Between Here and Gone

by Barbara Ferrer

  “Why do you keep trying to push me away?”

  The air thrummed with quiet anticipation. Somewhere in the distance, a phone rang, footsteps echoed down the marbled-floored hallways, hushed voices conferred, the rest of the world going on while I waited as if we had endless amounts of time.

  “I don’t know,” he finally said. “I wonder if it’s because I’m trying to protect you. Or maybe myself.” Even as the words vibrated against my jaw, his lips explored the sensitive hollow beneath my ear and his hold relaxed. I turned, looking up into Jack’s face, seeing the doubts, the questions—and the acceptance.

  “No matter how hard I push, you won’t go.” His hands rose to frame my face, his fingers threading through my hair. “Such tremendous loyalty, Natalia.”

  “If you think this is about loyalty, then you’re even more out of practice at this than I am.”

  Perhaps loyalty might have played a role at one point. Or a sense of obligation, but neither of those sentiments had anything to do with what I was currently feeling.

  “Oh, I’ll grant you out of practice,” he murmured as his head lowered, “but not completely stupid.” He stopped with his mouth a hair’s breadth away from mine, close enough so I could feel the occasional brush of his lips against mine as he said. “Or maybe I’m exceptionally stupid.”

  I leaned a fraction of an inch closer, my breath mingling with his. “Shut up, Jack,” I whispered a scant second before he finally answered my demands, his fingers tightening once more in my hair as he tilted my head to a better angle, his mouth taking full possession of mine.

  Another first kiss, another new experience, another revelation. Where Nico’s kisses had been the sweetness of first love and Remy’s a finely-honed sensuality, Jack’s kisses were raw passion finessed with a heavy sense of want. Passion had him biting into the flesh of my lower lip—want had him soothing the sting with the tip of his tongue, leisurely tasting and exploring. A contrast of emotions that I recognized and answered with a slow path of kisses along the line of his jaw while my nails dug into his chest.

  His hands moved to the front of my suit, smoothly sliding the oversized brocade buttons through their holes, while I worked at the much smaller buttons on his seersucker shirt, fumbling to free his undershirt from his waistband.

  “Shh …” His lips teased my ear as his hands traveled a sensual path along my abdomen and up to my breasts, heating the thin nylon of my slip and making the heavy structure of my bra feel like a torture device. “Slow down. We have all night.”

  Gradually, he walked me backwards toward the bed, pushing the jacket from my shoulders and shrugging his shirt off along the way. In the room’s low light, shadows played across the angular planes of his face, masking his thoughts one moment, revealing much more than I imagine he intended in the next.

  “How could I have ever thought you cold?” I murmured as I traced the lines of jaw and mouth, my fingertips drawing a portrait I knew I’d hold close.

  He eased us down to the bed, using one hand to brace his body over mine while the other traveled a slow, maddening path up my midsection. “There’s a difference between cold and self-control.” Reaching the edge of my slip, the tips of his fingers drew idle circles on my skin and hooked into the fabric of slip and bra both, pulling it down a scant inch, revealing a new sliver of skin he christened with a light, fleeting kiss, there and gone and making me want more. “I’d think you, of all people, would understand that.”

  “I do.” Much to my regret. I pulled him to lie completely over me, relishing his weight pressing me into the mattress. “You keep your promises.”

  He propped himself on an elbow. “I do.”

  “So promise me.”

  “What?”

  “No control tonight, Jack. Whatever you want, give into it. What I want, you give to me.”

  “I—”

  Whatever he might have said was lost in the sharp knock. “Jack, you in there?”

  “Jesus.” He leaned his forehead against mine, breathing heavily. “I’m going to kill the son of a bitch, I swear.”

  I forced one hand to unclench and stroke the tense line of his jaw as a second, more urgent knock rapped against the wood.

  “Jack, it’s Ava. She just called.”

  Because what—or who—else could it be?

