Blind Trust

by Lynda Aicher

  He released her, keeping his hands on her shoulders. “Go find that man of yours and apologize. I got the distinct sense that he didn’t take your dismissal well.” He chuckled softly, stepping back. “I know I wouldn’t have.”

  Her regrets slammed back in to remind her of the damage she’d inflicted on Ryan. How had she done that to him?

  He’d told the other partners about her. He hadn’t made her into a dirty secret to be hidden away. But that was exactly what she’d done to him.

  Pain seared her heart as another wave of panic took hold. It nestled beside the mortification that slowly revealed the truth of her actions.

  She’d shunned Ryan for absolutely no reason.

  The man who’d worked his whole life to dig himself out of a bad situation. Who’d achieved so much. Who was an amazing wonderful person. Who’d become everything to her.

  Who she’d refused to acknowledge in front of her parents.

  What had she done?

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The bottom of the glass stared back at Ryan, the contents diminished to a few ice cubes, a trace of clear liquid and a squeezed lime. He motioned to the bartender for another round, his thoughts limited to that act alone.

  The numbness had dug in to block the potential pain. Right. His harsh scoff got a skeptical look from the man hunched over the bar three stools down. Ryan didn’t care. Nothing mattered.

  He accepted the drink with a nod, switching out the empty with the full glass. A television blared a baseball game, but the commentary was lost on him. He’d learned the rules of every professional sport and could comment on any play or team in a way that’d make someone think he cared. He didn’t.

  His drink slid down his throat on a glide of satisfaction that did little. It only succeeded in filling the emptiness with reminders of how he’d gotten here. Every step, every move, every calculated action he’d made had been to get him as far from this seat as possible. Yet here he sat.

  The atmosphere consisted of foggy beer signs, musty beer-soaked floors and a clientele that eyed his suit with disdain. Perfect. He resisted the urge to flip every blurry-eyed, attitude-ridden drunkard off. They had no clue—none—about him.

  But who did?

  His harsh laugh garnered more looks from his fellow bar bums. His cool glare succeeded in getting every one of them to look away. He could take on any of them if they wanted a fight. He’d learned that too. How patience worked to his advantage. How to go for the soft spots, dodge, use his feet. Street fighting didn’t have rules.

  A body slid into the stool next to him, but he refused to look over. There was a half-dozen other stools available, and he was well aware of why the two on either side of him were free. He’d made damn certain the custom-tailored suit didn’t dull the fuck-you vibe radiating from him. It screamed in his chest and vibrated through every nerve ending that protected the numbness.

  If he didn’t feel, he couldn’t hurt.

  Trevor signaled the bartender. “I’ll have what he’s having.” He motioned to Ryan.

  Ryan sipped his drink, resentment slithering into the emptiness. “Thanks for coming,” he stated, his eyes locked on the television.

  “You went high-class for this meeting.”

  He shrugged. “It fit my mood.” He’d walked into the first place that hadn’t screamed pretentious or tourist trap. He’d chosen well.

  The bartender delivered Trevor’s drink with a nod and a quick departure. His scruffy beard and ripped flannel over a black T-shirt with a faded band logo matched the atmosphere.

  Ryan hadn’t owned a flannel shirt since his college days. His closet was now lined with suits, slacks, dress shirts and enough ties to rotate over two months without duplicating. And what had it gotten him?

  Trevor took a sip of his drink. “Really? Lime and soda?”

  He gave another shrug. He might be sitting in the damn seat he’d avoided his whole life, but he refused to fall farther.

  “Are you going to tell me why we’re here?”

  His answer sat on the back of his tongue in a weighted heap. He swallowed down his hesitation. There was no other way. “I want out of the Boardroom.”

  Silence greeted his declaration. Tension wound its way through his shoulders and up his neck the longer he waited. But he kept his eyes focused on the TV, his peripheral vision catching Trevor’s movements.

  Trevor took a drink, set his glass back down. “No.”

  Ryan snapped his head around. “It’s my choice.” Anger wiped out the numbness in a flash of heated fury. “You can’t say no.”

  “Then why’d you tell me?” Trevor arched a brow.

  “Courtesy.” He scoffed, head shaking. “Forget it.” Why’d he bother?

  “Nope.” Trevor flicked a smile when Ryan glared at him. “You brought it up. Now we discuss.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss. I’m out. I’m just giving you warning instead of being a dick.” He could’ve been. Maybe he should’ve been. That’s what everyone expected of him.

  Trevor’s slow nod wasn’t one of agreement. “What brought this on?”

  He choked on the answer. Fuck. Nope. That wasn’t coming out. “It’s time,” he evaded.

  “Just like that?”

  “Yes.”

  Trevor gave another nod. “I’m going to assume this has something to do with Brie.”

  He wrapped his hand around his glass, clenching it. “No.”

  “Liar.”

  “Dick.”

  Trevor lifted his glass, holding it out in expectation.

  Ryan glared at the glass before shifting his gaze to nail his friend. His smirk was classic Trevor. Arrogance backed by confidence earned through his steadfast dedication to everything he did. Add in his fucking sense of intuition that enabled him to read people with barely a glance, and Trevor James was deadly.

