by J. Kenner
Maybe. I’m not sure. I can’t do math right now. But if it’s during work hours, she’s probably busy.
I start to leave a whiny message but think better of it. Instead of the rant I want to leave, all I say is, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to call. Hope all is awesome in La-La Land.”
It’s lame, but knowing Nikki, if I’d filled her in, she’d get on one of the Stark jets and actually fly over here to both commiserate with me and to make sure I don’t do anything rash—like whack Ryan’s nuts off—without being absolutely certain he’s cheated.
And if he has, then in true best-friend fashion, she’d help me castrate the motherfucker.
But Hunter? Do we actually believe that?
That little voice is back in my head, but I’m so angry I don’t want to hear it.
I need to talk. Need to get out of my own head. Usually when I’m like this, Nikki is my go-to gal. And Ryan is my go-to guy.
Which leaves me hanging out on a limb with my ass flapping in the wind.
Shit.
I stalk to the far side of the room and retrieve Ryan’s phone. The screen is cracked, but otherwise it seems to be okay. I shove it in the pocket of the spa-style hotel robe I’m wearing. Not as satisfying as burning it, maybe, but probably more practical.
I consider calling Ollie to commiserate with. He’s the third part of my friend trifecta—him, Nikki, me—but he’s got a relatively new job with the FBI and is at some seminar in DC. Plus, this is a crisis that needs a girlfriend. And while I love Ollie to death, dealing with relationships has never been his strong suit.
I could try to get my mind off of this with work. I could try to reach Carson Donnelly. Or I could log on to the server and review some of the edits the team is working on.
But I’d just fuck it up. Because my mind is so not on work.
Once again, I open the text. Because, obviously, I am a complete and total masochist. Except I’m not. On the contrary, I’m a foolish, cockeyed optimist because I’m still harboring the fantasy that this time the note will make sense. This time, I’ll have an aha moment and everything in my universe will right itself.
Like, aha! I’d totally forgotten that he was doing that routine at a comedy club involving a skit about cheating on his wife.
Or, aha! Space aliens got tired of sucking humans up into their ships for experiments, so they stole Ryan’s phone in order to mindfuck me and analyze my responses.
Or aha! This is a badly conceived plan for some wild and crazy sexy times.
Or some other ridiculous idea. I know the idea must be ridiculous because there’s no reasonable explanation for the text.
None that I want to believe, anyway.
My gut twists as I remember all those sweet words he said to me. Trust. Surrender. Humbled.
And he called me smart?
What kind of bullshit is that? Because clearly I’m stupid and blind and ridiculously naive.
But am I? Am I really? I’ve always trusted Ryan without hesitation, knowing with absolute certainty that he’s a good man. Which means this isn’t possible. Ryan can’t be—
God, I can’t even think the word.
And who the fuck is F?
I expel a loud, frustrated breath, then shake myself. I’m going around and around in circles, and I need to get off this carousel of doom. Hell, I need to get out of this hotel.
And that’s when it hits me—the perfect distraction.
I snatch up my own phone and search my contacts for the number Gabby put in. I press the button to connect the call, then hold my breath, hoping she’s available.
“Jamie?”
“Hey!” My voice comes out with far too much energy. “Sorry, I’m just happy I caught you.”
“Me, too. What’s up?”
“Turns out my husband’s working and I’m sitting here bored in the hotel.” A lie, yes, but at least it’s a little one. “Any chance you want to grab that drink now and play catch up?”
“Oh. Well…”
I deflate. “You have plans.”
“No. I mean, yes. I mean, I got stood up. I’m actually in a cab right now. I was going to just head back to my hotel and drown my sorrows in whatever cheap wine is in the minibar. But your plan is better. Do you want to meet somewhere?”
“That would be fabulous.”
We settle on a nearby wine bar, and I’m just about to hang up when the call-waiting beeps.
It’s Ryan.
My first instinct is to take it. But I don’t. I don’t want to hear excuses and explanations. I don’t want to filter truth from lies.
I don’t want to have to fucking deal with any of it.
Honestly, right now, all I want is to get a drink.
And I’m going to do exactly that. With Gabby.
Chapter Six
I’m only a five-minute walk from the cute little bar that faces Hyde Park. But with getting dressed and out of the hotel, and then navigating the unfamiliar streets of London, she still beats me there. The place is Paris-themed, with an outdoor seating area, and I see her right away at a small table under a red awning. She has pale skin contrasted by hair so dark it’s almost black. It’s thick, with just a hint of curl, and her wide, slanting eyes are highlighted by perfectly arched brows.
She’s scanning the passersby, her expression intent. Since I assume she’s looking for me, I wave and hurry over, then slide into the spindly little chair with the woven wicker seat across from her. “This place is adorable,” I say.
A waiter approaches with a carafe of red wine, and I cock an eyebrow. “Great service, too.”
She laughs. “I went ahead and ordered wine. I hope you still like red. I remember you did in college.”
“Red’s great, and I’m impressed. I have no memory at all of what you drank.”
“What can I say? I’m a detail kind of girl. Any food?” she asks, looking first at my face and then off to the side, as if she can’t stop taking in the view.
