Just One Night

by Carolyn Faulkner

  He actually hit himself on the forehead with his palm, hard, in rhythm with his thought. Why couldn't he have done that from the start?

  He knew why, though. It was such a novelty to just be himself that he coveted that relative anonymity that she afforded him. He loved just being even a semi-normal person again and being liked for himself, and none of the perks that came with who he was.

  Well, at least he knew why she'd left, but he still couldn't fathom why her phone was still here. Perhaps to punish him, so that he couldn't get in touch with her? He'd looked in the closet and all around the house—she'd taken nothing. All of her stuff was here, because he'd—essentially—demanded that she move in with him, but she hadn't taken one bit of it. The only things he could say for sure were gone, were her purse, her keys, and her car. And that he'd fucked this situation up royally. The most important relationship in his lifetime, and he'd utterly screwed the pooch.

  Well, he couldn't stand to be there for another moment without her, so he headed out in his Lincoln, and he didn't know any more than she had where he was going. Just out—away from the sword that had finally fallen and sent her running from him. He brought his own phone, but hers, too, although he wasn't quite sure why.

  He didn't return to the house that next day, nor the following day. Instead, he went into his office, but told his assistant, Kai, that he was only to be interrupted on pain of death, and with that look on his face, his assistant knew better than to test that statement. He also told him to clear his calendar for the foreseeable future, but he didn't give him a reason why.

  "But, Rad, what about the—"

  Rad stopped and turned, glaring at the poor younger man such that he was left shaking in his boots.

  "Consider it cleared," he squeaked in an artificially high voice as he watched the man disappear into his office. That was highly unusual for Rad. He had a great reputation as a demanding yet fair boss, and he was unfailingly polite to everyone around him, no matter what their status in his ginormous company.

  Rad had held off doing this once before with her, and things had worked out all right, but he didn't have Linda to fall back on. So he called up a friend he'd known forever and told him to find out whatever he could—however he needed to—about where she might be.

  At this point, he had no illusions that she would ever take him back. He just wanted to know that she was okay. And, a not so little voice at the back of his head whispered roughly, he wanted to know where she was, so he could go and make a heartfelt apology to her, then somehow use his status as her Dom to convince her to forgive him. But he'd settle for knowing that she was okay. Although he really, really, really didn't want to, and he wasn't at all sure he could convince himself to.

  It took his friend until about ten o'clock that night to get back to him.

  Rad caught the call in the middle of the first ring. "Where is she?"

  Adams, who had been his friend for longer than he wanted to consider, sighed heavily. "I'm sorry, man. There's no sign of her at all. No credit card use, no toll roads taken, nothing that I could find. She's well and truly disappeared."

  "No. There's got to be something. Anything."

  "Have you filed a missing person report?"

  "Not yet."

  "Might as well. Get the authorities on it."

  Rad ran his hand over his face. "I don't think she wants to be found."

  "Ah, man, that's harsh. What happened? You were always so smooth with the ladies," he teased.

  "Not with this one, I'm afraid. I love her, but I fucked up bad. Really bad. So bad that I really just want to know that she's okay, because I know I can't expect anything else from her anymore."

  "Wow. I'm sorry, man."

  "Thanks."

  "Let me know if there's anything else I can do for you. You know I'll do anything I can to help."

  "Thanks so much, man."

  "Keep in touch, Rad."

  "I will. Thanks for your help."

  He ended the call and just sat there. He'd paced himself into the ground at the beginning of this, but no more. He'd put his life on hold. There were things he needed to do, business situations that needed addressing and couldn't be shouldered by anyone but him. But he couldn't bear to think about any of that until he knew she was all right.

  He hadn't slept in days, he hadn't eaten in days, but he was up all night trying to think of where he could look for her, but nothing came to mind. Until, just about sunrise, it finally dawned on him.

