by Dori Lavelle
Table of Contents
Epilogue
Lance
Alice
About the Author
Also by Dori Lavelle
LaClaire Kiss
After Hours Book 3
Dori Lavelle
Contents
1. Lance
2. Alice
3. Alice
4. Lance
5. Lance
6. Alice
7. Alice
8. Lance
9. Lance
10. Alice
11. Lance
12. Lance
13. Lance
14. Lance
15. Lance
16. Alice
17. Alice
18. Lance
19. Alice
20. Lance
21. Lance
22. Lance
23. Alice
24. Alice
25. Lance
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Dori Lavelle
Copyright © 2017 by Dori Lavelle
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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1
Lance
For someone who has nothing better to do than being stuck in a wheelchair all day, staring out the window, I wake up way too early. My inner clock doesn’t seem to have received the memo that my life is on pause.
The clock on the whitewashed walls tells me it’s 5 a.m. A day full of emptiness awaits me. Another day I wish for death—if only it would welcome me. But no. The pills I swallowed three weeks ago let me down. My body let me down.
I count to five, then shove back the duvet cover and lift my legs, one after the other, over the edge. My wheelchair is within reach, and I pull it even closer. I press a button to lift the armrest nearest to me. Using the strength of my arms, I heave myself onto the chair, sliding onto the padded seat.
As I do each morning, I wheel myself around the bed, palms smoothing the mocha Italian linen. During the first days inside the walls of the Crystal Lake Residential Rehab Facility, the staff offered to make my bed. I refused. There are only a few things in my life over which I still have control. One of them is the ability to make my own damn bed, even inside a luxury clinic.
The Cabo San Lucas beachfront property has treated some of the world’s wealthiest people. With floor-to-ceiling windows, thick carpets, heavy drapes, chandeliers, and warm, muted earthy colors, it resembles a luxury hotel more than anything. I happen to be one of the lucky few who is able to afford the hefty price tag. But I only agreed to come here so my brothers would leave me the fuck alone.
My easel stands on one side of one of the windows. I don’t pay it any attention. Doc keeps it there with a box of painting supplies next to it. He thinks it will arouse a desire inside me to paint again. I haven’t painted for months. Sometimes I rummage through the box of supplies, pull out the acrylic paints, paintbrushes, pencils, and drawing paper. I always drop them back inside again.
Losing the fight of self-control, I glare at the easel. Watching it makes me feel like someone punched me in the gut. It reminds me of the life I lost. Sure, I can still paint. Since the accident, I’d painted what people around the world call masterpieces, paintings that hang in art galleries across the globe, but none of them are my best work. Beautiful images come from a place of beauty within my soul. But the lights within me were switched off twelve years ago. How can I see beauty in the darkness?
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to switch the lights back on. All I see is a blanket of night as external sounds distract me—sounds of seagulls squawking as they fly above the ocean, a distant boat riding the waves, the murmur of voices out in the hallways. I open my eyes again, returning to reality.
The door opens and Cabana Boy, my personal butler and caregiver, walks in. Each resident has a butler. And since most of the residents here are English native speakers, the butlers are fluent in the language.
His legal name is Alejandro Rivas, but his white shorts and matching tight T-shirt, the leather sandals, sleeked back hair and trimmed beard remind me of a cabana boy at a Mexican resort.
“Good morning, Mr. LaClaire.” This morning, Cabana Boy is holding a silver breakfast tray, balanced on one well-defined arm.
“Good morning, Alejandro. I hope you had a great night.”
“I did. Thank you.” His gaze slides from mine and rests on the food. “I know you requested to be served breakfast in your room, but I saw Dr. Drew in the dining room. He asked you to join him for breakfast at the pool.”
“Tell Dr. Drew that Mr. LaClaire asks to be left alone.”
I spend most days in my room, leaving only when I have to meet Doc or other health-care professionals for medical checkups or therapy or to visit the gym for exercise. Group therapy is the worst. Being around other people makes me uncomfortable.
Breakfast at the pool would be torture. Most residents in this place are female. Lots of tanned legs and fake boobs jutting out all around the pool area would remind me of a part of my body that no longer functions the way it used to, something I prefer to ignore. I’m depressed enough as it is.
“Very well, Sir.” He places the tray on a table attached to the wall. He comes to pat my shoulder, white teeth flashing. “If you need anything else, let me know.”
Instead of smiling back, a sudden urge to punch the guy in the face spurts through me. He smiles all the damn time. Someone should remind him that life is a pile of shit.
He returns to the table, arranging plates and folding napkins. I watch as he fills a glass with water, counts my meds and brings them to me. The nurses make sure never to leave me with medication inside the room. After what I pulled before coming here, I don’t blame them.
I swallow down the medication and hand him back the glass.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling bad for the urge I’d had to punch him. He’s not responsible for my lousy moods. If he’s paid to smile, let him smile. “I’d like to be alone now, if that’s okay.”
“Of course, Sir.” He clasps his hands behind his back, the smile still on his face. “Call if you need me.” He steps to the door, then turns. “Your brother, Mr. Bryant LaClaire, called last night. He asked again when he can come and see you. He said he has something important to tell you.”
“I’m not ready for visitors.” It’s my automatic reply to that daily question. My brothers call the staff because I refuse to pick up their calls when they ring my cell. I need a break from them, especially from my twin brother, Bryant, who still reminds me of how I ended up in this damn chair in the first place. A couple of months ago, I told him I’d forgiven him for throwing me over the balcony during a heated fight. But there’s a difference between forgiving and forgetting.
