“Nothing.”
“Let me guess.” He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled furiously. He clenched his teeth, and his mouth twitched a few times. “You thought I was the type of man who’d just hop on, not give a fucking shit about you—who’d just get it over with?”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“Like hell you didn’t!”
“I just wish we would have. It would be over, and you wouldn’t have to be here now, babysitting me. I wouldn’t be screwing up your life, making you feel like you have to take care of me because you feel sorry for me. You wouldn’t have felt pressured to marry me because you have to keep your promises. You wouldn’t have married me and we wouldn’t have been on that bus—I wouldn’t have confessed to the world—” Tears streamed down her face and she covered her mouth again, a sign she knew she’d said too much, a sign she’d actually been honest for a change, he thought.
She hadn’t said anything he hadn’t already thought about on his own. He hated himself, not Rhees, but lashing out at himself became the same as lashing out at everyone and everything in the vicinity—collateral damage.
“You’re right, if I hadn’t done everything in my power to keep you on the island with me, none of it would have happened. You wouldn’t have to force yourself to let me touch you. You wouldn’t have to try not to scream—or vomit because I want to make love to you. You could have been back in Utah right now, found yourself one of those nice, gay Mormon boys who’d never touch you. You could be blissfully happy right now in a safe, sexless marriage for the rest of your life.”
Her mouth gaped open in shock at his words but then she stood a little straighter, her expression hardened.
“You mean like ours?” she hissed.
They stood, staring at each other for a few seconds. Paul’s eyes were harder, colder than she remembered ever seeing them before. She finally bolted. She ran into the mini bar-entry room and reached for the doorknob before realizing she couldn’t leave. She needed to get away, but she had no clothes and wouldn’t get far wearing only a hotel robe.
“Damn it!” she growled and spewed a string of swear words together which grew longer and increasingly shocking.
Paul knew she wanted to run and he knew her cursing stemmed from wanting to get away, from him. She’d promised not to swear or run, but he understood where the need was coming from—he felt the same way at the moment.
“What’s wrong, Danarya? No place to run?” he sneered. “You can’t stand to be in the same room with me? Here, let me help.” He shot to the desk and scooped up his shirt and room key before he stomped out the door, letting it slam behind him.
Chapter 11
Two forty-three in the morning, Rhees paced back and forth at the foot of the bed, frantically. She broke her path only to step out on the balcony and look over the rail every few minutes. She kept hoping to see Paul return to the hotel on the street below. It was too dark out to see much from the high floor and she wasn’t sure he’d even left. She was beside herself with worry and fear he wouldn’t come back at all.
Rhees wanted more than anything to go look for him, but having no clothes except her robe, she was stuck in the room. Anxiety attacks were still a problem, and she wasn’t sure she could leave the room even if clothing wasn’t a problem. She’d cried when he’d first walked out, but now she’d become more concerned for him than upset about their fight. She hated herself for acting so crazy. Paul hadn’t deserved to be treated that way and she wished she could take it back.
She jumped at the knock on the door and threw it open faster than should have been possible.
“Paul?” She didn’t expect to see the two hotel security men holding Paul up.
“Mrs. Weaver?” they asked.
“Yes,” she answered warily.
“Hey, Baby,” Paul said in a long, drawn out drunken slur. He turned to the guy on his left. “See? Didn’t I tell you, my ba-ride is the most beautiful girl in the world, right?” The guy smiled politely and started explaining to Rhees in very good English.
“We found your husband downstairs. He caused quite a disturbance, but being one of our VIP guests, we brought him back to his room instead of calling the police.”
“Umm . . . thank you. We appreciate that. Can you put him on the bed for me, please?”
“Is there anything else we can do for you, Señora?” the same man asked when they’d wrangled an uncooperative Paul to sit on the edge of the bed. Rhees heard the other man speak in Spanish to his partner, repeating what she thought sounded like a sequence of cuss words by his tone.
“No, thank you. Thank you for bringing him back. I’ve been worried about him.”
“Here, Señora. This is for you.” The English-speaking man handed a paper shopping bag over to Rhees.
Her confusion must have shown, making him feel the need to explain.
“We found Mr. Weaver pounding on the door of one of the shops in the lobby, yelling for someone to open the store. It closed hours ago. We told him to try again in the morning and encouraged him to go sleep it off before we called the police, but he insisted he needed to buy that.” The security guard pointed to the bag.
“Once the night manager realized who we were dealing with, he called the shop owner and got him out of bed. He sent one of his employees to the hotel to open the shop and sell your husband the dress. She had to remove it from the mannequin in the window. Mr. Weaver said something about a long lost twin and how his wife had to have it.”
Rhees blushed. “I’m sorry if he was a problem. This really isn’t like him. He’s been under a lot of stress lately. I’m sorry.” She hated knowing what these men must think of the man she loved. “He’s really a wonderful person.”
“It’s no problem, ma’am.” The English-speaking man lowered his voice and translated what she’d just said to the other man. She noticed the look they exchanged and knew they didn’t believe her. “It’s late enough. I don’t think any of the other guests noticed, and the hotel is happy to forget this. Your husband is an important guest here.”
