And for the millionth time that night, the moment she put it on her ear, it went straight to voicemail.
“This is Rocco Wolfe, leave a message.”
“Rocco,” her voice squeaked. “Please, please, please pick up the phone. I need…” She slammed her eyes closed. “I need help. I don’t know what to do. I’m sorry about all of the horrible things I said last night. I didn’t mean them. Please… please…”
She squeezed her closed eyes tighter when nothing but silence met her on the other end, slamming the phone closed with her teeth bared.
Her eyes shot back to the clock.
7:30 p.m.
Her eyes expanded to twice their size, and she had to swallow the bile in her throat as she started the car and guided it out of the driveway, following the path that the GPS on the dashboard told her was the fastest route to The Four Seasons in Jersey City.
——
“This is Rocco Wolfe, leave a message.”
Stella clicked the phone closed and drew in a breath as her eyes dashed all over the opulent lobby of The Four Seasons. Though she’d spent the last half hour fixing her makeup in the car to make herself look presentable, she felt like everyone in there could still tell that she’d spent the last 24-hours crying her eyes out. That the massive crystal chandelier hanging overhead and greeting the front doors of the lobby was highlighting not just her swollen eyes, but the incredible downfall her life had taken in just a few short days. She worried that everyone could immediately sense that she didn’t belong there. That she was just a wayward woman of the night, passing through in a fake blonde wig. Unkempt. Unprotected. Unloved.
She approached the concierge desk with her eyes lowered, gripping the strap of her purse.
“Welcome to the Four Seasons, how may I help you today?”
“I forgot my key.” She looked up at the beautiful blonde woman smiling from the other side of the counter. “I mean—I lost it. I’m meeting someone. He gave me the key, and I lost it.”
“Is he a guest here?”
“Yes?”
“First and last name?”
She hesitated, wondering how he would feel if she said his name out loud. Did he want people to know he had guests? Would he be upset for being put on front street? Almost as soon as that worry hit her, however, it occurred to her that all of the people at this hotel worked for him, not the other way around. He could pay each and every one of their salaries for the rest of their natural born lives and still have money to spare. Considering the kind of wealthy men that could afford the rates in a hotel like that, she highly doubted she was the first mystery woman who’d come traipsing across the lobby in a trench coat. Hell, she was probably the tenth that hour.
“Mr. Devereux,” she finally answered.
The blonde nodded instantly with what looked like a knowing smile as she picked up her phone. “Just one moment.” She dialed a number and put the phone to her ear. “Whom shall I say is calling?”
“Stell—” She stopped herself. “Roxanne.”
“Yes, Mr. Devereux. This is the front desk calling. I do apologize, but there appears to be a Roxanne at the front desk who’s lost her…?” She paused and appeared to be listening to him on the other line, laughing softly at whatever he’d said. “Yes. Good. Right away, sir. Thank you.”
The receptionist hung up and, at what felt like the speed of light, had printed out a new keycard and handed it to Stella over the counter.
“Mr. Devereux says you can let yourself in. The last elevator to the right is our turbo haul. Simply swipe your keycard, and it’ll take you straight to the top, Roxanne.”
The last thing Stella wanted was to get to the top floor at turbo speed, but regardless, she thanked the receptionist before moving across the lobby once more, feeling like lead weights were tied to her ankles, making every step she took feel a little heavier than the last. When the last elevator came into her view, however, she froze, turned on her heel and made her way back into the lobby, plopping down on one of the many eggplant colored waiting room couches that were sprinkled all over when she began to feel too dizzy to move.
Swallowing thickly, she took her phone back out of her pocket and dialed Rocco’s number again.
“This is Rocco Wolfe, leave a message.”
She slammed it closed while pressing her eyes shut, wondering how she could possibly still be breathing the way her heart went up in flames every time she was forced to listen to that message. She bent over at the waist when she felt seconds from emptying her stomach and buried her face in her hands.
