Текст книги "Tryst"
Автор книги: S. L. Jennings
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
Chapter Nine
It’s Wednesday. And I’ve decided to put my big girl panties on and meet my newest client for lunch.
As unprofessional—and quite frankly punkish—of me as it is, I reach out to him by text, extending my invitation and relaying my intent. The text takes me nearly half an hour to generate, and another ten minutes to gain the nerve to just press fucking Send. He responds with two letters, five minutes later.
Ok.
I look good today. Chic, fashionable, yet smart, in a white, fitted wrap skirt, black silk blouse, and white, lightweight blazer. I’ve left my hair down so it falls in long, voluminous waves, something I rarely do during the week. And while my metaphorical big girl panties are on, my ass is delicately wrapped in La Perla.
I suggest Sage, a modern American restaurant in Midtown that I frequent often. It’s my go-to spot for client lunches, and since Ransom is a client, and nothing more, it makes sense to meet him here. Plus, the owner is privy to my high-profile clientele and the staff always knows to seat me in a private area. However, Ransom texts me twenty minutes before our meeting to tell me to meet him in Tribeca at a modern French bistro called La Charcuterie. I huff out my frustration at the plan’s deviation, although I’m inwardly grinning. I had heard great things about that place, yet my schedule permits little time for social lunching. And Tucker usually likes to frequent the same five restaurants on date nights.
By the time the driver pulls up to the curb in front of the bistro, my cool, confident demeanor is simply an afterthought, and I’m left standing on the sidewalk, trying to remember how to put one stiletto in front of the other.
The place is crowded, seeing as it is a popular hotspot, but the host leads me to a semi-private area that’s occupied by mostly high-powered business types, trust fund babies, and homebred celebs. From what I can see, there are no windows in this section, blocking out the intrusive flash of paparazzi photogs, and I’m certain there’s a separate entrance. No wonder Ransom chose this place.
The moment I spot him, sitting at a table dressed for two, my heart hiccups into my throat. His roguish beauty is still alarming to me, those dark eyes and sharp features making him appear cunning and slightly villainous. He wears a pair of faded black jeans, a heather gray V-neck tee, and his hair is in a messy coif that leaves a few locks to fall over his forehead. It seems pedestrian, however, I can bet that every stitch of clothing that falls on that luscious body was created especially for him. I wouldn’t even be surprised if the antique wash of his jeans was deliberate.
He doesn’t see me right away, since his head is down, and I can’t tell if he’s on his phone or counting the threads in the white linen tablecloth. But he must sense my approach, because without cause, he lifts his head and his eyes immediately find me.
My step falters for just a half second and I pray he doesn’t notice. His gaze sweeps over me like a gust of Santa Ana wind—hot, dry, and remarkably strong, so much so that I heat from the inside out. The back of my neck feels clammy and I can feel sweat beading on the bridge of my nose. A smile as slow and lazy as a house cat creeps onto his face as if he can smell my perspiration from feet away.
“Mr. Reed,” I say in greeting, standing opposite from where he sits. He doesn’t stand. He’s no gentleman. Tucker would have been on his feet the moment he set eyes on me.
“Mr. Reed?” He raises a brow, yet his grin is still fixed on his face. He’s baiting me; he knows I’m thinking about all the reasons why we should be on a first name basis.
“Yes, thank you for meeting me.” I should reach over and shake his hand, but I can only manage one movement at a time. So I sit down, entering his space. Sharing his air. And Ransom seems positively delighted at that prospect.
“So you received the contracts. I’m glad.” His tone is polite, although I get the feeling he’s hinting at something devious. I go for the untouched glass of ice water that sits on my side of the table and wet my suddenly parched mouth. Ransom follows my every move with a gaze so smoldering, you would think I was skating an ice cube along the column of my throat instead. It’s unnerving.
“I did. Just one question though: Why?”
He narrows his eyes as though he doesn’t follow so I continue. “Why do you want me as your publicist?”
The thought that Ransom could have agreed to work with me as a thank you for our night together, or in hopes that there’d be an encore performance, definitely crossed my mind. I had assumed he was done with me, seeing as he barely said a thing after we were done and couldn’t get me—us—out of his sight fast enough. Yet, here he is, signing up to be in my presence on a much more frequent basis.
