by Ace Gray
I slowly turned, every bone in my body protesting, to find the head concierge striding towards me. “Mr. Barrett.” I extended my hand but couldn’t muster much emotion. Or much of a handshake.
“We didn’t know you were coming.”
“I didn’t know I was coming. Your incredibly helpful front desk was trying to see if a suite was available.” I couldn’t keep the sneer out of my voice.
“I’ll take care of it personally Ms. Elliott.” He moved behind the desk and collected my credit card. “Do you have a check out date?”
“Not at present.” Admitting that I wasn’t leaving brought a crushing heaviness back to my chest. It made my words sound a little choked.
“I’ll take you right up.” He handed back my card, and I was glad my human interaction for the day was drawing to a close.
I followed Mr. Barrett to the suite. None of the plush velvets, gold accents, or marbled countertops made me feel better. They simply made me realize what a waste of space I actually was.
“Thank you, Mr. Barrett.”
As soon as the door shut behind him, I fell to my knees. My body had given up without any warning. Dizziness slammed into me and forced me to topple further, coming to rest with my cheek against the floor.
Barely moving, I sifted through my bag for my BlackBerry. I powered on the phone and found missed calls from too many people to count. They were all silently screaming reminders of Bryant when all I wanted was for him to disappear from my life. Hell, I wanted to disappear from my life.
If I could have wrenched Him from my memory or my heart, in that moment, I would have.
I only made one call and it went straight to the familiar voicemail. At the beep my words vomited out.
“It’s over. He ruined me. You were right. I can’t be in the city anymore, and I can’t listen to my phone ring anymore. I’m home. In Portland. I’ll call you soon.” I hung up on Laura, switched off the phone and threw it across the suite with a pitiful screech.
It landed somewhere near the suite’s large windows.
I hate windows.
I tried to push past the pile of memories involving glass and skylines to focus on the rain twisting and turning down the windows. After a few minutes of watching the trails form then disappear, I realized my tears were as thick as the rivulets running down.
Maybe they have blinds.
I cried myself to sleep right there on the floor. When I woke, it was dark outside. I’d slept for the entire day and the only thing that postponed going right back to my restless sleep was moving off the floor and into a bed. I slipped my shoes off as I trudged to the master bedroom, leaving them haphazardly on the floor. I curled into the covers and fell back asleep.
My dreams were awful, filled with tormented stormy blue eyes, blood, and screams.
Around two in the morning my eyes shot open, and as hard as I tried, they wouldn’t close. I was exhausted but I could only think of Him. Or Trevor. They were both the worst kind of nightmares; the kind that stuck to my skin and didn’t care if I was awake or asleep. I started crying again.
Through blurry eyes, I watched the black sky fade to gray as another rainy November day took shape in Portland. Eventually my tears stopped; I had the feeling it was because I‘d run dry.
Day one: Post him. Oh Jesus Christ this hurts.
I watched the TV sprout from the bed’s footboard and switched it on. Mere moments later, I caught a reminder of the city I’d fled and turned it right back off. The pain in my chest thudded violently, radiating out and making my bones feel as if they might break without warning.
The idea of ever being in the same city, ever being where there was a chance of seeing him again, made me physically ill. I reached for a trashcan to heave. When I could compose myself I wiped my lips and returned to staring at the ceiling, hoping it would give me answers.
Somewhere along the line I fell back to sleep. I woke off and on, just to see different hues of gray outside my window. I stared vacantly when I was awake because, well, because what else was I supposed to do?
Day two: Fucking misery.
There was this hole in my chest that wouldn’t go away. It was a living, breathing cavern of grief that pulsed in place of my heart.
Day three: I’ll do anything to make it stop.
The nightmares were getting worse. More violent, more bloody, more realistic. My tears were getting worse too. They shifted to choking, bone shaking sobs. Sleeping only made things worse, so I picked different spots to stare at along the ceiling or wall instead. I studied each and every rich color, luxurious texture and elegant pattern until I couldn’t notice anything new.
I watched the stars come out that night in Portland and then fade to a rosy pink. My body ached from lying in the same position for so long.
Day four: Fuck, fuck, fuckityfuck.
I didn’t know if I could live through this. On the off chance I fell asleep now, I woke up screaming. Gasping. I’d tried to eat, only to stomach a bite or two before waves of nausea stopped my fork cold.
I had to figure something out. Something that could help me move or breathe or live or something again. Even in the most minute way. The phone in the suite was ringing again. It had started two days ago and I finally reached to pick it up.
That’s something right?
“Hello?” I grumbled with a voice I didn’t even recognize as my own.
“Kate is that you?”
Shit.
It was Ari. The hole in my chest seized, sending painful shockwaves out in every direction.
“Kate, I have to talk to you. My brother screwed up so badly…” She kept going but I just couldn’t listen. I hung up without a word. The only other move I made that day was to push the do not disturb button on the suite’s phone.
Day five: You have to do something.
I sat up against the headboard. It actually felt good to sit rather than lie huddled in a ball as I managed some crackers. I let thoughts that didn’t involve paint color or carpet pattern start rolling around my head. It hurt like hell. Far worse than my joints, but it was something.
