Текст книги "Tryst"

Автор книги: S. L. Jennings

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter Twenty

Arizona is fucking hot.

Not New York hot, which is pretty damn miserable in the summertime. But West-coast-so-goddamn-dry-I-can’t-breathe-blink-or-swallow hot. I hate it. But the heat doesn’t compare to the way my hand still kindles with Ransom’s touch. Or the way Tucker’s shrewd stare burns right through me, picking me apart, sifting out the secrets and leaving behind the shame to fester and rot. I hate that too.

The limo ride to Justice’s compound is uncomfortable to say the least. But we try to make the best of the long journey by completely tuning one another out. Tucker goes back to whatever the hell he’s typing up on his MacBook. Across from us on the bench seat, Ransom slips on his headphones and pulls a notebook out of his bag. I watch with rapt fascination as he taps his fingers against the blank, paper canvas, head nodding, eyes closed. To watch him create—to breathe life into oblivion and somehow compose greatness—is probably the most intimate experience I’ve had with him to date. And even though I must look like a moron staring at him like he’s some rare, exotic piece of art, I can’t force myself to look away. He’s beautiful in his element—unguarded, pure. It’s like I’m truly seeing him for the first time.

His eyes suddenly open, and lock on to mine. He frowns for half a second before the corner of his mouth twitches. He mouths the word, What?, and the unspoken question, coupled with the flash of his tongue, unleashes a swarm of silk-winged butterflies inside my ribcage. Reflexively, I look over to my husband, who, as I expect, is none the wiser. When I turn back to Ransom, I simply shake my head. He lifts a challenging brow, tempting me to tell him what’s on my mind. But then again, I don’t have to. He can see the way my skin is flushed like it’s just been burned by the stubble of his chin. And the way my chest rises and falls with every single ragged breath as if he’s squeezing my lungs with his bare hands. And he surely notices the way my gaze runs over him, trying to capture every detail and download them to the forbidden file folder inside my mind.

He can see all these things, because in some convoluted way, Ransom has gotten inside of more than just my body. He’s watermarked my heart, and now he can read me like I’m splashed across the front pages of The Post.

This stranger has made me feel for him. And I hate that most of all.

I break the spell by pretending to be engrossed in unread text messages and emails on my cellphone, avoiding eye contact with him for the rest of the trip. When we arrive at Oasis over an hour later, my whole body aches with tension and stiffness. Of course, I don’t even have a chance to get out and stretch before I spy Justice on the front steps, his maddeningly handsome face screwed in discontent.

Most women would be overjoyed to be in the presence of such male beauty. Tucker, Ransom, and Justice are all ridiculously gorgeous in very distinct, yet very obvious ways. Tucker is what one would consider classically handsome, with his strong jaw, bee stung lips, and ocean blue eyes. Ransom is the complete opposite, his olive complexion and dark, angular features more intriguing and exotic than my All-American husband’s. But Justice . . . Justice is what a woman would deem panty-dropping fine. The man is sex on a stick, covered in rich chocolate and rainbow sprinkles. His eyes are the color of a blue sky that’s been threatened by a storm and his lips are bowed, pouty even. They’d make him appear almost feminine if it weren’t for the fact that the man’s body is an in-depth course in sexual education, and every muscle and plane is a quiz you want to ace with flying colors.

At first glance, you’d think you were staring at a mirage. Then he opens his mouth, and the illusion shatters. It’s like he knows he is that gorgeous, that sexy, and he wants to repel you. Like his intent is to turn off as many people as he can in an attempt to keep them at arm’s length.

I scoped out his tactics within the first few moments of meeting him years ago. Cut from the same cloth, that guy and me. And after the top blew off his personal life last year, exposing his piece of shit “family” and the way they threw him out like garbage, I can understand why he chooses to live his life in exile.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbles, coming down the terra cotta stairs of his massive estate. Exile or not, Justice is loaded. After his spineless father’s bitch of a wife sent Justice and his mom packing, he was left with a little chunk of change. He took the cash, put it toward an idea that would either get him stoned or celebrated and, alas, Justice Drake, sexpert extraordinaire, was born.

