Relentless

by Skye Jordan

  Every syllable seemed to hammer another sliver of reality into her head, and it rattled her brain so hard, she felt it all the way to her teeth.

  Holy mother of God. She'd fucked him.

  A sob escaped her, and she covered her mouth with both hands. Tears swelled in her eyes, blurring her vision. Thoughts raced through her brain, but nothing escaped but sounds of dread and dismay. It was too much. All too much. She forced herself to her feet and used the counter to keep her there.

  Someone tried to push into the bathroom, and the door hit Troy's back. Fear hit Giselle like ice water. She grabbed paper towels and pressed them over her mouth, stifling another sob.

  “Sorry,” he called through the door. “We just need a minute.” Then to Giselle, “I'm really sorry, El. I never expected-”

  She cut a look at him in the mirror that stopped his words. But she couldn't begin to come up with anything coherent to say from the mess inside. She spun and lifted her hands, fighting to keep her voice down, half-pleading, half-demanding, “What the hell, Troy?”

  Someone knocked. “Is everything okay in there?”

  She sucked a shaky breath, closed her eyes, and pressed a hand to her forehead. “Yes. I'm sorry. I just need one more min--minute.”

  She choked on the last word, and a flood of hysteria threatened. She clenched her teeth, willing it back. The fury wasn't as easy to contain.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  She cut her gaze back to her own reflection, surprised to find she didn't look anywhere near as bad as she felt. Still, she touched up and turned to the door.

  When he didn't move and opened his mouth to speak, she cut him off. “Let. Me. Out. Now.”

  He raised his hands in surrender and took one deliberate step back with a “Yes, ma'am” filled with screw-you attitude.

  Lies spiraled in Giselle's head as three women filed in. “I'm sorry. I received some bad news, and I just…needed a few minutes. Thank you for waiting.”

  She moved into the little alcove outside the bathroom and glanced up to make sure no one was standing near the railing, then faced Troy when he stepped out behind her. He was wearing clothes similar to those he'd worn at the club-tailored slacks and blazer that fit him to perfection, a smooth, light-colored button-down shirt beneath. He pulled off the carelessly sexy hairstyle well, especially with the beard. God, a beard. That still made her shake her head in dismay. The last time she'd seen him, he hadn't even been able to grow a full mustache. His face looked more rugged and seasoned, the same way his body was bigger and stronger.

  Troy.

  She was facing Troy.

  The realization sliced something open inside her, and all her old emotions came spilling out. All the love, all the passion, all the hurt, all the loss, it filled her up until she was drowning. Until all she wanted to do was fall into him, take all the good, and let him make her forget all the bad, something he'd always been so good at.

  “What the hell?” she repeated, unable to find anything else to say. She didn't even know where to start. Or if she even wanted to start. She was too shocked, too angry, too scared to even think straight. “Why are you here?”

  “It's good to see you too, Ellie.” He pushed his hands into the pockets of his slacks, rolled back on his heels, and all warmth disappeared. “I'm here because I was invited. You?”

  “Don't even start with the attitude.” A group of people laughed upstairs, making the nerves along the back of Giselle's neck ripple. “You decided to show your face to me here? Now? Really?”

  His eyes narrowed. A black cloud darkened his expression in a way that signaled hurt feelings and a brewing temper. “I couldn't reach you at the hotel. I tried every alias I knew, but none worked. I've been calling Ryker to get your cell number for two days, but he's not calling back-”

  “He's overseas on a teaching assignment.”

  She blurted the words, and the simple exchange of information slammed her back to a time that had defined the most important years of her life. The first time she'd ever been safe. The first time she'd ever been loved. Which all clashed with what had happened at the club, what was happening now, and confused the hell out of her.

  The bathroom door opened, and the women filed into the hall, casting worried glances her way.

  When they were gone, Troy said, “Look, I just wanted you to know it was me-”

  “Why? So you could humiliate me?”