Ransom takes a moment to contemplate my question as he reaches over to retrieve his own water, yet he doesn’t bring it to his lips. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Yes, of course, but . . .”
“That is why you came to meet me Friday night, correct?”
I nod vehemently. “Of course.”
“You wanted me, so here I am,” he replies matter-of-factly with a blasé wave of his hand.
I’m stunned speechless as the waiter takes that exact moment to ask us if we’d like to order drinks. Ransom orders a beer for himself. When I don’t answer right away, he tells him to bring a bottle of champagne.
“I’m working,” I manage to stammer. “I can’t drink in the middle of the day.”
“You’ll have one glass,” he retorts. He’s not asking me. He’s not even telling me. He’s stating a fact. This smug bastard actually thinks he knows me.
I cross my arms in front of my chest, preparing to tell him just how misguided he is, when he gives me a shrug and a smile meant to completely disarm me. To my chagrin, it’s working. “I’ve seen you drink much more and still have total control of your body . . . your mind. One glass won’t leave you defenseless and at my mercy. Unless you want to be, Heidi.”
I flinch at the sound of my name sliding over his skilled tongue, embedding itself into the warm womb of his mouth. When the waiter returns moments later with our drinks, I’m more than thankful for the sparkling liquid courage, downing my first glassful within seconds.
Ransom refills, watching me watching him. When he nestles the bottle back into the ice bucket, I finally allow myself to breathe again. Maybe speaking won’t be so bad either.
“I have some ideas on what we can do to launch your career and really promote the tour and the new album.”
“New album?” he asks, a jolt of surprise in his voice. “Who said anything about a new album?”
I furrow my brows in confusion. “Caleb. He said you wanted to record again. Said that you were excited about a song that you needed to get out. I just assumed . . .”
Ransom nods, but doesn’t confirm or deny the rumor, and I don’t push him to. With these creative types, you have to let them do things in their own time, in their own way. They don’t respond to pressure unless it’s self-inflicted.
With the break in conversation, the waiter comes to take our order. Even though the aromas wafting from the kitchen are downright heavenly, I hadn’t even thought about food, let alone picked up my menu. I quickly flip it open and request a spinach salad, settling on practicality over desire. Ransom asks for some type of gourmet burger with a side of truffle French fries that’ll probably cost more than what most people in this city pay for groceries for a week.
We discuss the Euro tour that’s coming up in the fall. He tells me his plans for the summer and asks if I’ll be like the rest of the urban zombies and escape to the Hamptons. I blush with embarrassment; that was exactly what we had planned to do, at least for Memorial Day weekend and the Fourth. I’m not sure why it embarrasses me or why I feel the need to seem much more cool and blasé than I really am.
We sip. We talk. We laugh when necessary. Ransom is . . . not what I expected. He’s young—nearly eight years my junior—but he’s lived more than most. He released his first album while still in high school. He’s traveled the world. And I’m not naïve enough to ignore the fact that only a man with a lot of experience fucks the way he does.
By the time the waiter arrives with our meals, I’m on my third glass of champagne and probably having the best conversation I’ve had in months. But the moment I get a mouthwatering whiff of sizzling Kobe beef, melted cheese, and crispy potatoes, I realize just how hungry I really am.
Not wasting any time, Ransom takes a bite and an erotic sound slips between his lips, causing the heat between my thighs to fluctuate into my stomach. He chews, slowly, deliberately then looks at me expectantly.
“How’s your salad?”
I look down at the plate of greens topped with bleu cheese, candied walnuts, and house-smoked bacon. Any other day, I would have found it fulfilling. Today, it seems as empty as my stomach. Still, I nod and reply, “Good.”
Ransom smiles as if he’s on to me and holds out his burger. “Do you want a bite?”
“No.”
“No? Are you sure? Because you’re staring at it with lust in your eyes.”
“No,” I repeat. Frustrated heat floods my cheeks, giving them an angry pink tinge.
“Why not?” He has the nerve to look sincerely confused, which only makes this situation even more awkward.
“Why not?” I mimic incredulously. “Because not only is it extremely inappropriate, it’s grossly unsanitary.”
