker and I are so busy with tying up loose ends that the day comes sooner than expected. We don’t even get a chance to talk about what to expect. I know that Tucker thinks this will be good for us, but why? Because he thinks it will provide us some much needed alone time? Or because he can keep an eye on Ransom? Or is it that the prospect of having Ransom there for . . . a repeat performance is what he’s craving? And if that is the case, what the hell does that mean for us? That he only gets off on watching another man fuck me?

I can’t even think like that right now.

Caleb insists on bringing Ransom to the airport to ensure he actually shows up and I’m grateful. I need as much time alone with Tucker before we get on this plane. After today, who knows what will remain sacred between us?

“I can’t understand why you’d choose to fly commercial,” Caleb sneers, approaching us at the First Class ticketing line. He air kisses me, and continues bitching about everything from tiny bathrooms to Ebola. “I swear to God, Heidi DuCane, if either you or Ransom get some type of deadly virus, I will kill you myself before you contaminate me. Those quarantine moon suits do nothing for my figure.”

At the mention of his name, I straighten, mentally and physically preparing myself to see him again. It always takes me a moment to acclimate when in his presence. It’s like he sucks the air right out of the room. He doesn’t just take my breath away; he deprives my brain of precious oxygen, leaving me a blubbering, stuttering mess.

As expected, Ransom is dressed in jeans and a tee, this one heather gray. He also has on dark aviators and that gray slouchy beanie over messy hair. I don’t know if it’s the same one from that night or if he has a dozen of them, which probably boasts some ridiculously expensive label that costs a fortune for merely a bundle of wool. Still, he looks amazing, even in that disheveled, just-rolled-out-of-bed way. It’s like he doesn’t even have to try. Sex appeal is about as natural to him as blinking those dark, sinuous eyes.

“Hey, man,” Ransom mutters, extending a hand to Tucker. The two shake and Tuck returns the greeting. When Ransom turns in my direction, he’s less than cordial.

“Heidi.”

One word. That’s all I get. Not a nod, not a smile. Just my name on his tongue. And it doesn’t sound like music anymore. It sounds like a curse.

“Well . . .” I say, looking down at our itinerary. “Flight leaves in an hour. We better get moving.”

We go through ticketing and security without speaking, which isn’t a problem considering Ransom is stopped for autographs every five feet or so. If he had chosen to showcase his signature locks, I’m sure we would have needed security. By the time we get to our gate, the attendants are already calling for first class passengers. We board quickly to avoid further delays from fans and find our seats. To my disenchantment, Ransom is seated directly behind us, not across from us as I initially thought. He’ll be able to see everything—hear everything. And while I really shouldn’t care, or suspect that he does, I can’t help the pang of unease that seizes my gut as I take my window seat, giving Tucker the aisle.

“What’s wrong, babe?” he asks, settling beside me. He takes my hand where it rests on the armrest between us. “You look a little pale.”

I give him a weak smile. “Just tired, I guess.”

“Well, just try to relax,” he responds, leaning over to press his lips against mine before tilting back into his headrest. “It’s going to be a long flight.”

Long flight, indeed. Probably the longest one yet.

The flight attendant comes over to take drink orders and I hurriedly request a glass of champagne. Tucker lifts a questioning brow, eluding to the early hour. I simply shrug.

“Vacation.” And if I’m going to make it through alive, with my dignity and marriage intact, I’m going to need alcohol. Lots of it.

The flight is uneventful for the first hour or so, and I manage to doze off after a couple more glasses of bubbly. That’s when I feel the back of my seat bow as if someone is gripping it. My eyes pop open and dart up just in time to see Ransom looming over me, his tired eyes gazing down at me with the intensity of a sniper.

“Excuse me,” he mutters. Then he shifts over into the aisle and creeps into the lavatory. I look over at Tucker, who appears to be oblivious, completely engulfed in an audiobook he’s listening to through his headphones while tapping on his MacBook Air. It’s as if he didn’t even notice.

A few minutes pass before a suspicion hits me like a baseball bat. Ransom should have been back by now. What if he’s sick? Or what if he’s in there getting high? Shit. I can’t have him on a public plane, blitzed out of his mind. And if Justice finds out? Yeah, I take my liberties with him, but he won’t budge on the No Drugs policy. His staff is randomly tested and even his clients have to submit to pre-enrollment screenings. Say what you want about him, but Justice is a standup guy. Total asshole, but a good man deep inside.

I can’t sit still. I can’t be satisfied with just wondering what he’s doing in there, if he’s ok, if he’s finally gone too far this time. My reputation may be on the line, but, hell, so is his life. And cold bitch or not, I can’t not care about him.