  “Humiliate you?” His eyes burned with challenge. “How could I possibly humiliate you when you were at the club of your own free will? When you had every opportunity to leave of your own volition at any time with the use of two simple words? When you said yes to me after turning three other men away?”

  Shame made the skin of her face flame. Her heart picked up speed, squeezed, and knotted. “Don't do that.”

  “Don't do what?”

  “Twist everything. You recognized me at the club. You purposely hit on me, knowing I didn't recognize you. My God, look at you. Even your personality is different. You knew…” Hurt swelled in her throat and stung her eyes, and she couldn't go on. An irrational sense of betrayal stabbed at her. “Why did you do that?”

  “Maybe, after seven long years,” he said, his voice rough with emotion, “I just wanted to be close to you, El. Did you ever think of that?”

  “Bullshit.” The fact that he'd even try to sell her crap twisted the knife in her gut. “How long have you been in Vegas?”

  He frowned. “What does that-”

  “How long?” she demanded, unsuccessfully attempting to quiet her voice.

  “Three weeks.”

  “My face has been everywhere for six weeks. I've been doing concerts almost every night for two. I've been in town for four. But I haven't heard a word from you until we happen to cross paths at a sex club? And even then you didn't tell me who you were? When you knew I was staying right across the street from the Venetian, where I know the cast and crew are staying?” She crossed her arms, but it didn't help calm the full-body tremor. Or the urge to throw herself into him and pray he caught her. “No, Troy, 'I just wanted to be close to you' is absolutely not something that ever crossed my mind. Just man up and admit it. When you recognized me and realized I was alone, you saw the perfect opportunity for a revenge fuck.”

  One big step forward, and he'd closed the distance between them. His hands curled around her arms and hauled her body up against his so hard, she gasped.

  “You know that's not true,” he said, teeth clenched, pain radiating from his eyes. A few deep, quick breaths later, his grip eased, and his gaze traveled hungrily over her face. “It had nothing to do with revenge. I've never wanted revenge.”

  She had her hands pressed to his chest, and his heart beat hard and fast beneath her palms. A heart that had once belonged to her, and only her. A heart that had more capacity for love and giving and sacrifice than almost any other heart she knew. A heart she'd crushed.

  “After the way I left, maybe I deserved it.” Her voice shook. “I just wish you had the guts to admit that's what it was about.”

  He shook his head and slipped one arm around her waist. All the skin along her spine tingled. “And I wish you had the guts to admit the chemistry between us is real. Seven fucking years and an anonymous meeting later, and it's still white-hot. It's still there, El.”

  His forcefulness, his confidence, his sheer dominating presence stunned Giselle. Made her insides quiver. This was a very different man from the one she'd left. The Troy she'd left was all heart and soul where Giselle was concerned. All about bending over backward to make her happy-until her career took off. Until her career came between them. Then he'd turned sullen and angry and unpleasable.

  “Nothing about that club is real. Nothing about Las Vegas is real.” Giselle didn't even know what “real” meant. She had very little of anything “real” in her life. “It was a one-time research trip for me that got out of hand, that's all.”

  “Oh, it got out of hand
, I agree with you there.” His free hand slid deep into her hair, his palm cupping the back of her head. “But it was real, Ellie. All that fire between you and me, it was one hundred percent real, and you know it.”

  His head lowered, and Giselle stiffened, expecting an aggressive attack. Instead, his mouth hovered a breath above hers, the tip of his nose tracing the line of hers in a way that brought back a rush of heartbreakingly sweet memories. “You still wear…Forever,” he whispered, referencing her perfume as his lashes fluttered closed. “God, that makes me ache.”

  His lips touched hers. Just barely. Giselle was trembling, caught between pushing him away and grabbing on. Between anger and longing. She didn't know what to feel or how strongly to feel it. And all those old emotions from their five years together, all that deep, deep love they'd shared, all that time when he'd been her absolute everything, were mucking up her head and her heart and diluting her good sense.

  “Troy…” She barely whispered his name, the single word shaky. “I…can't think…with you this close.”

  He kissed the corner of her mouth.