Ransom laughs heartily, loud enough to draw a few eyes. He continues to hold that damn burger, bite side up, making me appear as some type of anorexic model he has to force-feed before she withers away. Meaning, no one in the restaurant deems this whole scenario as out of the ordinary and they go back to their meals. Still, I tuck my chin and avert my eyes, praying that no one will notice.
“I do not want to eat that,” I rage whisper between a clenched jaw.
“Why not?” He stuffs a few fries into his mouth to prove his point and continues his campaign with a mouthful of food. Nope. Definitely not a gentleman. “It’s probably the best thing you’ll ever put in your mouth . . . to date.”
I don’t miss the teasing wink of his eye, which only flares my temper. “I’m not eating after you, Ransom.”
A wolfish grin spreads his lips and he leans forward on one elbow, closing the space between us by inches that feel like miles. “Heidi, we’ve kissed. We’ve touched. We’ve fucked. I’ve sucked those pink-tipped nipples like twin cherry-flavored lollipops. I’ve had my tongue so deep inside your cu—”
“Ok!” I nearly shout, rocking my chair. “You want me to eat the damn burger? I will eat the goddamn burger!”
I lean over and take a small bite, which he happily offers. Once the juicy, premium beef, creamy Gruyère, black truffle aioli, and—oh my God, is that foie gras?—hit my tongue, I nearly have a mini orgasm right there at the table. I swear, my eyes even roll to the back of my head. Oh, sweet Jesus and all his disciples, it is the best thing I’ve ever put into my mouth. Like so fucking good, I’m pissed, because now I’ll never be able to eat another burger again.
“You have got to be shitting me,” I say flatly after chewing.
“Right?” He smiles broadly before taking his own bite. Right in the place I took mine. “I told you it was insane. Here, try these.”
He finger-feeds me French fries topped with fresh shaved parmesan, roasted garlic, and white truffle oil, and I’m all too happy to oblige. Of course, they are just as amazing, and I fight the urge to suck the salt from his fingertips.
“Oh, God. Those should be illegal,” I moan.
“Agreed. You should have ordered the same thing. The place is famous for it.”
“I know.”
Ransom brings a few fries to his lips, but stops before letting them tantalize his tongue. “Then why did you order a boring ass salad?”
I shrug. “It’s similar to what I usually order for lunch.”
“But it’s not what you want.”
I shrug again. “It’s practical.”
He looks affronted, and lets the fries fall from his fingers and back onto the plate. “Where the fuck is the fun in practical?”
Before I’m left with the awkward task of answering, the waiter comes to check on us, asking how we’re enjoying our meals. I try my best to compose myself, while Ransom just seems . . . put off.
“You can take that salad. It’s not what she wants,” he says, his tone tinted with aggravation.
“Certainly, monsieur,” the poor server replies, hurriedly taking the offensive plate of greens from the table. “Would the lady care for something else?”
I open my mouth to tell him that’s really not necessary, when Ransom speaks for me. “No thanks. She’ll share with me.”
I’m staring at him, quite gauchely with my eyes wide and mouth agape, when the waiter asks if he should bring another plate.
“No need. I’ll feed her,” Ransom answers, ignoring my glare. And with that, he scoots his plate closer toward the middle of the table.
I chuckle and shake my head, reaching for my glass of champagne. Ransom raises a curious brow. “Care to share with the class?”
“Nothing,” I reply, still shaking my head in disbelief. “It’s just . . . my friend—well client, really—has this theory about salad girls and burger girls.”
“Salad girls and burger girls?” He leans forward, planting his elbows on the table.
“He said that salad girls are the ones that will never keep you satisfied. They’re the ones more concerned with maintaining an image than being happy. It’s all about appearances. But burger girls will always be real with you. They’re comfortable in their skin. And because of that, they’ll always be confident in you as their partner and friend. And you’ll always be content—or satisfied, if you will—with them.”
“Humph,” Ransom muses, picking over the fries. “Sounds like a smart guy.”
“He is,” I smile. “Maybe you’ll meet him one day.”
“Maybe.”
