Touch Me Now

by Donna Hill

  “About what?”

  “His family for one.”

  “Ohh…and you didn’t tell him, I take it.”

  She shook her head. “I know I should have said something but I’m hoping for the best.”

  “Listen,” she placed her hand on Layla’s arm. “One of the biggest mistakes I made was not being honest with Lincoln. It nearly destroyed our relationship. You know what we went through. If you want this man in your life then both of you have to be open with each other no matter how ugly it is. And I think it has to start with you. From what you tell me he’s holding on to a lot of stuff. He’s going to take his cues from you.”

  “You’re right. I know that.” She looked around. “I better go find him.”

  Claude was rounding up the tour, introducing Maurice to some of the guests along the way, and the guys wound up in his den where Claude pulled out his aged bottle of bourbon. He took out glasses from the bar and handed them out.

  “So, what do you do?” Maurice asked as he glanced around the very masculine space of dark wood and inlaid cabinets.

  “Oh, I thought you knew.”

  “Knew?”

  “Yeah, I’m chief of staff for your uncle.”

  Maurice turned toward him. “My uncle…Branford?”

  Claude smiled. “Yeah. Small world, huh? He’s supposed to be coming tonight if he can get away.”

  Claude poured each tumbler half full. He raised his glass. “To my man Linc and five more years of marital bliss.”

  Maurice barely registered anything else. His thoughts raced in a dozen directions. Branford. Here. Did Layla know and if she did why didn’t she say anything? She had to know that Claude worked for his uncle. Melanie was her god-sister. Anger simmered low in his gut. He tossed back his drink. The burn did nothing but stoke the fire inside.

  The voices of Claude and Lincoln swirled around him. He’d spent the past ten years of his life staying away from the man that had ruined everything. He’d cut himself off from the family that stood by the man who’d had a hand in his own brother’s suicide. The press ignored it. Friends told him to move on. And when he finally allowed someone to get close to him again, she betrayed him. Set him up.

  The glass snapped in his hand.

  “Whoa, hey, you all right?” Claude grabbed a towel from the bar and hurried over to Maurice.

  He stared at his bleeding hand.

  “What the…?” Lincoln sputtered, seeing the glass and blood.

  Maurice took the towel and dabbed at his hand. “Guess I don’t know my own strength.”

  “You need to get that looked at.” Claude took the towel.

  Maurice shook his head. “It’s all right.” He walked over to the sink and ran the water. He held his hand under the stream and gritted his teeth against the sting. “Not bad. Minor cut. Nothing serious.” There was a small gash in his hand.

  “Only see that on television,” Lincoln tried to joke. He came up behind Maurice and put his hand on his back while Claude picked up glass off the floor and dumped it into the towel. “You good, man?” Linc asked quietly.

  “Yeah. Thanks.” He turned off the water.

  Claude crossed the room toward the door. “We have a first-aid kit upstairs. I’ll be right back,” Claude said then came up short.

  “So, here you are.”

  “Rafe.” Claude went to the door and gave him a one arm bear hug. “Glad you made it, brother.”

  Several years earlier there had been a testosterone battle for Melanie’s attention between Claude and Rafe. Rafe, as usual, was more interested in the possibility than the reality and never fully pursued her, bowing out gracefully to make room for Claude. In the ensuing years they’d developed a grudging admiration for the other.

  “Yeah, yeah, you know I couldn’t miss one of Melanie’s parties, especially for my man Linc. Full house, as usual, I see.” He glanced down at the blood-tinged towel in Claude’s hand. “Accident?”

  “Little something. I was going for the first-aid kit. Linc’s inside,” he said, tipping his head toward the interior of the den. “And your cousin, Maurice.” He patted Rafe’s shoulder. “Be back in a minute.”

  Rafe stepped fully into the den as Maurice turned from the sink.

  Chapter 22

  Layla looked over heads and in between bodies, hoping to spot Maurice. Maneuvering from one end of the house to the other was made more difficult by the guests that had doubled in size since her arrival. She was stopped several times by some of her clients who were in attendance and wanted to introduce her to others. She remained gracious, making quick small talk and promising to chat more later.

  Just as she was about to go downstairs she ran into Claude.

  “Claude, where is Maurice?”

  “Down in the den. Had a little accident.” He held up the gauze and surgical tape.

  “Accident?” Her pulsed kicked up a notch. “What are you talking about?”

  “Brother doesn’t know his own strength. Broke a glass in his hand.”

  “What!”

  “Relax, he’s fine. Little flesh wound.”

  There was a flurry of activity that drew their attention to the main entrance.

  The six foot four Senator Branford Lawson stood out like a beacon and with the charisma inherent in all good politicians the room gravitated toward him. He was GQ sharp in an obviously expensive steel gray suit, silver shirt and tie. His megawatt smile and smooth Southern charm lit up the room like the Fourth of July.

  Layla felt light-headed. She had to find Maurice before he ran into his uncle. She grabbed the gauze and tape from Claude. “I can take it to him. Go greet your guest.” She hurried off before he could protest.