  Her hands fisted in the back of his jacket. “I should knee you in the balls.”

  “But you won't.” He dropped three kisses along her upper lip, then whispered, “Because you love the heat between us. You love the way we read each other, the way we give each other exactly what we need. You love the way I push you and test you. So, you're going to open to me. You're going to let me taste you the sweet way I should have tasted you for the first time again in seven years. Not the nasty way I did at the club.”

  He pressed his lips to hers, stroked his tongue across her bottom lip. And just as he'd predicted, she opened.

  He groaned with passion and approval as he swept his tongue in and found hers. He was wet and warm, and his tongue glided over hers in the sexiest way. He tasted like a mix of whiskey and Troy, and Giselle moved her tongue against his even when everything inside her told her not to. His lips were soft, his beard rough, and he kissed her with his whole body. Hers instantly responded with a ball of heat in her pelvis, sliding deep between her legs, making her wet…

  Stop, stop, stop. That voice of reason kept screaming in her head. She knew it was right, knew she'd regret this, knew she needed to push him away and turn her back, but… This was Troy. Troy. And, God, he felt so good, and when he was holding her, kissing her, she felt so…whole. So complete. So strong. Like she could do anything.

  It won't last.

  It will blow up in your face.

  The fear finally broke through the pleasure, and Giselle pulled out of the kiss. She forced her fingers to unclench from his jacket and pushed him back a step. Her gut felt heavy and tight when she met his heavy-lidded gaze, his expression cautious.

  “The chemistry may still be there,” she said, “but the trust isn't. What you did at the club was wrong, and you know it.”

  All the heat in his expression drained, and the Troy she knew vanished with it. He straightened and pulled on his suit jacket to uncrumple the fabric from Giselle's hands. He gave her a lopsided smile, rigid with a mix of anger and hurt. “Trust is something we lost seven years ago, Ellie. That had nothing to do with the club.”

  He turned for the stairs, and that strange sense of panic licked her belly again. Confusion abraded her nerves. She was about to call after him, though she wasn't sure what she'd say. She wanted to tell him not to leave angry. Wanted to ask if they could set aside some time to talk. But she was glad she didn't get the chance, because the turmoil churning inside her like a tornado did not align itself well with rational ideas.

  At the top of the stairs, Troy paused to speak to Jeff Michel, who stood at the banister, and from the surprised smile on Michel's face, she was sure he'd just witnessed their kiss. After a few quick words with the director, Troy darted a quick, none-too-happy look Giselle's way before striding out of sight.

  She clenched her teeth and told herself all her sexy actions were good for her image.

  But it sure as shit didn't feel good on her mind, body, or heart.

  Giselle sat in the window seat of her suite, her gaze blurred over the Las Vegas strip below, picking chords and humming to herself, searching for a tune that struck her. She was worthless for anything more demanding, and many of her best songs started this way anyhow. Besides, she needed the feel of the strings beneath her fingers to keep her sane.

  Few people would understand how many ways an instrument could act like a security blanket. Her guitar gave her a topic of conversation when she ran out of small talk. Gave her something to fidget with when she was anxious. Gave her somewhere to hide when she needed an escape.

  Unfortunately, it was also a small-time problem fixer. It didn’t rise to the level of your-ex-disguised-himself-and-screwed-you-in-a-sex-club-type problem.

  Her backup singers, Helen and Simone, had asked her to go shopping with them earlier, and her band wanted an early dinner date after rehearsal, but Giselle knew the invitations were simply excuses to get time with Giselle so they could riddle her with questions. And she didn’t have the patience or the strength to soothe their frustration with her lack of answers right now.

  The stress had her so wrung out, all she wanted to do was sleep until the show, lose herself in the high of her music and the love of her audience, and fall back into bed. Not an all-around bad plan.

  A knock sounded on her door before it opened, and Brook came in with a tray of food. Giselle winced. “Thanks, but I’m really not—”

  “Don’t even start.” She set the food down on a four-person table and uncovered the plates. “Get your butt over here. You haven’t eaten since dinner last night, and don’t think I didn’t notice how you pushed your food around to make it look like you ate something. I babysat a lot as a kid.”