“Excuse me,” I murmur, unsnapping my lap belt. When Tucker doesn’t respond, I tap him on the shoulder to get his attention.

“Yeah?” he says, pulling off his headphones.

I point toward the lavatory. “Bathroom.”

After Tucker’s moved into the aisle to let me out, he quickly sits back down to get back to whatever he’s doing. I know there’s some investigating that goes along with the passing of his patient, so I assume he’s still dealing with that.

When I get to the ugly, beige folding door, I tap lightly, as not to draw attention to myself or the person inside.

“Yeah?” replies a strained rasp.

“It’s me.”

A long moment passes before I hear the lock slide open, yet he doesn’t open the door. I look up to see that Tucker is still deeply engrossed in his work, and then I do the unthinkable. I step inside the tiny airplane bathroom with another man.

Ransom is leaning over the sink, palms pressed to the edge of the makeshift cabinet. His head is down, but I can see that his skin appears to be slicked with a thin sheen of sweat that looks clammy to the touch. I peer around his massive body, which takes up the entire space, save for the spot I’m standing in, and search for any signs of drug usage. But there’s nothing. Not a trace of paraphernalia.

“I don’t have anything on me,” he mutters, without lifting his head.

“I didn’t think you did,” I lie.

“I know why you’re here, Heidi. I know what you’re looking for.”

“Well, if you know, why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me you were a drug addict, Ransom?”

He chuckles under his breath, causing his hunched back to vibrate with mirth. “I’m not addicted to drugs, H.”

“Then what is it? Alcohol?”

“I wish.” The sound of his voice is so weak and defeated in this enclosed space, it seems to amplify every unsaid word and every rejected sentiment. I just want to lift my hand and touch him—for his comfort and for mine. Whatever is eating him up inside—whether it be pills or coke or booze—is hurting him. And he’s hurting himself to dull the pain.

“Ransom, you can talk to me,” I whisper. “Whatever is going on . . . I’m here for you.”

“Are you? Like you were there for me Saturday night?”

“That’s different. I needed to be home, and you were fine—”

“I know what you wanted to talk about, H. I know you wanted to leave me. Just like everybody else.”

My first reaction is to deny, but his words stun me into silence. I know you wanted to leave me. It sounds like so much more than annoyance at having to find a new publicist. So much more than just business. There’s pain behind those words—pain deeper than I could ever reach. And while I may not have initially caused it, I’ve become a physical reminder of it. An itchy, stinging scab over the secret laceration over his heart. And I don’t know why. I don’t understand why he’s given me the power to hurt him, when I never asked for that role.

“I’m not good for you,” I hear myself say on the edge of a whisper.

“I know. Nothing fun ever is. But I want you anyway.”

I look past his back to find that he’s looking at me through the tiny mirror, those dark, glassy eyes rimmed with even darker circles. I believe him about not using. I believe him but I don’t want to. The truth seems even worse.

The plane hits a rough patch of air, and we remember where we are. The haze of raw emotion retreats and we both sober with self-consciousness. Ransom turns on the miniature sink to splash water on his face. I fiddle with my hair as if I were actually doing something in here to mess it up. When I place my hand on the handle of the door, Ransom turns to look at me expectantly.

“Try to get some rest, ok? We’ll be in Arizona in a couple hours.” Then I escape that tiny closet filled with our secrets and skeletons, and hope that none have followed me out.

When I return to my seat, I find that Tucker’s eyes are still glued to the screen of his computer. He nods when I approach and gets up to let me in without letting his fingers leave the keyboard. I sit down and lean my head against the window, suddenly exhausted.

“Is he ok?”

I turn to my husband, his expression impassive, his attention still tuned to his work. When I don’t answer right away, he simply lifts a brow and gives me a mere fraction of a glance. That’s it.

“Yeah.” It’s a lie. Ransom isn’t all right. I’m not all right. And we . . . we haven’t been all right for a long time.

He nods. “Good.” Then he acts as if we hadn’t spoken at all.

Ransom returns to his seat minutes later, his color less pale and his face more relaxed. That alone is almost enough to soothe me into sleep. And just as the first caress of slumber starts to pull me under, I feel warm, callused fingers brush against the back of my right hand. The hand by the window. The hand that Tucker can’t see.

I fall asleep that way—my husband at my side, completely oblivious, and my one-time lover running his fingertips over my knuckles. And it feels like we’re fucking. Only this time, Tucker isn’t watching.