  Quickly she darted down the long hallway and around a corner to a mid-lower level and turned right. She heard raised voices and her heart jumped to her throat. She ran toward the den.

  Lincoln was standing between Maurice and Rafe, doing his best to keep them from going at each other.

  Maurice’s face was a ball of fury. Veins stood out in his forehead and it looked as if his chest had expanded in size.

  “You checked out!” Rafe shouted. “You never bothered to find out the truth.”

  “The truth! What fucking truth, the one my uncle made everyone believe?”

  “Maurice!”

  Three pairs of eyes turned toward the door. The look that Maurice threw at her rooted her to the spot. Pure, unadulterated rage poured from him. But what was worse than his anger was the look of betrayal that swam in his eyes. And it was directed at her.

  Maurice pushed pass Lincoln and Rafe. “Stay away from me,” he growled, pointing at Rafe with a warning finger. He stopped at the door.

  Layla’s heart thundered in her chest. She looked at him with pleading eyes.

  “And you, too.” He brushed by her and stormed out.

  “Maurice…”

  “Let him go. Give him time to cool off,” Lincoln said, coming to her side.

  Layla looked from one to the other. “What happened?”

  Rafe adjusted his tie, almost a mirror image of his father in his younger years. Tall, sleek, wickedly handsome, and oozing with sexual charm. She hadn’t seen Rafe in quite some time. He hadn’t changed. If anything he was even more handsome.

  “Layla, long time,” he said in that smooth, easy lilt. “I take it you’ve met my long-lost cousin.” He turned toward the bar and poured himself a drink. “You could do better, cher.” He tossed the drink back and turned dark, brooding eyes on her.

  Maurice strode through the house, blinded by his own rage. But the feeling of betrayal by the one person he’d allowed into his life had him by the throat. It burned his insides like acid. All he wanted to do was get as far away as he could from Layla, this place a
nd the Lawsons.

  Pain suddenly ripped through his thigh nearly bringing him to his knees as pushed past the guests to get outside and to his car. He grabbed the wall to steady himself, gritting his teeth in agony.

  He drew in a long, shaky breath and started off again, his limp growing more pronounced with every step. The front door seemed miles away. Sweat broke out on his forehead. His stomach swam.

  “Maurice?”

  Through the haze of pain the image of his uncle came into focus in front of him.

  Branford reached for him. “Are you all right, son?”

  “Don’t you touch me,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Maurice, please, let me help you.”

  “Get away from me!” He forced one foot in front of the other and made his way out, followed by whispers and wide-eyed curiosity.

  It seemed like an eternity before the valet brought his car around. Through the searing pain he finally managed to get behind the wheel and pull off. He felt like he might black out and had to take deep breaths to keep his head clear. He held the wheel in a death grip as he wound along the dark, winding road back to The Port.

  Mercifully, he arrived in front of his cottage without incident. He needed to get his medication. He opened the car door but the pain was so bad he couldn’t move his leg to get out.

  Images of the Black Hawk going down into the mountains, the scream of the engine, the flashing indicator lights, the rush of adrenaline as the team prepared for the crash and then impact and the heat, raced through his mind. He’d been thrown clear of the fiery crash with a hunk of hot metal embedded in his leg. But he didn’t feel it. All he could think about was getting to his buddies, trying to find them in the black smoke and flames. He couldn’t walk, so he crawled. He dragged the two survivors to safety before he’d blacked out. He used that same inner strength to pull himself out of the car and drag himself into the house.

  * * *

  The party continued. The band played. The food was consumed and the drinks washed it all down. They danced. They laughed. They partied the night away.

  Melanie and Claude took center stage toward the close of the evening to thank their guests for helping them to bring in the summer season and to celebrate the five-year anniversary of her dear friends Desiree and Lincoln Davenport.

  Holding hands and beaming, Desiree and Lincoln joined Melanie and Claude and thanked their gracious hosts and everyone who joined them for their special day.

  Layla stood on the sidelines, numb. How could she have been so arrogant as to think she could fix things? She of all people knew the depths of Maurice’s rift with his family. It was a part of his life that he kept buried so deep that he wouldn’t talk about it, other than he held his uncle responsible for his father’s suicide. Why or how he would never say.

  Stupidly she thought if they could see each other they could find a way to open the lines of communication. She knew that there was a part of Maurice that ached for the family that he’d lost. Even though his relationship with his father was fraught with issues, David Lawson was still his father and when he lost that figure of authority, he filled that void with the Navy. Now that the Navy was no longer a part of his life, he was emotionally adrift. So, what better anchor than your family, the people who should be there for you when you were in need? She believed that. But she was wrong.

  She should have listened to Mel and Desi when they told her to tell him that Rafe and Branford may attend the party. But she knew that if she did, Maurice would never have come. That outcome certainly would not have been worse than what happened tonight.

  She needed to go to him and try to explain, get him to understand that she’d never intended to deceive him. No matter what happened after tonight, she couldn’t let him go back home believing that.