  “Shit.” He pushed himself up but before leaving the bed completely, leaned down to press a lingering kiss to my lips. A slice of light briefly illuminated the room, sharply etching his silhouette as he slipped out into the hallway. Turning to my side, I contemplated the carelessly abandoned mass of his shirt and my suit jacket, tangled together on the plush carpet, before rising. Slipping out of my skirt and slip, I pulled a robe on over my remaining undergarments. False propriety was a useless vanity at this point.

  However, before I could act on the impulse to follow, the door burst open. Light flooded the room once more, illuminating a weariness and resignation on Jack’s face that eradicated the heat and passion so recently revealed.

  He took my hands in his, his hold tight and feeling of desperation. My fingers tightened in return, trying to provide the anchor he appeared to need.

  “She’s in New Orleans.”

  “I’ve called the airfield—” Looking past Jack’s shoulder I saw Dante’s backlit silhouette framed in the doorway. “They’re prepping the plane—be ready to leave within the hour.”

  Confused, I searched Jack’s face.

  “This is what she does, Natalia.” Anger bled through his words, underscoring the weariness that went hand in hand with any mention of Ava. “It’s a goddamned stupid game she plays. Needing to know someone cares. That someone will chase after and come rescue her.”

  “Someone? Or you?”

  “I—” His eyes widened slightly. “I’m family,” he said, somewhat helplessly.

  That much I’d gathered. However, in getting to know Jack—getting to know the man he really was—I suspected it went far deeper than mere familial or legal obligation. This was an obligation with nearly unbreakable strings attached.

  “But this is the last time. I can’t do this anymore—” His voice tapered off on the final word, anger and exhaustion clearly warring for dominance. “Please come with me?”

  “Of course.” My response was immediate, unhesitating. “I promised.”

  “No—” He shook his head. “Not because you promised. The hell with promises and obligations. If that’s all it is, then you can stay here. Dante’ll make certain you’re well taken care of, then after this is over, we—”

  “Jack, stop. Just … stop.” I took his face in my hands, stilling him, forcing him to look at me. “I want to, you idiot.”

  What was it about this man—the sight of him closing his eyes in such obvious relief, the almost imperceptible shudder that ran through him as he released a breath—that provoked such intense feeling? Not since Carlito had I felt anything approaching this deep-seated urge to protect, this ferocity, except … what I felt for Jack could hardly be described as sisterly.

  It wasn’t until after the door closed behind him and I was pulling a fresh change of clothes from my case that I realized—

  Throughout the course of this surreal journey he’d been by turns, demanding and imperious. I had pushed and cajoled and argued. But for the first time, he asked.

  For the first time, Jack needed me.

  Twenty-two

  I had to hand it to the woman. Even in flight, running away from or toward whatever demons drove her, no one could deny Ava possessed style. This rumored haunt of hers, the Hotel Monteleone was a grande dame much in the vein of the Paris Ritz or the Dorchester in London, rich with history and no doubt hiding many a high society secret amidst her elegant layers of marble and crystal and brass. Even the chimes of the imperious grandfather clock rang with the weight of all it had observed in its many years overseeing the lobby. Hopefully, Ava’s exact whereabouts were a secret with which it would be willing to part.

  �
�How can you be so certain she’s here?”

  Jack tiredly rolled his head on his neck. “Here, the hotel or here, New Orleans?”

  “Both, I suppose.”

  Outwardly, he was the picture of relaxation as we waited to speak with the hotel’s manager, but his narrow-eyed gaze remained alert, constantly skimming the lobby, taking inventory. Observing the early-morning risers eagerly heading toward the intoxicating scents of beignets and chicory-laced coffee weaving their way through the revelers returning after a late night of Big Easy debauchery. So easy to tell apart—one group bright and chattering, sharply dressed in crisp khakis and Madras-plaid Bermudas, the women, chic in colorful headscarves and oversized, white-framed sunglasses, while members of the other group staggered past, wrinkled and reeking, even from a distance, of smoke and alcohol and to my exhausted mind, desperation mingled with regret. Whatever dreams and expectations with which they’d headed out into the night, it would appear, judging by the lined, weary faces passing by, that very few had been met, regardless of whether the search had taken them to brightly lit bars and clubs or the corners of dark, fetid alleyways.