  Ryan’s sigh fell out in an annoyed gust. He clicked his glass to his friend’s, a reluctant smile releasing a wave of tension before he took a drink. His shoulders lowered, and he dropped his head forward to stretch the back of his neck. “What time is it?”

  “Five.”

  “Huh.” He’d successfully blown off his first afternoon of work in his entire life. That was kind of pathetic, only he couldn’t decide in which way. The fact that he had blown off the day over a woman or that he’d never done it before.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  Brie. Fuck.

  He scrubbed his hands over his face and let the sick swirl of angst and hurt engulf him. He shouldn’t care. Her dismissal shouldn’t have gutted him like this. Her... He swallowed hard to keep the ache in his throat from growing. He’d known better than to open himself up to this. The pain in his chest laughed at his blind stupidity. Or had it been wishful thinking?

  And wishes were for gullible kids who believed in fairies and magic—something he’d never fallen for.

  He rubbed his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose in an attempt to pinch back the headache throbbing behind his eyes. “I relearned a valuable lesson today,” he finally admitted.

  “Which one was that?”

  Ryan lowered his hand to study his friend. Trevor glanced his way, mild curiosity his only visible emotion. That calm regard hid a depth of intelligence that’d impressed him from the moment Trevor had struck up a conversation at a charity event. His pinpoint characterization of both the event and the attendees had created the bond that’d led to Ryan’s participation in the Boardroom.

  He’d been involved with the group since its founding, his legal skills the asset Trevor had sought. Ryan wasn’t blind to that, but somewhere over the years Trevor had morphed into one of the few people he trusted.

  “That trust is easily broken.” He’d trusted Brie too. He’d thought they understood each other, but now... He shook his h
ead, rubbing a hand over his chest. The clenching throb beat hard and deep through the numbness he was struggling to hold on to.

  “It is.”

  Trevor’s agreement yanked a snort from Ryan. “So why do we bother giving it out?”

  “To keep us grounded.”

  “How?”

  “Because it forces us to take risks and allows us to believe that there are still people in the world worth giving it to.”

  He stared at him, thoughts spinning out. “And when we find out there’s no one left?”

  His sarcastic scoff showed a flash of resentment that tainted his voice. “Then you become a bitter old man who believes the world is his to control.”

  Or his to abuse.

  Ryan stared at his drink, his past rearing up in a flash of drunken scenes and angry scorn. He hadn’t become that exact man, but had he become a different version of him?

  “I can’t remove Brie from the Boardroom,” he said after a moment. “And I can’t stand the thought of seeing her name on scenes without me.” Fuck. The truth twisted the knife in his chest until it was lodged deep between his ribs.

  “Is there a reason why you think that would happen?”

  A logical one? No. Unless he completely walked away from her. Was he ready to do that? His head was shaking before he realized he’d answered himself.

  No. He wasn’t.

  “Fuck.” He braced his head in his hands, digging his fingers into his skull until his pulse thumped beneath his fingertips.

  Trevor ordered another round for both of them before he spoke. “I think this is good.”

  Ryan jerked up. “What kind of a fucked-up statement is that?” His scowl dug deep into his forehead.

  Trevor jiggled his glass, lifting it to shake an ice cube into his mouth. The crunch reached Ryan with the casual nonchalance it was clearly supposed to project. A lazy smirk lifted Trevor’s lips when he finally looked to him. “How long have we known each other?”

  “Almost ten years.” He knew that without thinking only because Trevor’s friendship was the longest-standing one he had. The few college friends he’d claimed had faded away after graduation, and his colleagues had never progressed past that status.

  “And in all that time, I’ve never seen you this worked up over anything,” Trevor said. “Not even your divorce.”

  “And...?”

  His smile spread in a show of understanding. “Being human is good.”

  Ryan snorted his disgust. He took his fresh drink from the bartender, stirring the contents for something to do. “I think you’re losing it, James.”

  “Nope.” Trevor flashed a grin. “I’m pretty sure it’s you in that boat right now.”

  Ass. He focused on the TV, thoughts circling around Trevor’s words. That wasn’t the first time someone had implied he didn’t have feelings, but it’d never bothered him before. Yet the fucking mess of anger, disappointment and...loss was tearing him up. This was exactly why he’d kept his distance from everyone.

  “Emotions make you vulnerable.” He stated the fact without preamble or expectation of comment.

  “They do,” Trevor agreed. “But life is empty without them.”

  He dropped his head, chuckling at the pointed accuracy. He’d never considered himself lonely, had never identified the emptiness that’d surrounded him, but he saw it now. Brie had filled his world when he hadn’t been looking. And now...

  He could wallow in his own misery or get off this chair and go talk to her.

  “I don’t know what happened between you two,” Trevor said. “But forgiveness is a part of love.”

  Ryan held in his snort for a long beat before it burst out on a choked laugh. He stared at the man who was as much of a bachelor as Ryan had been. “Did you really just say that?”

  Trevor’s eyes grew wide in mock surprise, lips quirking. “I did.” He wiggled his glass. “It must be the drink.”