“Save the niceties and concern for someone who actually gives a damn,” I fire back, walking past him into the air-conditioned foyer. It’s not that the heat is unbearable, because it is. But mostly the fact that if I stand there between my husband and my—shit, I don’t even know what he is—Justice will see right through me. He’ll see the truth displayed on my body like a scarlet letter, inked with bloodred lies and lust. And I’m just not ready to face him yet. I could give two shits what people think about me as a person, especially my clients. But Justice is different. I actually like him, but even more than that, I respect the hell out of him. It’s kind of hard not to.

I hear the men behind me, exchanging introductions as they make their way into the house. And while my exterior is stoically cool and blasé, my gut rages like the mosh pit at a heavy metal concert. What was I thinking? Bringing Tucker and Ransom to Justice’s den of sin? Exposing them to what really goes on behind the closed door of most marriages? Am I just encouraging this thing between us? Did I subconsciously choose this place because I knew we’d be safe from ridicule, and encouraged to explore our fantasies further?

“Your rooms are this way. The staff will grab your bags,” Justice says, leading us to the grand staircase that leads to the second floor rooms. They were initially used as living quarters for the women enrolled in his program, but they now house couples that have joined Justice’s new relationship-enrichment course. I was instrumental in the changeover after he abandoned his business last fall. Being that exposed and vulnerable nearly crushed him. But losing Ally—watching her walk away from him and back into her husband’s arms—it almost killed him.

After months of trying to pick up the pieces of his war-torn life, and worrying about him until I was physically sick, I enlisted a little help. Like I told him, every businessperson worth their salt has a hacker on their payroll. So I emailed and emailed, to no avail, hoping to get just a breadcrumb of an IP address, anything that would lead us to him. He never answered, of course. It was like he knew what my intent was, and he didn’t want to be found. He was going to disappear, reinvent himself, and eventually die alone. I couldn’t let that happen.

Then, we got a bite.

He wrote Ally.

It wasn’t much of a letter, most of it scratched out and unreadable. But there was a postage stamp. The smug bastard had given us a clue. He was ready to be found. He wanted to come home.

So I contacted a couple friends—one in customs, the other in private investigating—and we tracked him down. And I told Ally, who had damn near stalked me for months, showing up at my office daily and annoying the ever-living shit outta me, to go get her boy. And never, ever let him go. A love like that—one birthed out of pain and courage and friendship—was so rare to find. And those two had it. They just needed a little help in keeping it.

I look back at Tucker as we round the top of the banister and give him a smile. What we have is real. Tucker’s love for me is solid and true, and always has been. No one can take that away from us. Not Ransom, not Justice, not even me. And as much as I don’t deserve him, I can’t bear the thought of losing him. I can’t fathom my life without him in it, keeping me rooted in love whenever I try to float away.

My gaze darts to Ransom, who trails a few steps behind us, his eyes unfocused, his mouth pressed into a straight line. It was easy to be attracted to him, easier than it should have been. He’s the promise of excitement and youth. He’s that rush of exhilaration from standing right on the edge of a cliff, arms outstretched and eyes closed. He’s that punch of adrenaline that rushes my heart so rapidly that I feel high. Weightless, yet covered in sensation that prickles every inch of my skin.

Ransom makes me believe I can fly, but it’s Tucker who keeps me tethered to the earth. Sometimes I can’t tell which is worse.

We stop at a rich mahogany door with the word Reflection engraved in beautiful script on a stainless-steel placard. “What’s this?” I ask.

“Ally wanted to do something with the rooms . . . create specific themes for them. This is the Reflection room. We’re pretty booked right now, so you lucked out.”

He fishes a key tied with a ribbon bow out of his pocket and unlocks the door. And as we step inside, I know exactly how this particular room earned its name.