My mind screeched and revolted at the thought of ever laying eyes on the skyscrapers of New York again. I felt similarly about Vesper and everything about that life. Even who I’d been made my skin crawl. I couldn’t go back. It would remind me of him. Everything did. Happiness had slipped so far beyond my reach, I couldn’t even convince myself that someday things would change.
I did the only thing I could think of and, as rash as it was, it was the only move that made sense to my addled brain. I picked up the bedside telephone and dialed one number, punching in an extension I knew by heart and avoiding assistants, the switchboard, everyone except…
“Mac Harrington.” A grouchy southern draw rolled across the phone.
“Hey Mac, it’s Kate.” I sounded even more pathetic than I felt.
“Oh hiya Kate.” His tone was colored with surprise. “I heard you were outta the office.”
“I’m out permanently, Mac, and you’re the only one that knows.”
“Wait. Whaddaya mean?” His volume rose and his accent became more pronounced.
“Look, I need you to do me a favor. You ever get those contracts back from Bryant Venture Group?” I swallowed hard on the name.
“Yes. You want me to tear the shit to shreds?” he growled.
“Nope. I want you to make a single revision.”
“Anything.”
“Change twenty percent to one-hundred percent and adjust the price accordingly. Get the updated contract to them today, even if you have to take it over yourself.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I’ll fire you and get someone else to do it. Until he signs, I’m still your boss.”
“You’re putting me in a terrible position. I don’t want to work for that b
astard. No one at Vesper will.”
“Then you’re all fools. He is one of the most successful people in the country, and if anyone can grow the business to its full potential it’s him.” The defense was automatic, though a knife twisting deep into my stomach, not because the words weren’t true but because they very much were.
Mac’s sigh turned into an exasperated ugh. “I’ll get it drawn up,” he conceded and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“We’ll need your original signature on the document.”
“When the time comes someone can courier it out here.” I hung up before he could protest.
The covers were soft as I slunk down into them, giving up completely after the most taxing moment I’d had since leaving Him.
I don’t remember day six, seven or eight.
The bags under my eyes had become a deep purple, the overall pallor of my skin a pale-ish green, and the weight I’d lost seemed more fitting of an addict. I hadn’t changed my clothes in nine days.
Who knew? I’d turned into a zombie after all.
The knock at door shot me up from the couch. My heart thudded violently when I recognized the wrap of His knuckles against the door. My body started moving instinctually, springing off the couch, surprisingly agile for someone with so little energy.
My fingers trembled as I yanked on the handle. The world stood still when I found Nick standing on the other side, rain soaked. His eyes were burning a bright, pure blue—the way they only ever did for me. The same fine jeans and Prada loafers he’d worn to my office, the first time I’d seen him in casual clothes, hugged his perfectly sculpted legs. The same soft white t-shirt and leather jacket from that day accented his delicious torso. His hair was slightly disheveled and speckled with rain droplets. This was what it was like to lay eyes on an oasis in a fiery desert.
Without a word, I pulled him into the suite and into my arms. I let my hands wrap around his neck as I kissed him deeply. My whole body hummed with electricity when he kissed me back. His hands crept to my backside and squeezed.
We didn’t make it two steps before he pushed me up against the wall and hitched my leg up to his hip. I knew he’d support me, so I wrapped my other leg around him and he lifted me. I groaned into his mouth.
Nick smiled against my lips for just a moment before he let his tongue explore my mouth. With a honeyed purr, he turned and carried me to the bed. I wasn’t sure how he missed the giant footboard when he threw me down. When he ripped my clothes and scattered the scraps to the floor, I thought it best not to dwell.
He undid his pants and pressed into me without undressing or uttering a word. His thrusts were urgent, frantic ones. The very same ones that always had me building fast. This time it seemed almost too fast, too intense. I figured it was my body’s response to how badly it missed him.
We were a tangle of limbs and lips and sheets. There were no words, no apologies, no explanations, just simple communication the way we communicated best. I could smell his manly, sweet scent and feel his hair brush against my forehead. I felt my fingers flex into his shoulder blades and his warm breath against my neck. My body bowed up to meet his, and he pinned my hands down next to my head. My fists balled tightly and my nails dug into my palms. When my hips rose to meet his, he thrust oh-so perfectly and I was coming. Hard.
The loud, lustful moan woke me. A pillow fell to the floor from behind my head as I sat up. Darkness enveloped me where I sat alone on the couch. I didn’t remember moving to the living room but I did remember every detail of Bryant. So perfectly, apparently, that I’d truly felt him there. I had nail marks on the inside of my palms to prove it.
But he was just a dream.
The loneliness grew thick and filmy on my body. My heart was gone, the gaping hole still throbbed and my now head pounded in time. I was angry and embarrassed that I’d orgasmed from a dream. And worse, because of Him. Tears came back, streaking down my cheeks and pooling on my chest. I dragged myself back to the bed and continued sobbing into the pillow, once again crying myself to sleep.