She hadn’t realized how long she’d been sitting there, reminding herself to take deep breaths, trying to calm the tornado raging in her body, until she looked up at saw that nearly twenty minutes had passed. Twenty minutes since Mr. Devereux had told her to let herself in.
He probably thought she’d dropped dead.
Her eyebrows shot up at the idea. Faking her own death. Tupac and Elvis may have done it, and they’d both been megastars. How hard could it be for a nobody like her?
The most logical side of her allowed that dream to be dashed as soon it had flourished, however, and she stood back up on shaky knees to make her way back to the elevators, making sure to give a wave to the blonde concierge who was watching her with a hint of worry. Probably concerned that she’d be blamed for doing something to scare off the whore of the hotel’s wealthiest guest. Stella was sure that, if she decided to make a run for it, that blonde girl would chase her down and tackle her with a ferocity that rivaled the officers on Cops.
What Mr. Devereux wanted, Mr. Devereux received, and no one understood that better than Stella did when she pressed the button for the turbo elevator at the end of the hall and stepped in the moment it dinged and slid open.
As the elevator climbed to the presidential suite at a speed that felt anything but turbo, she was trapped with the vision of herself in the elevator’s mirrored walls. Her ashen skin’s pastiness barely concealed by the rush job she’d done with her blush and foundation. Her red lips, downturned as they fought against tears begging to fill her eyes. And her eyes—god, those eyes—deader than she’d ever seen them. Looking weighed down by the long false lashes when she knew, deep down, what was really weighing them down was her heart.
Her swollen, aching heart, hurting so badly it was a wonder it still knew how to beat.
Sniffling, she dialed his number and pressed the phone to her ear one more time, just as the elevator reached the presidential wing, dinged, and slid open.
“This is Rocco Wolfe, leave a message.”
Her mouth fell open, however, when she found herself looking upon the face to match the voice awaiting her on the other side of the elevator doors; sure her eyes were playing tricks on her. Sure that, hearing the same message, over and over, had rendered her completely insane. She was completely imagining that he was standing there in a black t-shirt and cargo pants, watching her with green eyes soaked with the same pain she felt ripping her chest to pieces. Surely his full, pink, downturned lips were simply a mirage from where he was leaning on the wall opposite the elevator, slumped over with his hands deep in his pockets as if his own stomach was just as sick as hers.
Surely Rocco Wolfe wasn’t standing on the other side of those elevator doors, looking two seconds from crossing the space between them and taking her around the neck.
Stella couldn’t move. Her feet felt glued to the floor.
“Presidential Wing…” The elevator announced, apparently so state-of-the-art it had been programmed not to close until Stella had stepped off.
“Rocco,” she breathed, every bone in her body shaking wildly.
He squinted at her, his own eyes just as red and swollen as hers, except he didn’t have the luxury of slapping on ten pounds of make-up in an attempt to cover his. The way his eyes ran her body made her bite her bottom lip so hard she nearly gnawed it off, swearing that he could see the bra and panties she wore underneath that trench coat like x-ray lasers we
re shooting from his pupils.
“What are you doing?” he begged, his eyes finding hers once more.
“Guess you were right all along,” she whispered, not answering his question, knowing he already knew the answer. “Guess I really am a different breed.”
When his chin began to quake, he clenched his fists. “If you’re a different breed then so am I. My skin. My bones. My heart only beats for you. It only understands you. You’re an extension of me. So if you’re a different breed then I am too. Don’t do this.” He frowned deeply, shaking his head.
“How did you know I’d be here?”
He lifted the white rectangular keycard holder into the air. The same one Mr. Devereux had handed her earlier that day. The same one she’d accidentally left on the dining table at the house.
“I tried to call you.” She fought tears. “I called you over and over.”
“Stella, I was at work. What are you doing,” he begged, his voice going frantic as he shook the keycard, “with the key to a $12,000 a night suite?”
“I thought…I thought I’d lost you.”
His jaw clenched, and he pressed his eyes closed.
“I thought I lost you and it was the only way… the only way to get him to leave you alone. You already gave up everything for me once. I couldn’t let it happen again.”