The space is bathed in muted colors—gray, taupe, nude. Colors that would calm the minds and invoke peace, and allow the couple a chance to contemplate on their relationship. However, it’s completely decked out in mirrors from top to bottom, the main ones seemingly focused around the bed. So while a couple may reflect on their love for each other by day, their naked, twisted bodies will be reflected by night.

It’s as if Justice is trying to tell me something. And for someone who has never relied on subtlety to get his point across, I’m kinda pissed that he took this opportunity to try it out.

I turn around to tell him so, when I realize that I’m not the only one musing over the bedroom’s double entendre. Actually, the message seems to be very clear, and the way Ransom is eyeing the mirror situation directly over the bed, he’s just as uncomfortable with what this represents. And what this means for him.

“Your room is down the hall,” Justice says to the younger man. He waves Ransom toward the hall and I’m tempted to follow when Justice stops at the doorframe, training that cold, icy stare at me. I can almost feel the temperature in the room plummet. “My place in ten.”

Then I’m left with my husband, wondering what the hell Justice could want that would demand my attention so suddenly. And what the hell he and Ransom could be talking about right now.

Under normal circumstances, I would have shown up at the guesthouse where Justice lives at least five minutes late. Ten if I was feeling feisty and wanted to piss him off. But knowing that he’s alone with Ransom, and considering our conversation over the phone about open marriages, I can only imagine what conclusions are being made. I know that Justice won’t divulge any details, but would Ransom? If he felt it would benefit him in some way?

“Ten minutes, eh?” Tucker muses from behind me. He’s closer than I expect, close enough that his warm breath stirs the hair at my nape. “I can think of a few things we can accomplish in ten minutes.”

He brushes the hair from my shoulders and presses his lips against the back of my neck, a move that has successfully made me dissolve into warm honey on many occasions. I’ve always craved physical affection from Tucker—yearned for it like a starving child. Now it just feels like a distraction . . . an annoyance. My husband’s touch is annoying me. And that’s a serious problem.

“Later,” I say, shaking him off. “We’ve been traveling all day. I feel gross.”

I escape to the bathroom to freshen up and to put even more distance between us. When I reemerge, I find Tucker on the balcony that overlooks the courtyard. The sparkling turquoise, negative edge pool is surrounded by couples in plush loungers, talking, laughing, sipping fruity libations from the newly installed in-pool bar. Such a vast difference from a year ago, when only fragile, disparaged women frequented the estate. These people are here solely by choice. Not out of desperation.

“Wanna take a dip after your meeting?” Tucker asks without looking at me. His voice is level, as if he can’t feel the tension crackling between us, but I know he does. He’s a smart man.

“Sure,” I tell him, knowing damn well that won’t happen. I tell myself it’s because I’m working and can’t afford the luxury of lazing around the pool, but even my own denial reeks of guilt.

I kiss his cheek and tell him I’ll be back, suggesting he order up some drinks and food. I even recommend some of Riku’s specialties before anxiously dashing out the door and away from the whispered judgment of those mirrors in the Reflection room.

Just as my hand retreats from the cool hardness of the doorknob, I hear a husky chuckle from behind me.

“Your friend . . . has a way with innuendo,” Ransom drawls. I take a deep breath before turning around to face him, only to find that he’s half dressed and looking more luscious than I remembered. I open and close my mouth a half dozen times before speaking.

“Uh, yeah. He’s a riot. Forget something?” I ask, lifting a questioning brow, my eyes roaming his taut frame from the soles of his sneakers to the earbuds that dangle onto his bare, tanned shoulders.

He looks down at his low-slung (seriously, how can he be wearing underwear?) black basketball shorts and shrugs. “Thought I’d get in a workout. Too hot to wear anything else.”