I realize that I haven’t eaten in ages. “Actually, that would be great.” The waiter recommends the charcuterie and cheese plate, and we enthusiastically agree. Then, as he heads off to put in our order, Gabby leans over and draws me into a hug.
“I’m glad you called,” she says. “You have no idea. I couldn’t believe it when Nikki said you were in London, too. I’ve been—” She breaks off with a quick shake of her head, her finger tracing the rim of her wine glass. “Sorry. Not the time, not the place.”
“What’s going on?”
“Just, you know. Life crap. I want to hear about why you’re in London. Vacation? Work?”
“Honestly, I came to surprise my husband. But,” I say before she can ask me about Ryan, “what is it you’re not telling me?”
“What? Nothing.” Her face flushes as she takes the carafe and tops off her wine glass.
“Hey, whatever it is, it’s not my business. And I get that we haven’t even spoken in forever. But that doesn’t mean I never thought about you. Or stopped caring. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. But just know that you have a friend if you need one.”
She meets my eyes for just a second before looking down again. “That means a lot. It’s—it’s just—”
This time, when she looks up, I see tears in her eyes.
“Gabby.” I take her free hand. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’ll be okay.”
She shakes her head, and this time when she looks at me, I see fear. “I don’t think so.” Her voice is low, almost a whisper. “I’m scared, Jamie.”
“Can you tell me why?” I’m not usually a soft and gentle person, but my voice right now would soothe a rampaging bear. I’m terrified she’s going to bolt before I can find out enough to actually help her, and right now I don’t have any idea what the problem could be. Is she broke? Pregnant? Is her boyfriend abusive?
The only thing I do know is that I must be a truly horrible person. Because right now, I’m glad for the reminder that whatever is going on with Ryan, I�
��m not the only one with problems.
I squeeze her hand gently. “Come on, Gabs. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”
“I don’t think you can help me at all.” A tear clings to the end of her nose before falling with a plop onto the tiled tabletop. Her shoulders rise and fall as she takes a breath. Slowly, she lifts her head. “I thought maybe I could tell you because—well, it doesn’t matter, does it? Because even if you could help, I’m not sure if I should say anything.”
“Of course you should. And of course I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
She shakes her head. “They might find out.”
“They? Who?” I’ve gone suddenly cold, my body tense from the larger message in her words. “Someone is after you. Who?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know.” She wipes more tears away, then downs her entire glass. I take a large gulp from mine. Frankly, I need it.
“Listen, Gabby. You’re obviously scared. But my husband works in security. If someone is trying to hurt you, let me help. Tell me what’s going on.”
She bites her lower lip.
“Come on, girl. It’s me. You can trust me. You know that, right?”
She nods, looking miserable. “I have a confession,” she says, so softly I almost can’t hear her. “I already knew your husband did that kind of work.”
“Oh.” I’m not entirely sure what to do with that information.
“The thing is…” She trails off, then takes a sip of water before starting over. “The thing is, I didn’t call Nikki out of the blue.”
I lean back, my eyes wide. “You totally researched me and Ryan.”
“Not researched so much as followed. I saw your picture with Nikki a while back and just started paying attention.” Her voice is as sheepish as her expression. “It wasn’t like I was stalking. After all, you move in some pretty public circles.”
“Friends with Damien Stark,” I say, because this one I’m used to. “I get it.”
“Well, yeah, but I meant on your own. All the stuff you do in Hollywood. The celebrities you’ve interviewed. And some of the articles talk about your husband, too. And then all this stuff happened, and I remembered him. And so I called and—”
“It’s okay. I get it. This wasn’t about chilling with me. It was about Ryan all along. But why did you need him? Is there someone you’re afraid of?”
Her eyes dart around, taking in our surroundings before focusing on me. “It’s—” She doesn’t finish. Instead, she shoves her chair back and stands. “I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. I should—I should go.”
“Gabby, no!” But it’s no use. She just shakes her head and hurries out onto the sidewalk. I realize I’m standing, and I call her name, but she’s gone, and I have no idea why. Then I think about her being afraid, and the way she kept scanning the sidewalks. I whip around to look behind me, suddenly worried there’s someone standing with a gun at the spot she just vacated.
But there’s no one there. No one except Ryan, who grips my upper arms with both his hands. “Who was that?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous. “Tell me right now who the fuck you were talking to.”
Chapter Seven
I have one hell of a temper. Always have, probably always will.
I’ve been known to scream, throw things, slam doors, and occasionally get off a good, old-fashioned punch. I’ve chilled a bit over the years, but I’ve always been a bit of a wildcat. Nikki used to tell me that it was good I wanted to be an actress, because then I’d have someplace to channel the big personality.
Right now, though, I don’t scream. I don’t yell. I don’t toss my wine in his face. Instead, I just look at him. I just stare him the fuck down.
“That’s what you have to say to me?” I practically spit the words. “Some bitch sends you a text about hooking up, and I’m the one who needs to explain about going out and meeting a friend? Fuck you.”