  About forty-five minutes later, he was sitting in the driveway of the house he'd almost forcibly moved her out of. He didn't think that she regretted the move—at least, not until a couple of days ago. And she'd given him a key to it long ago.

  There were no lights on, and there were no windows on the garage door, unfortunately, so he bounded out of the car and headed to the front door. He wasn't sure whether he should knock or not, but he did, more out of a force of habit than anything else.

  There were no sounds of anyone padding toward the door. He knocked a few times, listening acutely after each one, but he heard nothing.

  His key fit the lock. If she was there—and he prayed to high Heaven that his hunch was right—she had either not bothered to get the locks changed or she had forgotten that she'd given him a key.

  "Andrea?" He didn't yell—she could have been sleeping. He thought he remembered some kind of discussion about leaving the two beds she had here, because the ones he had were so much better quality—and newer—that it didn't make sense to swap them out.

  Nothing. It was quiet as a tomb, and he hated thinking that, quashing it immediately.

  She wasn't in the living room—that was where the front door opened into. A quick, cursory glance into the kitchen, out onto the deck, and the dining room were all empty also. He headed down the hall. The bathroom door was wide open, as was the door to her room, which was also empty.

  He ended up in the small back bedroom, and she didn't appear to be there, either, until a piece of color caught his eye in the closet. It was one of those two sliding door types, where they both had to be to one side to get to the open side. Rad reached out and slid the door open, and there she was, sitting on the floor in the Bulls t-shirt he'd put her in that first night. She must've stolen it, back even before she liked him. He'd wondered where that had gotten to.

  "Go 'way."

  "Are you okay?" he asked, sinking down to sit on the floor facing her, but outside of the closet. There was no way that there was room enough for the both of them in there.

  "No, but that's no concern of yours any longer." She brought her nearly swollen shut eyes to his. "We are broken up, Mr.—or should I say 'Sir'—Windsor."

  "It would technically be 'Sir Rad'—"

  "Shut. Up. And. Go. Away." Her voice was utterly devoid of expression.

  "You look like hell, honey."

  "Not 'honey'. You don't get to call me that anymore."

  Rad sagged against the door. There was no sense in denying it. "You know."

  "That you've been lying to me—lies of omission still being lies—since we met? Yes. I know."

  He sighed. "Look, I know that I don't have any defense here. I should have told you from the beginning. I am guilty as sin. I could tell that you didn't have any idea who I was, and frankly, I liked that. It was nice to know someone wanted to be around me because they liked me, for a change."

  She wasn't looking at him. She was just sitting there, consciously not looking at him.

  "And you were always so forthright. You didn't even seem to like that I had any kind of money at all. You have no idea how refreshing that is.

  Andrea was thinking—with every ounce of sarcasm she owned, which was considerable—poor little rich boy. But she didn't say it. She couldn't bother to say it to him.

  Her stone-faced silence was freaking him out a little bit. He wished she would rage at him, yell at him, pound on him—he didn't care. He certainly knew that he deserved every bit of it. Even a negative
reaction was better than none at all. He'd been telling himself over these past few days that it was over, but now that he was confronted with her face—which screamed that he was right—he just couldn't accept it.

  "How long since you've had anything to eat or drink, Andrea? You've obviously been crying. I bet you're very dehydrated." She looked so bedraggled, so defeated, his chest was tight from the blatant evidence of her own pain, which he never could stand, especially when he was the cause.

  Nothing. She didn't move, she didn't look at him, and she apparently wasn't talking to him anymore, either.

  Still, he got up and went into the kitchen. There was an old coffee mug that had gotten missed in one of the cupboards, so he filled it with water. A quick scan of the rest of the cupboards yielded an ancient facsimile of a granola bar, one of the ones she was likely to break her tooth on. But something was better than nothing. He wished he had a paper towel to give her, but there were none to be had.

  When he returned, he put both of those things down next to her, but she made no move toward them at all.