  “Hey.”

  The low, soothing voice floated to her. Layla blinked, bringing the room back into focus. Rafe was standing in front of her.

  She straightened, forced a smile. “Rafe.”

  He tilted his head to the side and observed her from beneath silken lashes. “You look like you could use a drink.”

  She leaned against the wall and folded her arms. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “Are you now?”

  She lifted her chin. “Yes, I am.”

  He smirked. “How long have you known my very angry cousin?”

  The swift shift in conversation threw her for a moment. She ran her tongue across her lips. “Awhile.”

  “So, I guess you know the story.”

  Her gaze snapped to his. He was staring. It unnerved her. Rafe had a way of looking at a woman as if she was a delicacy.

  “The story?”

  “The great scandal,” he said in a mocking tone. He sipped his drink. His eyes roved over her. Her pulse quickened.

  “I know a little,” she said. “He blames your father for his father’s death.”

  The corner of his lush mouth quirked in a half grin. “Hmmm. So, it would seem.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  His right brow rose every so slightly. “That there are always two sides to a story.” He finished off his drink and deposited it on the tray of a passing waiter.

  “And you know both sides,” she challenged.

  “No, I don’t,” he said surprising her. “I don’t much cotton to my old man and how he lives his life. He doesn’t much care for how I live mine either. I guess you could say we have a strained relationship,” he continued in that lullaby voice of his. “My father may be a lot of things, but he’s not a liar.” He grinned. “Probably the only decent thing I can say about him.”

  “Even though you don’t know what happened, you still believe your father?”

  “Yes, cher, I do. And I never say ‘I do,’ lightly.” He smiled.

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because the one trait that I get from my beyond reproach father is that I don’t lie either,” he said, the last word soft as a song. “Especially to ladies in distress.”

  “I’m not in distress,” she said petulantly.

  “Of course you are. The man you care deeply about walked out on you and you want to make it right somehow. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s a shame that my stubborn cousin doesn’t see what an ass he’s being.”

  Layla stiffened.

  “We were close once.”

  There was that shift again. Maurice did the same thing. Must run in the family. Her eyes cut to his face. He was looking away.

  “Best friends growing up. I was the only one that he talked to about how things were at home and how different it was for him when he came to stay with us during school breaks. His father rode him endlessly. Nothing was ever good enough for Uncle David, but Maurice…” he slowly shook his head, “he loved his father.” He pursed his mouth in thought. “That’s where he and I were always different. He kept trying to please Uncle David. Me, I didn’t care what my father wanted. I lived for the battle.” He chuckled lightly. “Still do.” His dark eyes settled on Layla.

  “What happened between you two?”

  “After Uncle David…we drifted apart. He cut himself off from all of us. When he first went into the Navy, he’d send me a card from time to time and then it stopped.” He slid his hand into his pants pocket and braced his shoulder against the wall.

  “Layla, there you are.” Melanie approached them. She slid her arm around Rafe’s waist. “Don’t let this man dazzle you with his charm.”

  “You wound me, cher.” He gave her a devilish grin.

  “Why don’t you stay here tonight, Layla? Everyone is starting to leave. We can chat and unwind,” she offered, allowing Layla to read between the lines.

  “I’m fine, sis. I’m going to head back.”

  “Did you drive?�
� Rafe asked.

  “I…” She’d come with Maurice. “No.”

  “I’ll drive you. Staying in town?”

  “No. At The Port.”

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “Are you sure it’s no trouble?

  “Tending to a lady is never any trouble.”

  “Oh, Rafe…you are so awful,” Melanie teased. “Be sure to leave him at the front door,” she playfully warned, then leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Behave yourself and don’t stay away so long.” She turned to Layla. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” She gave her a brief hug and swished away.

  Rafe watched her departure with appreciation. He turned back to Layla. “Ready?”

  “Yes, but let me say good-night to Desiree and Lincoln.”

  “I’ll get the car brought up front and meet you outside.”

  “Thanks. I won’t be long.”

  When Rafe walked toward the front entrance he spotted his father seated with Claude deep in conversation. He walked over. They glanced up when he stopped in front of them.

  “I’m going to drive Layla back to The Port then head to my hotel in town.”

  “Did you speak with Maurice?”

  If Rafe didn’t know better, he’d swear that his father actually looked hurt.

  “I wouldn’t call what we did having a conversation if that’s what you want to know.”

  “What the hell happened, Rafe? What did you say to him?”

  Rafe snorted a laugh. “What did I say? Like there was something that I could have possibly said to make him act any different than he’s been acting for the past ten years?” He threw his hands up in the air in faux exasperation. “I have no damn clue. Maybe if you tell him what he’s been asking you, what we’ve all been asking you for the past decade we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” He glared at his father who slowly and deliberately rose to his full height. “Before he winds up like Uncle David.”

  Branford visibly blanched. The two men faced each other in a silent standoff. Branford threw his son one last hard look before turning and walking away.