  Giselle set her guitar aside and pushed from the window seat. “You’re going to make a great mom, you know that?”

  “Not anytime soon. Especially not after watching the hell you’ve gone through with love.” As Giselle pulled her chair under her and picked up a strawberry, Brook said, “It’s no wonder your songs are so…gut-wrenching.”

  That made Giselle chuckle, and her heartache loosened a little. “Hey, half of my songs are happy.”

  “But they still bring tears to your eyes.” Brook took a seat next to her and finished uncovering dishes—eggs, bacon, toast, and fruit. Breakfast at noon, although it was her favorite meal any time of the day.

  Giselle’s stomach rolled with pleasure. “Oh my God. That brings tears to my eyes.”

  Brook gave a smug smile. “I know what my girl likes. Eggs and bacon first. You need some serious protein. No fainting on stage tonight.”

  “Mmm,” she said around a strawberry, “that would seriously suck.”

  “Right?” Brook popped the top on a diet Pepsi with a roll of her eyes. “Imagine all the publicity I’d have to field.”

  They fell into a silence that would normally have been comfortable, each woman mired in her own thoughts, sharing when it suited her. Today, it wasn’t like that. It hadn’t been like that since Brook had found out about Troy at the mixer three days before. She’d known something major was wrong the moment Giselle had come back upstairs, despite her denials, even when no one else had noticed, not even Chad.

  She’d told Brook about seeing Troy, but hadn’t confessed any details about the club or their kiss at the mixer.

  “Have you talked with your stunt hottie?” Giselle asked to ease the silence.

  Instead of answering, she said, “I googled Troy. Do you want to know what I found?”

  Her gaze cut to Brook. “You didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  Giselle’s air rushed from her lungs; her fork fell from her hand and clinked against the plate.

  She already knew what Brook would find, which was why Giselle hadn’t googled him herself. She was sure Brook had found out that Troy was an actor of some kind and the worst kind of playboy. She’d found images of Troy w
ith woman after woman after woman on his arm. Which was fine. No, it was great. It was exactly the kind of life he should be leading. He was handsome and charismatic and intelligent. He’d obviously grown into a man who wielded the whole damn package, just like she’d known he would. And she was sincerely thrilled about that. Anything less would have been a true waste. He was a very special man.

  Unfortunately, he was a very special man who hadn’t been able to cope with the pressures of her demanding career. A career that was more than a job or even a way of life for Giselle. Her music was her calling. Her purpose. What she’d been born to do. And Troy knew that. He’d never once asked her to give it up.

  “No,” she said, “I don’t want to know what you found.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “No, actually, I really don’t. I left him. I have no right to judge the way he’s spent his life. I have no right to any pride in his success, no right to any disappointment in his failures. I have no rights at all where Troy’s concerned.”

  Brook was silent for a long moment while Giselle felt like she was bleeding inside. Because she may have no rights, but she still cared. Would always care. And the fact that he was still hurting over their breakup enough to act so…fucked up, felt like a hot dagger in her gut.

  “That’s so…” Brook started, her voice dry, “mature.”

  Didn’t feel mature. Just felt painful.

  “You’re going to have to talk to him,” Brook said. “You know that, right? I hope you don’t think you’re going to get out of town without talking to him.”

  Her stomach coiled tighter. “There’s really nothing more to say.”

  “Yes, there is. All this…” She gestured to Giselle with both hands in a chaotic burst of waving. “All this…turmoil. You can’t live with that eating at you. You need to say what you need to say and get it out. You can’t control what he says back, you can’t control how he feels, but you can control what you do about how you feel. And keeping it all bottled up inside is not healthy, and you know it.”

  Giselle stabbed a forkful of scrambled eggs. “I’ll think about it.” She heaved a sigh and glanced at her watch. “I need to get out. Are you up for a Twitter drop?”