I woke again to a small knock echoing through the suite. This time it was real. And it wasn’t him. He wasn’t coming.
As I hauled myself from my nest of a bed and past a mirror, I noticed a reflection even more dreadful than the last time I’d checked. I peeked through the peephole to see Mr. Barrett shifting side to side through the warped glass. Opening the door the slightest bit, I poked my head out and nodded at the concierge.
“Ms. Elliott, my apologies for bothering you.” He really did look sorry.
“It’s okay,” I tried to reassure him but my sour face couldn’t be helping.
“It’s just that she’s downstairs making a scene, and you have do not disturb on your phone. The front desk doesn’t know how to handle it.” He stayed quiet and gentle as he spoke.
“Who’s making a scene?” I had a sinking suspicion.
“She’s medium height, tan, with long dark hair, and bright blue eyes.”
“Laura,” I said more under my breath than anything else.
“Excuse me, Ms. Elliott?” His eyebrows raised, hopeful. I rolled my eyes at the rampage I could picture in the lobby.
“If it’s Laura Gold please escort her up and let her in. If it’s anyone else, please feel free to call the police.”
He nodded, maybe even clicked his heels and then scurried toward the elevator. I let the door latch behind him, deciding that my comforter was far more important than greeting Laura at the door.
When the heavy wood of the door crashed into the wall and a leather bag plopped onto the tile floor, I was glad I’d chosen comforter.
“Where are you?” Laura yelled through the suite.
“Bedroom,” I croaked.
Moments later, she appeared at the doorway. “Nine days! Nine friggin days and you haven’t returned a single call.”
“I threw my phone somewhere and forgot about it.” I shrugged as if that was a reasonable explanation.
“Coming home yet?”
“I am home.”
“You’re in a hotel suite. Your home, or rather our home, is in Chelsea, in Manhattan.”
“Don’t say that.”
“What?” Her face pinched.
“Manhattan.” I choked on the word.
“Why ever not?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m shopping for a new place.”
“Really? Looks to me as if you’re sulking in bed.”
“Fuck you.”
“Language.” She arched an eyebrow. “Want to try full sentences?” She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe.
“I’m done with it all. I’ll have my things out once it’s not so raw. Once I find a place.”
“You have a business to run in the city.”
“Nope. I sold it a few days ago.”
“You sold twenty percent. Gemma told me.”
“I didn’t add the other eighty until day five. I didn’t tell Gemma. I didn’t tell anyone except the lawyers. Doesn’t really matter. I’m done regardless.”
I turned over and pulled the covers up and over my head. Her shoes shuffled on the carpet and the bed sagged under her weight. She’d chosen to sit by my feet, and if I guessed, she was staring out the window, rather than at me.
God damned windows.
“Are you just going to sit back and let him take everything from you?” Her tone had changed completely. Where she’d been snippy before, she was quiet, even a little sad now.
“He didn’t take anything.” I swallowed hard. “I gave it all up willingly.” I’d left him. I’d chosen to sell the company.
“Even Vesper? I can’t imagine you giving that up willingly. It’s your world. I watched you build it from nothing. I know how much of you is invested in that company. It’s every ounce, every penny of your legacy. And
you’re just giving it up?”
“I don’t want to do it anymore. I can’t. I know what it’s like to feel settled and content, and now I know Vesper isn’t enough. I’m never going to get that kind of happiness again. Specially not in New York, with the reminders of my epic failure all around me.” Sobs were edging in on my words again.
“There are other fish in the sea, Kate. And Manhattan is a fairly big sea.”
“It isn’t about fish, Laura. He was my sea.” One loud, strangled sob let loose. “I didn’t think I’d ever love someone. Let alone how I loved him. I know I’ll never find that again. I did the right thing getting out but…”
Oh God, the ways I could end that sentence.
“And with Vesper, he’s tied too tightly to it with or without a sale. Everything, everywhere would remind me of him. Of us. And how I was fucking foolish. Someday, I may be able to move forward but for right now that means not having that shit shoved in my face every god damned day.” The sobs took over.
I pulled the comforter tighter overhead and she shifted slightly. We sat in silence for a while. Eventually the bed jostled as she slid back against the headboard and snatched up the remote as if nothing happened. I flipped down the comforter. She whistled when the TV rose out of the footboard.
“You really should stop swearing so much.”
“Laura…”
“And you look like death. What have you been doing?”
“Trying to breathe.”
“Eating?”
“Not really.”
“Drinking?”
“No.”
“Sleeping?”
“Not by choice.”
“Maybe a good night sleep is what you need.” There was hope in her voice.
“I have God awful nightmares, Laura,” I snapped, unable to share anything resembling her wishful thinking. “If it isn’t Him haunting my dreams, it’s Trevor dying over and over on a loop. I see blood on my hands. I see other people I love die in his place. I feel it all happening again. Is that what you wanted to hear?” I hadn’t meant to raise my voice at her. She pursed her lips but didn’t say anything.
“I suspect you haven’t showered, and I know you haven’t changed clothes.”