  "I know I have no right to ask this of you—no right at all—but I'm going to do it anyway. If there is any possibility of you ever forgiving me, I would gladly spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Really. I would give you pretty much anything if you would just give me some indication that, eventually, even a thousand years down the line, you might see your way t-to…" He could see that there was no need to go on. There was literally nothing he could give her—he of all people knew that—that would get her to absolve him of his sin against her.

  It was a very rare thing for him to admit defeat, but he sank back against the closet doors, facing away from her, and just hoped that the ginormous lump in his throat would choke him out, but he couldn't be that lucky.

  They sat there in silence for a while, until he began to hear the unmistakable sounds of her weeping but trying to suppress it. He turned back to her, scooting closer, and putting his hand on her upper arm.

  She jerked away from him as if he'd seared her skin. "Do. Not. Touch. Me." It was all the more chilling for its complete lack of emotion, even though there were tears streaming down her face.

  Rad drew a deep breath and didn't try to touch her again, but he stayed right where he was. Listening to the uncomfortably real effects of the misery he had brought to her was the very least he could do. He wished she would let him soothe her, but he realized that would bring him comfort, not her.

  When, long, interminable moments later, her sobs died down and he could unlock his jaw from trying to keep himself from screaming with the unusual feelings of impotence he was experiencing, Rad took out his phone and dialed someone on speaker phone.

  "Rad, what can I help with?"

  "Kai, listen. I want you to go to the penthouse, down to the cellar and bring me the four bottles of Old Rip Van Winkle that're down there?"

  "But, Sir." They could both hear him gulp. "That's eighty thousand dollars' worth of bourbon!"

  "Yeah, I know. I also want you to stop at Jan Mee's and get egg rolls, boneless ribs, General Tso's and pork fried rice. I also need a ten pound bag of ice, and a coffee mug. Any coffee mug. Be sure to get chopsticks and plates with the food, too, please."

  His assistant repeated everything back to him. "Oh—and in the fridge in the kitchen—"

  Because he definitely has more than one, Andrea was thinking, even though she was trying not to listen.

  "Bring me the bag of edibles that's in the door, please. I think that's all." He gave the man the address where they were, to deliver it all to. "Just leave it all on the front stoop. If I think of anything else, then I'll text you."

  She wanted to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, but she didn't. She wasn't happy with herself at the impulse to do that, either, but then, he always had been able to get under her skin, damn him.

  About an hour later, he heard Kai drive up, and he left Andrea where she was. She had barely moved during that time, only to sob occasionally while he had to sit on his hands, completely impotent and unable to help her in any way.

  Well, perhaps some of his provisions would tempt her. And he was right about one of them. He'd taken the mug in which he'd put the water she hadn't touched and refilled it with a few ice cubes and obscenely expensive bourbon, while doing the same thing for himself. Once he put the mug down next to her, he asked, "Would you like me to make you a plate of food?"

  In answer, she grabbed the mug and drank it down.

  It was a horrific thing to see twenty-five year old bourbon abused that way, but he didn't give a fuck. If that was what she wanted, then that was what he was going to give her.

  So he refilled the mug, and hearing no request for food, he made himself a plate, returning to fill her mug again and sit down with his own stuff around him. He lifted his own mug, feeling as if it was a shame not to toast with something so wonderful, so he lifted it to her.

  "Thank you for everything you gave me. I was unbearably honored by every bit of trust you showed me, and I am horrified that I betrayed it and you. For what it's worth, I love you. I will always love you, and it was incredibly wonderful—even for so short a time—to at least have been well liked—"

  The booze was definitely hitting her, and hard. The rocks hadn't come anywhere near to diluting it and she had nothing in her system at all.

  So her tongue got away from her and she interrupted him with, "Loved."

  Rad's head shot up at that. "What?"

  But she was busy downing her third mug of the stuff and was in no mood to coddle him.

  "What did you say?" he demanded, sitting up on his knees as close to her as he could get without actually touching her.