  They’d convince themselves otherwise of course. They’d sleep it off and when they awoke, would tell themselves it had been a hell of a night. What could be recalled would be embellished upon, filling in the larger dark holes and spaces. Weaving answers to those lingering questions and doubts. It would become a tale that would leave friends and acquaintances envious and desiring their very own adventure garnished with a paper umbrella and a maraschino cherry.

  “She loves New Orleans. The heat and history. The dissolute greatness that’s slightly shabby and decaying around the edges. It’s relentless and primal and everything hedonistic that she’s always wanted to be.”

  “I rather thought she already was all of those things.”

  His gaze turned inward, as if examining a truth long held close. “No,” he finally said. “Not really. In a way, she’s bound by restrictions that are more unyielding than anything society ever tried to impose on her.”

  He continued studying each individual coming and going through the massive lobby doors, clearly hoping that for once, we would catch a break. Growing perceptibly more tense with each person who wasn’t Ava. “As for the hotel—it’s beautiful, it’s got history, and most importantly if you’re Ava, it’s got notoriety. Immortalized by the likes of Hemingway and Williams. Faulkner and Capote.”

  A revelation that should have come as a surprise, yet somehow, didn’t. Just another piece of the intricate puzzle that was Ava Roemer. “It would seem to go hand-in-hand with her desire to be immortalized on the page.”

  “I suppose it does.”

  “Yet she’s never actually written herself.”

  “It requires actual work.” He took my hand in his, turning it palm up and tracing the lines. “And putting more than a bit of yourself on the page. I don’t think Ava’s capable of that. So she admires people who can. Who can provide other worlds into which she can escape. Almost as much as she envies them.”

  Gently, he returned my hand to my lap and lifted the demitasse of strong black coffee the receptionist had served along with admiring glances for Jack and honey sweet assurances that her boss would be joining us directly.

  “Mr. Roemer. How good to see you again.” The tall man with the deep drawl greeted Jack with the same level of familiarity as the employees of Dante’s hotel. Exhausted and half-drifting within my own thoughts, I listened idly as it was ascertained that yes, Ava had arrived the day before, had rested a bit before going out for the evening. An evening from which she’d yet to return.

  “All we can do at this point is wait her out,” Jack said as soon as the door closed on the suite Dante had reserved for us while we were en route from Las Vegas. “See if she comes back.”

  “If she comes back?” My legs feeling watery and insubstantial, I dropped onto the pale blue raw silk sofa. My fingertips played along the subtle nubs and ridges of the fabric. “Are you saying this might be another dead end?”

  “Well, we know she’s been here. The question remains, however, whether she’ll come back before traipsing off to her next stop.” He sat beside me, his head falling back to rest against the sofa’s ornate Victorian frame. Despite our hurried departure from Las Vegas, he was as impeccably turned out as ever, his dark blue suit miraculously unwrinkled, his shirt crisp, the cuffs with their elegant gold-and-onyx links showing a precise half-inch past the edges of the jacket’s sleeves. Yet, exhaustion also clearly marked him. It was there, in the unfastened top button, the loosened knot of his tie—in the ashen tone to his normally even complexion and the bruising beneath his eyes.

  My fingers curled into my palms, restraining myself from reaching out. Regardless of what had—or rather, almost had—happened last night, I had no idea where I stood with him. If it was destined to remain nothing more than a moment—there and gone and never to be recaptured.

  “What happens next?”

  He rubbed tiredly at his eyes, before scrubbing a hand along the side of his face, the sound of his palm rasping against early morning stubble loud in the quiet room. “If she shows up, I deal with her. If she doesn’t, I wait until she sends up a flare or a goddamned smoke signal or whatever the hell she’s going to use as her royal summons. Then I’ll go chasing after her some more until she decides she wants to end this particular round of cat-and-mouse. And then I’ll deal with her. And then, that’s it. I wasn’t kidding when I told Dante I was done. I’ll deal with her this one last time, but that’s it.”