“Dammit, Jamie, who was she?” His tone is harsh and urgent, but I recognize the guilt in those eyes I know so well, and all of my earlier lectures to myself about trust and explanations vanish in a puff of fury laced with bone-deep sadness.
“Who. Was. She.” He repeats each word slowly, but I say nothing. Not even when he sits in Gabby’s abandoned seat. Not even when he says, his voice gentle, “Please, Jamie. It’s important.”
I can only shake my head. My throat feels clogged, but I blink ferociously, willing myself not to cry. I’d been feeling better for a few moments, with my mind on someone else’s problem. But now it’s as if I’ve been kicked in the gut all over again. As if the world and everything solid and real in it has just been ripped away. The magician’s tablecloth trick gone horribly wrong, sending all the beautiful, perfect crystal and china crashing to the floor.
Humpty Dumpty, right? Because who could possibly put that back together again?
A giggle escapes from my throat, and in some coherent part of me I think, Oh. So this is what it means to be hysterical.
But it doesn’t matter. It’s only a notation. A footnote on the moment.
In front of me, Ryan rubs his temple, then draws a breath. “Jamie, please. I asked you to trust me. I told you I’ll explain everything. Didn’t you listen to my voicemail?”
I manage to shake my head.
He sighs, then reaches for my hand, but I flinch away. His eyes widen, the response so subtle that I’m probably the only person on earth who would even notice it. But I do. Because I know him well. So very fucking well.
At least that’s the joke. I’m still not entirely sure what the punchline is.
“I told you to trust me. I told you I’d explain everything. Kitten, we need—”
“Do not call me that.” The words snap out of me with the force of a whip.
And then I sag, suddenly empty.
But it isn’t my anger that’s drained me—it’s Ryan. What he did. What he kept from me.
I shake my head, feeling numb. “I can’t,” I say.
“Dammit, Jamie, you can. Who were you with right now? Are you safe? Tell me what happened.”
Safe? I’ve never felt this wounded in my life. Confusion and helplessness whirl inside me. I don’t even want explanations anymore. Not now. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want anything except sleep. “I can’t,” I repeat. “I can’t do this right now.”
With a defeated shake of my head, I toss a fifty pound note on the table then turn toward the sidewalk. I keep my eyes down until I’m away from the restaurant, then I lift my chin and walk toward the hotel, as if I’m just one more woman out on a stroll tonight. I may be broken, but I’m damn well not going to show it.
Ryan says nothing, but I know he’s behind me.
I go all the way back to the hotel, the words in my head keeping in time with my steps. Trust him. Trust him. Need. To. Trust. Him.
Over and over until we’re both back in the elevator. The same elevator we were in just a few hours ago.
And that’s it. That’s the last burden that I can bear.
My knees go weak. My back slides down the wall. And I end up on my ass, my arms encircling my legs as I put my forehead on my knees and bawl like the big baby I am.
He kneels in front of me. “Jamie, please. I did call. And I told you I’d explain when I got back. It’s not what you think.”
My head snaps up. “Explain?” I tug his phone out of my purse, and the screen flashes on, revealing that toxic message. I thrust it toward him. “How the hell do you explain something like this?” I’m seething again. But at least anger is better than collapsing into a pile of pitiful goo.
He doesn’t take the phone right away, and when he finally reaches for it, he moves carefully, like a hunter stalking a ferocious animal. But I don’t know what he’s afraid of. Maybe he’s always called me Kitten, but even as angry as I am, at the moment I feel as if I’ve been thoroughly and painfully declawed.
He takes it gingerly from my fingers, then glances at the screen. I know exa
ctly what he’s seeing:
I’m sorry I ran from you.
But please believe me—
I need you again, Ryan. Now. Desperately.
Our last kiss burns in my thoughts.
You know what it meant for both of us.
Meet me at the same place.
Don’t let me down.
Love, F
Those words will be forever etched in my brain. I think of them now, and a chill runs up my spine. Someone walking on my grave. That’s what my grandma would say. I think it fits. God knows I feel like I’m dying. And every second that Ryan stays silent, I die a little bit more inside.
“You weren’t supposed to see this.”
“Oh, gee. You think?” I hear the pain and sarcasm in my voice, and it gives me hope. Maybe I’m not as numb as I thought. Maybe I’m going to be able to put up a fight.
Too bad I don’t know what—or who—I’m fighting.
The elevator slides to a stop and as the doors open, I get back on my feet, ignoring the hand Ryan holds out in a silent offer of assistance.
I step out ahead of him and march to the room. I open the door, walk inside, and then let the heavy door fall back into place. He catches it before I hear the satisfying clunk of the door slamming in his face.
“Jamie.”
His sharp tone, such a contradiction to the soft, appeasing voice he’s been using, is enough of a surprise to stop me. I turn to face him, my arms crossed tight against my chest.
“You weren’t supposed to see it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t owe you an explanation about it. I do. And that’s why I called when I realized I’d left my phone. I know you’re mad, and God knows, I’m familiar with your temper. But dammit, I love you.”
There’s real hurt on his face, and I almost walk toward him. Because right then, I want nothing more than to be wrapped in his arms.
Want it—but can’t have it. Not yet. Not until I understand.