“Thank you, again. I keep saying that, but I’m so relieved to know he’s safe. I’ve been so worried.” She fidgeted for a second. “Thanks for bringing him back here instead of calling the police.”
She glanced around the room as if looking for something. “I’m supposed to tip you or something. I don’t have any money. The hijac . . .” She turned to Paul, contemplating rifling through his pockets, wondering how he’d paid for all the drinks he’d obviously consumed. All their money and credit cards had been taken from them.
“No, Señora. There’s no need. That wouldn’t really be appropriate in this case.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I haven’t stayed in a lot of hotels. I don’t know how these things work.”
“Good night, Señora.” They gave Paul one last look. He’d fallen back on the mattress and seemed to be asleep. “Call the front desk if you have any trouble. We’re on duty until five thirty. He’s quite a handful in this condition. You might need a little help.”
“Thank you, but we’ll be fine.”
The security guards walked out the door and Rhees turned back to look at her husband. For the first time since he’d stormed out, she breathed easier. She looked inside the bag.
Her heart squeezed a bit as she pulled out a brown spandex dress, very similar to the one the Rohypnol had ruined. She choked up. Even after their fight, the mean things she’d said, even in his drunken state, Paul had once again made the most thoughtful gesture.
“And you say you’re not romantic,” she said, staring at her beautiful man.
He wore his black dress shoes and a black belt, the ones he’d worn at their wedding. The dark grey dress slacks and a dark blue golf shirt with the hotel’s logo on the chest looked great on him but seemed a little out of character. The
y’d been an emergency purchase from the on-site store so he could toss his blood-stained wedding clothes.
She missed the flip flops and board shorts he usually wore, or the jeans and un-tucked button-up shirts he always put on in the evenings because, ‘he didn’t like to get cold’. The man didn’t have an ounce of fat on his body. It was no wonder he chilled easily . . . but they lived in a tropical paradise. It made her smile.
That was only one of his quirks. She loved all of his quirks—she loved him. She missed the way they used to be. They’d been trapped in this hotel room for almost two weeks. She’d always known he hated being cooped up, but after his story, she knew Paul had to be going crazy, but he’d done it for her, watching out for her, taking care of her.
She missed home and wished the thought of leaving the room didn’t make her heart race so fast it made her ill. She needed to push herself through that fear. She needed to do it for Paul. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm the shakes gripping her body as she thought of another, more important fear she’d need to push through if she cared for him.
She did care for him more than anything. She would have to find a way.
oOo
Rhees crouched down to untie the laces on Paul’s shoes and took them off for him before standing and trying to decide just how much of his clothing she should remove. His wardrobe wasn’t quite as limited as hers. He had two similar outfits he’d purchased at the hotel, but she decided she’d better strip him so he wouldn’t have to send the clothes he wore out to the laundry again.
She undid his belt, unzipped his pants and tugged them down, careful not to pull his boxers off too. Not an easy task, as he didn’t help in any way. She’d only seen him in boxer briefs and decided she liked them better than the old-fashioned boxers he wore, another hotel store purchase. She folded the pants and set them on the desk, but had to stop to catch her breath after the workout of maneuvering his dead weight. She noticed his eyes open, watching her with a lively grin on his face.
“Have you been awake all this time? You could have helped, you know.”
“Errrawow.” He growled like a wild predator—a wild predator that’d had too much to drink. “And miss the shhow? It’s nawt every day a man gets stripped naked by a beea-u-tiful woman.” She didn’t want to smile, but she couldn’t help it.
“Come on. Up you go.” She wiggled her fingers, gesturing for him to sit up. She reached for his hands and pulled to help when she noticed how unstable he was as he tried. “Let’s get your shirt off.”
“Now you’re taalk-ing.” He pulled her into him and tried to kiss her, but lost his balance and almost fell off the bed. She steadied him as best as she could, a little shaken by his attempted advance. She hadn’t expected it.
“Off.” She grabbed the hem of his shirt, tugging it over his head, but in her haste to keep herself calm, she’d forgotten to undo the buttons on his shirt and it hung up on his ears.
“Ooo . . . You’re blindfolding me?” He sounded excited, like a kid on Christmas morning.
“In your dreams. I can’t even manage to give you my virginity straight up, let alone get all kinky and perverted with you.” She tried to unfasten the shirt, which was now inside out and stretched to the fabric’s limits making the buttons hard to get to. She decided on a different tactic and began gently manipulating the collar around and over his ears, one at a time. She managed to free his right side but when she turned her attention to the other she stopped and stared at his neck, just below his left earlobe.
“Hel-l-lp,” he pretended to panic since she’d stopped trying to free him from his tangled shirt.
“Do it yourself.” She stepped back and folded her arms, unable to control her breathing. Her exhales all came out heavy and loud as she wondered how to cope with the evidence.
“What’s wrong?” He pulled the shirt off and tossed it to the corner of the room before he tried to grab her, but she took another step back.
“You have lipstick—why is there lipstick on your neck?”