  "I think, Misser Windsor, that you know 'zackly what I said." Andrea waved the empty mug at him, and he refilled it absentmindedly, then grabbed it away from her before she could down it, her mouth following it comically toward him, practically into him, but she saved herself just in time.

  "You said 'loved'."

  "Pass tens."

  "Yes, but you love me." In the midst of all of this, there was a smile hovering around his lips, and she didn't like that idea. If she couldn't smile ever again in this lifetime, then why could he?

  Andrea frowned at him fiercely. "Pass tens! Pass tens!"

  "I don't care if it's past tense. You loved me." He wasn't above groveling. "You really mean it? You loved me? Why didn't you tell me?"

  He wasn't sure whether he should laugh or cry. She'd loved him, at some point, but he hadn't known. He wanted to know everything about when she'd made the discovery, if only so that he could lock the information away and drag it out to torture himself with in the lonely years to come.

  The straight, potent alcohol she had taken on board was loosening Andrea's tongue, even against her will. If she had been able to stay sober, she would have been able to freeze him the fuck out like a champ. But the bastard played dirty.

  "Was gunna tell ya'. Win-Thur-Tuenight. When you were coming home. Special fooood, special man, special secret to whis- whis—whisper in your ear at jus' the right moment."

  So that had been what all of that food was for.

  He couldn't believe his stupid luck. She'd loved him.

  It was like a sore tooth with him—he couldn't stop asking her for the details of his own downfall, and she seemed much more amenable to talking than she had been before.

  "So you googled me?"

  She nodded exaggeratedly. "Giggled what the 'porters tole' me. 'Sir' Windsor, an' Virgin Group, an' you're gonna marry Nanet Jox." There was something wrong with that horrible woman's name, but she deserved it, so Andrea stopped worrying about it.

  "'Porters? What's that?"

  She glared at him. "Don' be stupid. 'Porters!" When he didn't seem to be catching on fast enough, she got louder. "'Porters! The ones wit' the micro-microfuns an' vidyah cameras?"

  "Reporters! Oh. They came to the house?"

  Andrea nodded quite solemnly. "They c
ame ta' the house an' 'stroyed my world," she confessed, starting to cry again—much more loudly and uglier than before.

  His food, the alcohol, and everything else but her forgotten, Rad reached for her automatically, and—out of pure muscle memory—Andrea went into his arms as if the past God awful days had never happened.

  Oh my God, she was in his arms again! The first thing he did was vow that he would never allow her out of them again, but then he realized that that was probably highly impractical. But still. He had more hope that he might be able to resurrect what they had than he'd had when he'd arrived here.

  She cried for so long that, at the end, there was nothing coming out—she was dry sobbing. He held her through every bit of it, rocking her sometimes, not trying to stop her at all, but just holding her and being there and frequently reminding her that he loved her, too.

  Eventually, she fell into a deep, alcohol fueled sleep. He held her there, on the floor, for as long as he could, but eventually, he stood up with her in his arms and put her on the bigger bed in her old room. There were no bedclothes, so he tasked Kai to get him a queen-sized comforter and a couple of pillows.

  If he had to camp out with her for a few days to convince her that he was horrendously sorry and that he deserved a second chance, he was more than willing to do so. In fact, she would have a hard time getting rid of him now that he knew that she had felt the same way about him as she had about her.

  She slept for ten hours. He knew because he'd almost gotten entirely through all of the episodes of The Morning Show on Apple TV.

  He stayed in her bedroom with her, but not on the bed. He didn't feel that he could be quite that presumptuous.

  When she awoke finally, thrashing around on the bed a bit before she pushed the comforter off her and sat up, looking at it as if it was some kind of alien concept.

  "Where did this come from?"

  "Me. There aren't any linens here, and I know you're often cold when you sleep."

  She wished he wouldn't be so fucking nice to her all the time, especially now.