That’s how we finish lunch—eating off the same plate and talking about everything from music to movies to books. To avoid further humiliation and hunger, I eat more than I probably should. Every bite seems to loosen the tension, and I find myself being more casual than I should with Ransom. He’s easy to talk to. And considering he’s an insanely gorgeous twenty-something-year-old man that has seen me naked, I know that can only be trouble. For me and for him.
By the time we finish it all off with dessert—a chocolate ganache confection that’s good enough to make angels weep—I almost forget that Ransom and I have shared so much more than a burger and fries and cake.
Almost.
Chapter Ten
With a full belly and a midday buzz, I decide to call it a day. I have no more appointments, and all correspondence can be done through text or email. I call Tamara and let her know that she can leave just as soon as she emails Ransom with the Plan of Action and forwards all my messages so I can take care of them at home. She’s delighted, of course, and prattles on about being able to make it to her favorite happy hour spot, which pretty much means she’ll be on the prowl. I tell her to have fun, yet threaten bodily harm if she comes into work hungover and/or in the same clothes. She tells me to stop being a hater and to let my “sexy ass husband” uncork the stick out of my ass.
I’m laughing as we hang up. Normally, I wouldn’t allow this type of familiarity with employees, but Tamara is different. She’s incredibly efficient, professional, and knowledgeable. I’ve been grooming her to take on a junior position, although I’d hate to lose the best assistant I’ve ever had. And to be honest, she’s my only friend in the city. Those are hard to come by, especially for me.
After tying up loose ends, including giving Lucia the rest of the day off, I decide to grab the book I’ve been dying to finish for the past month and take advantage of the quiet.
I only get three paragraphs in before I’m dead to the world, sprawled out in bed with the sheets tangled around me like ivy.
That’s how Tucker finds me hours later when he gets home from work.
“Oh, my God, babe, what time is it?” I yawn after he gently wakes me. He looks handsome as always and genuinely happy to see me, but I can tell he’s tired.
“Just a bit after six.” He brushes his hand over my forehead and I instinctively lean in to his touch. “You ok, Bunny? Are you sick?”
“Yeah.” I yawn again, before stretching my limbs as lithely as a sleepy feline. “Just thought I’d take a half day. Had a lunch meeting that lasted longer than I expected and I was beat afterward.”
He loosens his navy blue silk tie—a gift from moi—while simultaneously kicking off his shoes. “Oh yeah? With who?”
My body begins to react reflexively, but before I can release the name from my tongue, I pause. Shit. How would he react if he knew I had met with Ransom? Would he question me about him? Would he suspect more than just a business lunch went down between us? I mean, if I’m truly being honest with myself, that meal had little to do with business. And if someone had seen us together, and it was splashed on the front of Page Six, do I really want my husband finding out this way? I hadn’t even told him that I had taken Ransom on as a client. How would he feel about me withholding that information from him?
I know how he would feel. Pissed. Betrayed. Hurt. All the emotions I would be struggling to swallow if the shoe was on the other foot.
“Um,” I stammer, as I climb out of bed. “Ransom Reed?”
“Ransom?” The name sounds more like a curse, more like an accusation.
“Yeah. He agreed to work with me. Crazy, right?” If I look as guilty as I sound, I’m screwed.
I force my eyes from the floor, where they have been fixed since I mentioned the illustrious rocker, and look to my husband. His expression isn’t one of outrage or jealousy. More than anything, he seems shocked. So much so, that he’s gripping his half-fastened shirt, hard enough to snap off the buttons.
“Yeah. Crazy.” I can see he’s trying to seem casual about it, but there are questions swimming in those deep blue eyes. Doubt. Perhaps even fear.
In an attempt to ease the discord that is undoubtedly tensing his broad shoulders, I plaster on a fake smile and traipse over to where he stands as still as stone. I place my lips to his cold, rigid mouth. At first, he doesn’t reciprocate, but as my warmth thaws his chilly demeanor, I feel him melt into me, responding with a firm yet sweet kiss.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, in my most appeasing voice—the voice I only unleash whenever I feel guilty or remorseful. “I could make you some soup and a sandwich. I’m still pretty full so I may just have a salad.”
“Soup and sandwich?” He frowns, and it’s the first sign of discontent that he’s shown me. For fucking food. “Where’s Lucia? It’s Wednesday.”
Right. Wednesday.