  His mouth quirked in a half-smile at the lame joke.

  “Have you talked to her?” The humor left Trevor’s tone, making a quick shift back to serious.

  He shook his head. “No. Not yet.”

  “I suggest starting there.”

  “You are full of words of wisdom today.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice.

  Trevor lifted that damn brow of his that managed to have a language all its own. “I’m assuming that’s the real reason why you called me.”

  There was no way he was going to admit to that. He’d never phoned a friend for help. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to do that. Yet here Trevor sat at five o’clock on a workday.

  “Thank you.” The statement came out flat, but he meant it.

  “Any time.” Trevor finished his drink on a tumble of ice cubes and a fake contented sigh. He checked his watch, flashed a grin. “I have another appointment.”

  “Jacob caught me today,” Ryan said, changing the subject as Trevor slid from his stool. “He has a special request he wanted to run by me.”

  “And?”

  He gave a dismissive shrug. “I’ll send you the details. It’s been done before, but not to this extent.”

  A frown etched into his brow. “Is it legal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why’d he go to you?”

  “Because it’d require a new contract.”

  Trevor’s brows hitched up before he nodded. “I’ll take a look.”

  Ryan watched him depart. His strides were long, carriage strong, confidence emanating from him on a subdued air. He’d tried to imitate that exact vibe since he’d put on his first rack-purchased suit, but he’d never been able to pull off the natural ease that came from being born with privilege.

  He stared at the ballgame once again, thoughts tracking everywhere and nowhere. The pain in his chest had dimmed to a dull throb that reminded him of what he could lose. The bitter rage was gone, but its nasty residue left him drained, both mentally and physically.

  His body ached when he’d done nothing more strenuous than lift his glass all afternoon. Memories dipped in of the cramps and numbness that’d infused his limbs after he’d been locked in the closet for hours. All night sometimes.

  Would his parents be proud of him now? Were they even still alive?

  Loathing wrenched his stomach. He’d stopped caring about them long before he’d left home.

  But Brie obviously cared about hers. Maybe that’s what hurt the most. Knowing that after all he’d worked to achieve, he still hadn’t been good enough to meet her parents.

  Fuck.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The distant ding of the elevator sounded down the hall on a muted ring of hope. Brie turned her head, her optimism long faded. The repeated ding over many hours had signaled the return of what felt like every person who lived on the floor—except Ryan.

  Her heart caught, squeezed when he rounded the corner. His head was down, shoulders lowered in a dogged expression of exhaustion that soaked through her. Sympathy wound with fear, but it didn’t rouse the overstated emotions that’d consumed her when she’d arrived. Her tears had drained her energy, leaving her empty when they’d dried.

  Time had muted her initial panic. Contemplation had softened her personal beratements. Logic had dulled her fears until there was only mellow acceptance left.

  He’d either listen to her or not. He’d forgive or not. Understand or...not.

  Her heart gave another clench at the thought. She wanted to believe that what they had was strong enough to survive her mistake, but that belief had wavered the longer she’d sat there.

  He lifted his head. Slowed. Her chest tightened, held.

  His guard went up with a visible tensing of muscles and flattening of his expression. Weariness lined his face, though. The weight of the day pressed on him in a way she’d never seen before. Not even after an
eighty-hour work week.

  He’d removed his tie at some point. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, his sleeves rolled up. His suit jacket was tossed carelessly over his shoulder. The rumpled state of his hair proclaimed the multiple hand swipes it’d endured since she’d last seen him over seven hours ago.

  She swallowed, her own expression immobile. Her heart wept, though. Tears rolled from it in silent mourning for what she’d done to him.

  He continued forward, his eyes never leaving hers as he approached. Nothing changed on his expression, though. Not a flicker of his thoughts came through to give her a hint of what was next. She had no idea what showed on her own face. Doubts raced, questions flew, and her fear rose once again to choke her with all she could lose.

  He came to a stop beside her. Fatigue flowed off him as he stared down at her. She could only look up from her seated position and wait. Did he see how sorry she was? Did he want to hear her explanation? Her apology?

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, desperation and remorse thrown into each soft word. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” But she had. The visual proof of how much tore at each little piece of her heart. “It was about me. Not you.”

  The air vibrated with the awareness that never left with him. It hummed over her skin and screamed the discord. It sat on her conscience along with the guilt that’d berated her since the moment she’d dismissed him.

  His sigh came from somewhere deep when it fell out. The echoing silence of the hallway magnified each hard thump of her pulse as she scrambled to interpret it.

  Then his expression softened. His eyes closed. His head fell forward just a tad. Hope leaped in her chest before he turned away. That same hope crashed in a burning heap when he pulled his keys out of his pocket and unlocked his door.

  Her mouth moved, words formed, but refused to come out. Panic clashed with her growing resignation to leave her frozen. She tried to swallow, but there was nothing there. She tried to catch a breath only to come up empty.

  He looked back to her, extending his hand in silent expectation. Could he... Was this... That same wonderful awareness sped down her arm to embrace her heart the second she grasped his hand.