“Stella, what the hell are you talking about?”
She pointed down the hall to the door of the presidential suite, room 1901, where Mr. Devereux awaited her on the other side. “Mr. Devereux, he saw you. That night of the raid. He was the john that was in the room with me. The one you let go.”
He cursed under his breath, heated eyes shooting toward the door.
“I ran into him on my first day at the new spa, and he said he only wanted to see me. He started offering me money to meet him at his hotel. When I said no, he threatened to go to your lieutenant and tell him everything about how you let me go that night. You would’ve lost your job. You would’ve lost your second shot at the FBI—your third shot.” She corrected herself. “You might’ve even gone to jail. I wanted to tell you, so many times, but I didn’t know how. I thought I could fix it on my own. I was afraid of what you might do. And then it was… it was too late. I’m so sorry, Rocco, I couldn’t tell you because I knew you’d lose your head—Rocco no.” Just as she’d predicted, Rocco charged for the door before she could even finish, his face taut and determined, fists clenched. She followed, clawing for his arm but unable to get a grip when he snatched away every time, ripping the plastic key out of the keycard and tossing the paper casing behind him as he moved for the door. “Please, no. He has your boss in his back pocket. Retaliating against him won’t hurt anyone but yourself!” She finally managed to get a strong hold of his arm, digging her heels into the floor. While he still managed to overpower her and keep moving forward, she’d definitely slowed him down just feet from the door, even if only a little.
“Let me go.”
“No.”
“Right now.”
“No, I won’t let you throw your life away for me again.”
“And the alternative?” His heated eyes flew back to her. “Watch you walk in there and let him fuck you? I’d rather be in prison. I’d rather be dead.”
She gasped when he snatched his arm back that time, closing the space to the door in the speed of light, swiping the keycard and throwing the door open the second it clicked green.
Stella didn’t even have time to appreciate the beauty and perfection of a massive hotel suite that she’d probably never be able to afford on her own for the rest of her natural born life, because everything had become a blur. Nothing else in her world existed as she chased after Rocco, except Rocco. All she could see was the broad muscles of his back pulsing against his t-shirt as he charged through the living room, past the state-of-the-art kitchen and barreled into the master bedroom of the suite with his fists clenched. All she could fathom was that he was about to lose everything—again.
For her.
The guilt nearly ate her alive, causing her to claw at his back from where she was struggling to keep up with him from behind, taking huge chunks of his shirt in her hand.
It wasn’t until Rocco came to a sudden stop—causing her to slam into his back—that she was hurled back into the present.
The world around her crystalized once more.
But as she circled around him and met the sight that had stopped him dead in his tracks, a scream flew from her lips that felt like it had set her throat on fire.
Lying on his back atop the stark white luxury cotton sheets was Mr. Devereux, naked, eyes wide open and staring vacantly at the ceiling. The bullet hole at his temple was gushing enough blood to soak through half of the white duvet below him, staining it red. Even the duvet itself had become too drenched to support the sheer amount of blood surging from his head, causing a steady stream to trickle down over the edge of the bed, drip down to the hem of the duvet and finally come to a splashing stop at its final resting place in a huge puddle on the white carpeted floors. His legs and arms were spread out on either side of his body like a kid making a snow angel at Christmas, with a revolver hanging from his limp fingers where his hand hung over the bed.
Rocco placed a hand on Stella’s stomach and pushed. “Get out of the room. Don’t touch anything.”
She didn’t release the death grip she’d taken on his t-shirt, tugging.
“Goddamn it, Stella, I said get out.”
“No. I’m not going anywhere without you. Are you crazy?”
Rocco fished his cellphone out of his pocket, dialed a number, and put the phone to his ear, his free hand still on Stella’s stomach.
“Justin,” Rocco paused, jaw clenching. “Yo, fuck whatever DJ said man, we’ve got a situation—”
The sound of Justin screaming at Rocco on the other end of the line was clear as day to Stella, and she had no doubt that, even though DJ hadn’t told Corrine about what she’d seen in the study, she’d certainly told Justin.