Every Wednesday, like clockwork, Lucia makes Tucker’s favorite, chicken enchiladas. She’s Dominican, but she loves him, so she makes it a point to fix him his favorite feast weekly. She goes all out too—rice, beans, homemade guacamole. They’re downright sinful, and Tuck hits the cardio extra hard on Thursday morning to afford them.
I hate enchiladas. Always have. So I usually end up eating salad, or settling for a liquid dinner consisting of fermented grapes.
It’s been like that for as long as I can remember. And like a bad wifey, I just deviated from the routine.
“I sent her home early, Tuck. I told her not to worry about it this week.”
He looks wounded, as if I purposely deprived him of his favorite source of sustenance. And maybe on some fucked up level, I did. Maybe I wanted to ruffle his damn rituals and push him just a bit to see how he’d react. To see if that same fire exists in those eyes that pierced right through me as I lay writhing on a borrowed bed last Friday night. The fury that forced him to roughly push me against the wall and fill the same space that Ransom had owned just hours before. I knew what he was doing—Tucker was marking me. Erasing the remnants of that stranger inside me with his dick. Cleansing my sullied shame with his hot seed.
I need to feel that again. I need to see that hunger and desire for me. Not some goddamn enchiladas.
“Yeah, sure,” he grumbles, as he continues to undress. He won’t look at me. I’ve offended him. Out of all the things I could have done and said today—out of all the reasons to hate me—it takes a lost pile of cheese, meat, and sour cream to insult him.
I throw together a sandwich for him with little finesse, not even bothering to dress it with his favorite condiments. There’s some leftover tomato bisque in the fridge and I heat that up too. When Tucker emerges from the bedroom, I’ve got his food waiting for him at the bistro table, along with a cold beer. See, I can be domestic. I can pose as the perfect wife that’s perfectly content with caring for her perfect husband.
“Looks great, babe,” he smiles before kissing me tenderly. The taste of irritation no longer rests on those too-full lips. He sits down and digs into his pedestrian meal as zestfully as if it were Lucia’s home cooking. Even when I give him a reason to be pissed at me, he doesn’t take the bait.
“Where’s your dinner?” he asks around a mouthful of pastrami.
“I ate too much at lunch. I actually want to get a little work done before it gets too late. Then maybe we can watch a movie?”
“Sure. Whatever you want, babe,” he nods, digging back into his food.
I ruffle his soft, brown waves and kiss the crown of his head lovingly. Tucker’s a good man, and I love him. And I’d be a fool to think that he doesn’t love me, considering what he’s supported me through . . . considering what he’s given me. And what have I done? Lusted for another man. But maybe it’s not the man that I want. Maybe it’s that brash, careless attitude. Or the arrogant swagger. Or the feeling of being soiled by him with just a vulgar word.
That’s just not Tucker. I knew that ten years ago, and I loved that about him. He never made me feel anything but safe and cherished. I didn’t have to worry about whether or not he was being honest about his feelings. There were no complicated layers or minced words. He was always Tucker—kind, generous, and compassionate.
Just as I will always be Heidi. I’m just not sure who that is anymore.
TONIGHT ON E! News . . .
A drug-related arrest, leaked photos with a suspected prostitute and a possible stint in jail.
Good evening, everyone. We’re talking about Evan Carr’s sudden fall from Manhattan royalty, and what may have caused some of his recent erratic behavior.
After his very public divorce months ago, Evan’s friends and family are truly worried for his life, saying that he’s “out of control” and in a “dangerous, self-destructive state of grieving.” Later on, we’ll hear from the woman rumored to have been his mistress during the time he was married to America’s sweetheart, Allison Elliot, who is now linked to intimacy coach and Evan’s half-brother, Justice Drake.
But first, we’ll get a behind-the-scenes sneak peek into the world of Ransom, the band that’s known for their sizzling sound, as well as their ubersexy style. Find out how you can get their smoking hot look at home—
I click off the television and release a resigned sigh. That’s enough Ransom Reed for one day. But just as I look over to my husband’s sleeping form, my cell vibrates on the nightstand at my side. Who the hell could that be? It’s not dreadfully late, but definitely past social hours.
Got your email. Food Network? Really?
It’s Ransom. Holy shit.