  “We.”

  His eyes slowly opened, their painful redness yet another measure of his exhaustion.

  “You asked me to come with you, Jack.”

  “I did.”

  “Are you regretting that now?”

  He shook his head, his gaze resolutely holding mine. I regret this whole goddamned mess. But not that you’re here with me.” My skin prickled with awareness as he took one of my hands and painstakingly uncurled each finger, until finally, his palm lay flush with mine. One moment our fingers would be interlocked, the next, teasing, exploring the play of bone and muscle.

  “The suite … it has two bedrooms. I think Dante was trying to make sure your reputation was protected.”

  I closed my eyes as Jack drew my hand to his mouth, lips and tongue following the same path his fingers had just been taking, exploring every ridge, tracing every subtle line.

  “That was thoughtful,” I managed on a breathy sigh that should have been embarrassing, but wasn’t. He pressed a series of kisses from my hand to my wrist, his teeth dragging lightly along the extraordinarily sensitive skin. “Pity it’s not necessary.”

  His mouth stilled. “Don’t do this,” he murmured, each word a small, damp puff against my skin. “Not because you think your past somehow makes this easy or meaningless. Not because you think you’re a—” He turned my hand over, resting his forehead on the back of my wrist.

  “I’m not them, Natalia. Do not paint me with that brush.”

  Slowly, almost of its own volition, my free hand rose. Gently stroked his tawny head—over and over, a touch meant to soothe myself as much as him. Took my time learning the coarse texture of his hair, explored the delicate whorls of an ear, traced the strong curve of his neck. My fingers skimmed along the tense cords before coming to rest against his pulse, its rapid throb exposing anticipation. Through all that, he never moved, his shallow breaths feathering across my skin the only caress he allowed himself as I touched. Never spoke. Just allowed me unrestrained freedom. And choice.

  “You’re nothing like them.”

  It was so easy after that. Taking his outstretched hand. Kneeling across from each other on the bed, picking up the threads of all those interrupted moments and weaving them into this one moment. Into this need that had been growing, yet pushed aside time and again—stoked by secrets and missed opportunities and realities that forced us both to hide behind carefully constructed façades.
Masks we were finally able to cast aside.

  The first languorous caresses gradually ceded to that need—clothes shed, desires revealed with a glance and assented to with hands and lips, skin brushing against skin, a leg hooking over a hip, fingers twisting in hair, teeth digging into the flesh of a shoulder salty with sweat. Only once did he speak, holding himself poised over me, teasing us both for one long suspended moment, a single finger tracing a line down my sternum and around each breast. Concentric circles that left goose bumps in their wake and drew my nipples tighter and heightened every nerve-ending into something fiercely bright and extraordinarily sensitive.

  “You’re so lovely.”

  Reverent, yet overlaid with an almost wry wonder that this was finally happening.

  And as he lowered himself more fully over me and ever so slowly and carefully into me, reverence gave way to urgency, more words whispered into my ear, layered between his long hissed-out breath and my welcoming sigh. Words I couldn’t quite comprehend, other than somewhere deep in the most primitive part of my brain, where they would lie dormant until I was ready to hear them, because now was not the moment. Now was about the movement of our bodies, tentative at first, then surer, each thrust met with an answering parry of yes and entreaties of more. Admissions of how deeply this had been wanted and assurances that neither of us would break if it went faster and was harder and bordered on pain that broke on a wave of release so long denied.

  Over and over, as the sun climbed higher in the sky, shifting the angle of the shadows in the room, we learned the secrets of each other’s bodies. The lowering of his voice and rasp of his breath becoming as familiar as my own heartbeat. The tastes and smells of him, salt and tang and clean sweat, and most of all, the feel of him—over me, under me, beside and behind, I spent that day wrapped in him the way I’d once spent entire days wrapped in the warmth and buoyancy of the sea—a feeling I’d long since ceased hoping I’d ever experience again.