He’s right, but I can’t help the pang of possessiveness that urges me to demand he turn his sexy ass around and go put on a shirt. So what if all the women here are married or in serious committed relationships? They’re not dead. Take me, for instance. I was so very alive when I spread my thighs for Ransom and took him inside me, mummified him in my warmth and wetness, and made him a permanent memory on my soul. Actually, I can’t remember feeling more vital than that night I spent with him, crying for God yet worshipping him. And that feeling has only been amplified with every stolen moment since.

So, no, Ransom isn’t mine to feel ownership of, or mine to boss around and tell what to do. But he’s mine, goddammit. And sharing isn’t an option.

“Heidi?”

I blink, abandoning my fervent reverie, and look back up at him. He licks his lips, goading me, tempting me, and smiles. “I said, going somewhere?”

“Justice,” I rasp, my voice splintered. I clear it and press on. “I need to speak with him.”

“About me?”

I answer with a frown. “No. Why would I? Did you . . . say anything to him that would invite any questions?”

He snorts and looks away before shaking his head. “No. I haven’t. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

Even though I’m sure he’s being honest, I feel the need to reiterate just how dire his confidence is. “Good. Because, if that got out—if someone found out about . . . us—it’d hurt us all.”

“Hurt us?” His eyes flare on the word “hurt” as if the prospect excites him.

“Our careers, yes. The press would be relentless.”

He nods, the small smile on his face turning smug. “Sure. The press.”

He gazes down the hallway, searching for an escape hatch, and I release him by saying goodbye. I contemplate inviting him for dinner later, but think better of it. We’re not here together. I’m simply here to ensure that he doesn’t completely fuck up or get fucked up. And I’m here for Tucker, of course.

When I knock on Justice’s door, a sense of anxiety, almost fear, has me tempted to turn back around. But before I can make a run for it, he swings open the door, nearly ripping my arm out of the socket as he pulls me inside.

“What the fuck did you do?” he asks as soon as the door slams behind me. He’s pacing the floor, breathing heavily, pulling at his short, spiky hair. He’s positively pissed. And it has nothing to do with being tardy.

I stand perfectly still, the soles of my sandals planted in marbled quicksand. “What do you mean?”

Suddenly, he’s in my face, not threateningly, but he’s challenging me. Challenging me to lie to his face and try to deny what he so obviously can see. “You think I’m fucking stupid? You think I don’t know what you did with that boy? Dammit, Heidi! I thought we talked about this? I thought you understood the gravity of your decision, and how it would cost you everything. Everything! You think some romp with a rock star will replace a damn decade with your husband? Fucking hell, Heidi. I thought you were smarter than this.”

“Justice . . .”

He keeps pressing, keeps digging into me. And I just stand there and let him. “I should have fucking known when you said you needed to bring him. This isn’t about drugs or alcohol, is it? You want him here so you can fuck him, yet play the good wife for your husband. Well, not in my house. I don’t do affairs, DuCane. You wanna fuck around, take your ass back to the city. Tucker deserves better than that, and I won’t have him believe that I was an accomplice.”

“Justice . . .” I try again. “He knows.”

“What?” That makes him retreat a few steps. “What the fuck do you mean, He knows?”

“Tuck . . . he knows. About Ransom.”

Justice heaves out an aggravated breath and resumes his pacing. “I’m not a marriage counselor, you know. I can’t fix your marriage now that you’ve screwed it to hell.”

“I know.” I step toward him, humbled, defeated. “And it’s not like that. I didn’t screw it up. We screwed it up. Together.”

“We?”

“He was there. Tucker was there when I was with Ransom. He watched. He . . . instructed. And he loved it. At least he did at the time.”

“Did?”

I shake my head, not wanting to believe what’s happened—what’s been happening for some time now. “What I need . . . he can’t give it to me. And he knew I found Ransom attractive. We were all drunk, high . . . it just happened. And I . . . I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking about him. I thought letting Tucker see what my body needed from him would help him accept it, and he would eventually be able to provide. But he can’t. He won’t. And ever since our little tryst . . . ever since I felt what it was like to be so completely sated, so undeniably fulfilled . . . I can’t go back to how it was. Shit, I refuse to go back to that.”