He appeared to think about it, as if having the image of a set of hot pink lips impressed on his throat was such a common occurrence, he couldn’t quite pinpoint the reason for it this particular time. His eyes lit up and he seemed proud of himself when he remembered.
“While I sat at the bar, minding my own bizz-ness,” his speech pattern reflected the level of his inebriation, “a woman offered to buy me a da-rink.” His explanation didn’t help to calm Rhees’ pounding heart.
“Don’t wor-rry. I told her I was mar-rried and nawt interested—because I’m nawt!” His next words came out like a newsflash. “You know what? You were er-right. I do need a flashy, con-spic-u-ous er-ring. That lady wouldn’t believe me because I wasn’t wearing one.” He flipped his hands up by his shoulders and gave her a wide-eyed look of bewilderment, affirming how truly confused he was about the problem. Rhees grabbed a tissue from the nightstand. Paul sat on the edge of the bed and she stepped between his legs to start wiping the lipstick away.
“Damn hijackers, stole our er-rings . . . and other things.” He threw his arms around her waist and buried his head against her stomach like a sad little boy.
“I know,” Rhees said quietly. She felt the same way. The hijackers had stolen, not only their possessions, but their wedding night, the desire she’d felt for Paul, and she felt, possibly the future of their relationship. The fear of never consummating their marriage weighed heavy on her mind, again. She returned his embrace, weaving her hands through his hair in a comforting way.
“I’m not sure even a ring would help sometimes,” she said, thinking aloud. “All those women, always trying to catch your attention, trying to kiss you. And I’ve only been dealing with it for a few months. How do you stand having to fight them off all the time?”
“I used to pick my battles.” He snickered, drunkenly. “I didn’t fight them awll off, remember? S’been a nice break. I’ve loved having you be my gir-rlfriend. Only the pes-ki-est ones don’t take the hint.”
She sighed at the truth of it.
“I wouldn’t have fought you off.” He lay back, pulling her down on top of him. “I won’t fight you off this time. I’m ready to get it over with, if you still want to.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Exaactly,” he said, as if it were explanation enough.
Rhees groaned with frustration.
“You n-know how I get when I’m da-runk.”
“You’ve kind of missed the whole point.”
“I’m drunk, which means I’m horr-ny, which means I feel more agree-able about giving you what you think you wawnt. Take off your robe.” He flashed his eyebrows up and down with a crooked grin on his lips.
“Paul, you’re drunk. That doesn’t help me one bit. I’m the one who needs to be drunk if we’re going to try again.”
“That hurts my feelings.”
“Ditto.” She snuggled into his side, resting her head on his chest. “You were gone a long time. I’ve been so worried—and you say I’m the runner. You might be a fighter most of the time, but when you do take flight . . .”
She thought about his story. He’d run away from his home and everyone he cared about. Five years later, he still refused to return. It scared her because despite how much he seemed to dwell on his parents’ shortcomings, he wouldn’t hurt so deeply if he didn’t care about them. He could do the same to her one day.
“Don’t run off like that again, okay? Please?”
“Sooo, does this mean we’re not getting nasty tonight? Because I have a problem if we’re nawt.” He smirked and set her hand on his groin. “While we’ve been wasting time talking, He’s been busy building a bridge.”
“Oh my gosh. I can’t believe you said that.” She giggled. “You really are drunk.”
“Yeah, I
am.” He untied the sash on her robe and pushed the sides open, one at a time, enjoying the view as he went.
“Okay. I’m willing to try because I need to do this.” She felt so nervous, she rambled. “This might actually work. You’re drunk, and that makes you more willing and less likely to get all gentlemanly on me and stop again before it’s done, so yes, this might finally be it. Please, just don’t freak out if I seem a little scared, because I am scared, but once I see, once it’s over, I’ll be better, I know I will, just like diving, just like the zip line—”
“Shhh, why are you still taaalk-ing?” He pulled her on top of him, slipping her out of her robe completely, letting his hands roam smoothly over her skin. “If you’re nawt going to shuddup, then you need to say something sexxxy—not all the ca-rap we’ve been arguing about over and over again, like beating a dead horse. To. Death.” He mashed his lips to hers, forcefully, and immediately assaulted her with his tongue. He usually gave her more time.
“Mmmph . . .” The sound didn’t come from any pleasure he’d given her. She tried to pull away, but he didn’t let go until she wedged her arms between their chests and pushed, making the grossed out sound again. She took a deep breath as soon as he reluctantly let go of her. Paul looked utterly bewildered.
“You just said you wanted—”
“You stink!” She narrowed her eyes and kept her arms wedged between them. “Have you been smoking? Do not tell me, with your magnificent IQ, you could possibly be dumb enough to start smoking.” She scooted off him and sat up, trying to use her arms to cover herself. “It kills people.”
“I quit years ago.”
It surprised her to hear he’d ever smoked. “So why do you taste like an ashtray, right now?”
“Aargh!” he growled, glancing down at his abandoned erection. “Someone offered me a cigarette. I smoked one, to be polite.”
Wet Part 3 Page 19