“Stella’s in trouble,” Rocco barked, speaking over Justin’s screams.
And with those three words, just like that, the screaming on the other end of the line stopped.
Stella didn’t know what Justin was saying in response to that, but she knew whatever it was a hell of a lot more congenial than what he’d been saying a moment before.
And even more than that, somehow, she knew everything was going to be okay.
——
“Is it terrible that I’m glad?” Stella asked, hours later, blonde wig abandoned and black strands running down her back. “I’m glad he killed himself?”
“He tried to extort you for sex and destroy my career in the process, so no, we’re not terrible for being glad he killed himself,” Rocco said, his eyes running her face tenderly from where he sat across from her at the rickety table of the ice cream shop. Both of their sundaes had gone ignored since the moment they’d ordered them, too busy looking out of the shop’s wall-to-wall windows to the Four Seasons Hotel across the street, where dozens of police squad cars were scattered on the street out front like insects, blocking the road on both sides. Since the hotel was now an active crime scene, yellow tape was wrapped around the entire block as well, filling up with more nosey passersby every moment, curious as to what was going on.
“It’s so weird. He was literally on the phone with the concierge when I first arrived. I sat down for twenty minutes before I went up but… God, did he think I wasn’t coming and end it all? What if I’d gone up earlier and caught myself in the middle of whatever manic episode he must’ve been going through? Thank God I waited. It’s such a relief.” She buried her face in her hands. “It’s over. The fucking nightmare that guy has been putting me through is finally over. I could seriously start bawling right now.” When she looked up from her hands and saw that Rocco had given her all of his attention, leaning both his big arms on the table as if he was about two seconds from climbing over it just to get closer to h
er, her shoulders sank. “Rocco, I’m sorry—”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you felt like you had to go through this alone. I’m sorry that, the way I acted… the way I’ve been acting since the first day I met you, led you to believe that I could ever see you such an obligation. That you truly believed, in your heart of hearts, that I would ever care about my job more than I care about you.”
“Rocco…”
“No, let me finish. Let me be perfectly clear about something, Stella. There’s no amount of money, no amount of prestige, and no job title in the world that I will ever cherish more than what I had with you and Blue. There is no one or nothing in this world that I wouldn’t throw away like trash if it meant saving the two of you from even the minutest amount of trouble. You’re never a burden to me, baby, you’re never an obligation. Losing the FBI or anything else will never cause me the kind of pain that losing you and Blue caused me last night. Ever. And if you ever find yourself thinking that something like that can be true again, please refer back to this conversation and re-play these words over and over.” He spoke slowly. “I. Love. You.”
She leaned forward and covered his hands with hers. “I love you, too, Rocco. I’m so, so sorry for what I said last night.”
“I’m sorry for the things I said to Troy. For telling him to go back over there—”
“No, it was wrong of me to blame you for that. It was wrong of DJ. Especially when we all know that he would’ve eventually gone back over there anyway, one way or another because it was what he loved. It was in his blood. His bones. He lived and breathed the fighting, the death, the chaos. He didn’t need you to tell him to go back because… that was his real home. It had been for years. The troops over there, his fellow journalists… at some point during our marriage, they became his real family. And that’s the truth. I was in denial about it for a long time, but he was gone from me long before he died. He was.” She nodded. “And it wasn’t fair for me to blame you for giving him a nudge as though you killed him yourself. That was really awful of me, especially since you could’ve so easily made the same argument against me, or DJ, or Justin, or anybody. We can all look back on our relationships with Troy and think up some conversation, some disagreement, some argument—something—that could’ve pushed him away from us and toward the Middle East, but that doesn’t mean we should. That doesn’t mean we should stop protecting each other’s hearts the way we always have since we were kids. We didn’t kill him. None of us did. He died doing what he loved, and that’s it. No one’s to blame. No one’s at fault. And I’m so, so sorry. I don’t wanna be broken up…”
Forbidden (War Book 1) Page 31