That sobers him and I watch the ire drain from his features. “Does he know this? Your husband?”

I nod. “We tried afterwards. I thought he was catching on, opening up to the idea. And then he stopped. Jumped away from me like I was a leper. Like I was disgusting and deviant. It hurts to be rejected by the man you love. Especially when another man is willing to not only accept you, but also give you what you need. And not because you need it, but because he wants it too.”

I move in closer. Closer than we’ve ever been. Not seductively, but in an act of vulnerability. I’m giving him his chance to reject me. Letting him push me away and make me feel dirty too. “Justice, I’m scared. I’m terrified because I want him so badly it physically aches. And I can’t think of anything else but him, and how it felt to be understood. I know that’s wrong, and vile. But fuck, I can’t help it. I can’t stop feeling this way. And it’s only a matter of time before the desires of my body override the intentions of my heart.”

He looks at me for a long time, either silently judging or thoughtfully comprehending, when the front door opens, causing us to jump apart. Luckily, Ally is joyfully oblivious, flitting in from outside as if she were just dancing on the sun. Fire-streaked red hair is toppled on her head in a messy knot, and she’s dressed in purple running shorts, a yellow tank, and candy-colored running shoes.

“Heidi! You’re here!” she trills, her smile so infectious that I nearly forget the seriousness of the moment before. I can see why Justice keeps her around. The girl is like his own personal sunbeam. He lives in dark and stormy—thrives there. But one can only go so long in the absence of light before they fall ill in their own coldness and despair. Ally is his warmth. She is his sun and moon and stars. She’s what brought him back to life.

“That I am,” I reply, with a nod of my head. She comes to hug me then remembers herself. I’m not a hugger. Ever.

“You came at the right time too. You’ll never guess who’s here! I didn’t even know he was a client!” She looks to Justice and punches his massive bicep with her teeny, tiny, cutesy fist. “Did you do this to surprise me? Because you know what a crazy fan I am?”

Justice and I look at each other, our brows raised in confusion. “What are you talking about, angel?” he asks, pulling her into his arms. That took some time to get used to—their PDA. I envied the way Justice had allowed himself to change for her. Well, not even change, actually. Evolve. Ally had evoked the evolution of his heart.

She kisses his lips before turning around to face me, her eyes so bright, they blind me. “Ransom Reed! You know, from the band, Ransom? Oh em squeee! I was on the treadmill, workin’ on my fitness, zoned out, blasting their last album on my iPod, and in he walks. Just strolls in like it’s no big deal that he’s a freaking rock god in our gym. And he was shirtless!”

Justice clears his throat, which causes her to turn around and beam at him lovingly. “Oh, baby, he has nothing on you, of course. But, Heidi,” she says, turning back to me, “Holy abs, Batman. You’ve got to see it to believe it.”

“Oh, I’m sure Heidi believes it,” Justice murmurs, rolling his eyes.

“Huh?” Of course, Ally doesn’t miss his comment. The girl is bubbly and quirky, yes. But she’s no dummy. She’s seen what goes down within this compound. Hell, she’s been an active participant.

“He’s my client,” I explain, hoping to avoid any further speculation. “I brought him here to get away for a little while. And my husband . . . I brought my husband too.”

“Oh.” That one word is all I need to know that she doesn’t buy it. But she’s polite enough not to pry. “Well, you guys have got to come by and hang while you’re here. It’s not every day that we get to see Mr. Heidi in the flesh. Maybe a couple’s game night? I’ll make margaritas!”

“No,” Justice and I say in unison. When her expression falls, we both try to explain, rambling on top of each other.

“She’s here on business, and probably wants to spend her free time with Tucker.”

“I don’t want to intrude. Plus, I’ve got a ton of work to do.”