My finger hovers over the message field on my iPhone, but I don’t tap in a reply. Not yet, at least. I know I need to; this is strictly a business matter. But why does it feel like I’m doing something wrong?
Thought it’d be perfect for you, seeing as you love to eat good food. They’re always looking for celebrity judges.
There. Short and sweet. That should answer his question. And if he fights me on it . . .
The phone vibrates again before I can consider his reaction any further.
Yeah. That’s true. And if all else fails, at least I’ll get a free meal out of it.
Like you hardly need to worry about that. I’m still pissed you didn’t let me pay for lunch. It was a business expense, after all.
I’m smiling down at my phone, thinking about his earnest attempt to be a gentleman. Just as the waiter was approaching with the bill, Ransom quite literally shoved a wad of bills at him before I could object. He didn’t even see what the damage was, but I’m guessing it was enough to cover our meal, and a hefty tip.
Don’t worry about it. Next time.
Next time? Will there be a next time? Other than business-related meetings, can I allow myself to break bread with him again?
The answer is a resounding no, but I’m trying not to hear it. I don’t respond.
You ever seen the movie Edward Scissorhands?
I nearly chuckle aloud.
Uh. Who hasn’t? It’s only one of the most iconic films of the 90s.
Johnny Depp fan, huh?
I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.
I blush. Oh shit. Just the mention of a bed brings back memories of those dark satin sheets. I may not be able to listen to Jay-Z ever again.
I’ll keep that in mind. It’s on TBS right now. Watch it with me.
I know I really, really shouldn’t, but—Hello!—Johnny Depp. So in essence, I’m not doing this for Ransom. I’m doing it for my own selfish reasons.
I turn on the TV, just in time to see Edward, in all his Goth glory, give some poor, sex-deprived lady a haircut so good that she moans in ecstasy. My cheeks flush in the dim lighting of my bedroom, and I glance over at Tucker to see if he’s noticed. Of course, it’s just paranoia; he’s dead to the world, snoring softly on his side like he has since 10 P.M.—bedtime. I turn my eyes back to the movie and am quickly engrossed in the story and that strange, sad, beautiful man.
It’s fucked up, you know.
I frown down at the cryptic message, wondering if Ran-som accidently texted me something that was meant for someone else.
What is???
He answers immediately, as if he was already typing in an explanation.
To be wanted and celebrated by everyone, but be completely misunderstood. To be a novelty. Nothing more than a show dog.
Did you just compare yourself to Edward Scissorhands?
Idk. Guess I did.
Someone thinks an awful lot of himself.
LOL. But it’s true. No one really knows you in this business. They know what they see on TV and in the tabloids. But you’re a stranger, surrounded by people who think they love you.
His words bring me up short, and I take a few extra moments to formulate an appropriate response. I don’t want him to think that his honesty has scared me away, so I hurriedly tap in some stupid emoji that I instantly regret.
:-/
Sorry. I can’t imagine. But at least you have your band. And what about your family?
I don’t know why I ask him. It’s way too personal and something I shouldn’t give a damn about. I’m his publicist. Not his shrink. If he wants to talk about his feelings, I happen to screw a pretty good shrink twice a week. Three times on holiday weekends.
Still, I stare down at my phone, waiting for a response.
They’re not around anymore.
Shit. I didn’t want to know that. I didn’t want to feel . . . anything . . . about him. But now I know that he’s alone in this world. And I can’t unfeel the twinge of sympathy that seizes my chest.
I won’t respond. I won’t let him believe that I care, even if I do.
We continue to watch on, and young Winona’s bitch of a boyfriend cons Edward into getting in trouble. I’ve always hated this part. It wasn’t fair—he did nothing wrong. Yet, the townsfolk’s perception of his crime has caused them to all turn against him in a vicious witch hunt. They loved him before when he seemed exotic and mysterious. They all couldn’t wait to covet his talent. They all wanted a piece of that strange, sad, beautiful man, but not to love. To own. And the minute he fucks up, he’s no more than a freak. An animal they just want to put down.
After the movie is over, I look to find that Ransom hasn’t written more. I turn off the TV and the lamp on my nightstand then settle into bed. Just before I drift off to sleep, I reach over and power down my phone.