“Fine, fine,” Ally sighs, waving us off. She shimmies out of Justice’s arms and begins to make her way toward the back rooms. “You guys can save your excuses. Business before bullshit, I get it. I’ll be in the shower so you can go back to plotting your quest for world domination.”

After she disappears from sight and we hear the telltale signs of running water, Justice looks at me with an expression so stern that I feel chastised. “You won’t get her involved in this mess. If something happens, and this gets out, you will not mention her. Understand?”

“I understand.” I nod.

“She likes you, Heidi. She cares for you. And knowing what you’re doing—after all she’s been through—would hurt her. You won’t hurt her. Got it?”

“I do.”

“Ok.” He scrubs a hand over his face and takes a deep breath. “If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it the right way. No sneaking behind Tucker’s back. I can . . . help you two devise a way to make this a safe and healthy situation for the both of you. But I need total and complete honesty. Understand? And he needs to be on board to trying whatever it takes. If he still can’t give you what you need, we can look at other options . . . including Ransom. But you have to try to make it work with your husband first, Heidi. Ok? Another dick will not solve your marital problems.”

“I know.” I nod. “I get it. And, yes, I will do whatever it takes. Whatever you want us to do. But I need to know . . . what’s the catch? I mean, I’d like to think we’re friends in some sick, twisted way when we’re not at each other’s throats, but why would you be willing to help me? What’s in it for you?”

He looks toward the bathroom, where water can still be heard pelting the glass door. The mangled sounds of Ally’s shower singing echoes against the tile.

“Because, like I said, she likes you. And you did something for me that could not have been easy. So consider this payback.”

Ah, yes. That I did.

A few months ago, shortly after Justice returned to Oasis, he needed a little favor. Evan, Ally’s ex and Justice’s half-brother, was on a smear campaign to ruin her reputation and expose personal information about Justice’s mother. We knew his hands were dirty, but no one knew just how dirty they were. So I made a few calls, and some people took a few pictures of Evan in a few compromising situations. I mean, no one made him pop the molly or snort the coke. We just ensured that when he did it, there was photographic evidence. And we may have brought a couple friends that posed in those photos once he passed out. And those friends may have been transvestite prostitutes.

Ally never found out and, of course, those photos never saw the light of day. Once his eyes fell on the contents of the manila file folder that happened to show up on his desk at work, Evan shut the fuck up. He also accelerated his descent down the rabbit hole, and he hasn’t been able to climb out since.

Part of me should feel bad for contributing to his self-destruction, but I don’t. Evan Carr was, and is, a piece of shit. And it’s only appropriate that shit be properly disposed of.

I don’t know why I say it, but I thank Justice. What he’s offering is so unconventional that if someone were to overhear our conversation, they’d think we were both certifiable. But right now, I feel like he’s thrown me a lifeline. He’s willing to save my life.

We say goodbye before Ally comes back out to the living room. If she saw I was still there, she’d lay on the guilt and beg us to come over for dinner or something as equally uncomfortable. Before I can get fully out the door, Justice stops me, his eyes darting around the vicinity to check for eavesdroppers.

“Promise me you won’t do anything with him until we try, OK? Promise me that.”

By him he means Ransom. He’s asking me not to cheat on my husband. How ludicrous does that sound? Still, I nod once, giving him my word. And I’m sincere. I don’t want to hurt my husband, but I know I’m more than capable of doing it.

He closes the door and returns to his happy life with his happy girlfriend. And I imagine that behind those doors, he’s happy too. I’m smiling to myself, imagining Justice Drake as the sweet, doting lover that relishes in lazy Sundays spent in bed and movie nights featuring the latest Nicholas Sparks flick. I bet he even cries when he’s with her.

I’m so wrapped up in my amused reverie that I don’t even notice that I’m being watched. Not just watched. Studied. Analyzed. Picked apart by blue, shrewd eyes that squint against the bright, hot sun, reading the story that I’ve just told.