“I understand. Would you like me to bring you anything else? Some new books and DVDs just arrived. Or I could book you a massage.”
“A bottle of whiskey would be appreciated.” I don’t crack a smile as I watch Cabana Boy’s smile melt off his face. “No one needs to know.”
“Sir, you know I...” His words die on his lips.
“Don’t look so horrified,” I say. “I’m messing with you. The best thing you can do for me today is leave me alone for a couple of hours. No checking in every half an hour. If I need you, I’ll call. Do not let my brothers visit. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly.” He gives a nod and leaves me alone with my demons.
I don’t touch the British
breakfast. Instead, I brush my teeth, take a quick shower, then position myself at the window, watching the sea gulls exercising their freedom, the waves rolling in from and retreating to the ocean.
Before the accident, dancing with water—same as painting—used to be my passion. I enjoyed swimming, surfing, sailing, and anything that allowed me to come into contact with the liquid.
Ignoring the pain of loss inside my gut, I lean my head back and pretend to be in another place and time, inside a different body.
I don’t know how long I sit and dream, but a knock on the door startles me.
I grit my teeth. Why the fuck won’t anyone leave me alone?
2
Alice
The moment we pull in front of the Crystal Lake Clinic, a ball of dread hits the pit of my stomach. The urge to tell Juan, the driver, to turn back pushes through me like a hurricane, but I harness it. I’ve come too far. As I climb out of the Mercedes—complete with a driver—Bryant LaClaire has kindly offered to chauffeur me around during my stay in Cabo, bitter bile burns the back of my throat. I shove it back down.
My sweaty hand opens the door, and I swing my legs out of the car. “I won’t be long,” I say to Juan, the Mexican driver who speaks English with barely an accent.
“Take your time.” He reclines his seat and leans his head back. “I have all the time in the world.”
I give him a small smile and slam the door shut. Outside the car, my feet are glued to the ground by fear. I force them to move, but they remain in place.
Pulling in a deep, shaky breath, I try again and succeed this time. I have to do this. I put one foot in front of the other, headed for the sparkling white wrought-iron gates.
A guard in uniform, sitting inside a small glass cabin, waves me over.
With a shaky smile pasted on my face, I head in his direction. He slides a square glass window to one side and leans forward, shoving a matchstick into one side of his lips and glares at me. No smile in sight.
“Good morning.” I swallow hard. “Do you speak English or French?”
He folds his arms on the pristine white counter. “This part of town is frequented by people from all over the world. English is common.” He squares his shoulders. “Me, I speak English, Spanish, French, Italian. Have your pick.” A layer of sarcasm edges his voice.
My cheeks heat up as I glance back at the car that brought me here.
Juan looks to be having a nap—eyes closed, arms folded in front of his chest. I wish he could help me out, but that’s not his job. I have a feeling this guard is about to give me a hard time. Hating myself for feeling insecure, I study his face for a moment, stringing words together inside my mind before releasing them.
The guard’s face is decorated by lines, marking it like a map. His face is a mask of intimidation. If their job here is to keep people out, this man is the perfect guy for the job. But I can’t let him get to me, even if he’s making an already uncomfortable situation that much more complicated.
“I’m here to see Mr. Lance LaClaire, please,” I continue in English. My father is French and my mother is British, and I’ve spent most of my twenty-nine years in Paris, but I’ve always preferred English to French.
The man clears his throat, removes the stick from the corner of his mouth. “Name, please.” His baritone voice sends chills of apprehension down my spine.
“Alice Dupuis.” I chew the corner of my lip then stop the annoying habit. My insecurities must stay hidden. I lift my chin to appear confident, but deep down, I kind of wish he would refuse me entry into the facility. There’s nothing I want more than to disappear from Lance LaClaire’s life.
The guard pulls out a leather-bound folder and flips it open. Removing the matchstick from his lips, his beady eyes scan the pages one after the other. Then he looks up with a satisfied smile this time. “You’re not listed. Are you a family member?”
I wipe the palms of my hands on my jeans. “I’m ... a family friend. Mr. Bryant LaClaire, his brother, knows I’m here.”
“Mr. Bryant LaClaire isn’t with you, is he?” He slams the book shut. “I can’t help you.” He pushes the matchstick back into his mouth. “Unregistered visitors are not permitted entry.”
A frustrated laugh escapes my lips. “So, you’re just going to send me away?”
“I’m sorry, there’s nothing else I can do.” He chews on his stick.
I gaze through the gates at the sprawling lush gardens surrounding the property. People are sitting on benches surrounding a huge water fountain. “Is there anyone I can talk to—a supervisor, perhaps?” It’s a struggle to keep my voice controlled, but I try. “I really need to talk to Mr. LaClaire. It’s important.”
“If it’s that important, why isn’t your name on the list?” He leans back in his chair, bushy eyebrows drawn. “This is my territory. At these gates, I’m the supervisor.”
My jaw clenches. Why the hell is he making this so difficult? Does he treat everyone who’s not on the list the same way? I’m aware this is a well-known facility, frequented by celebrities and other public figures wanting to kick all kinds of habits, but come on. Do I look like a threat?
He glances at my large, printed tote bag. The realization hits me like a brick of stones. I chuckle. “You don’t think I have a camera inside my bag, do you? Do you think I’m a journalist?”
“Are you?” I shake my head. “I promise you that I’m not. Like I said before, I’m a family friend of the LaClaires. I can prove it with a phone call to Bryant LaClaire, if you like.”
“I like.” His eyes tell me he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.
“Fine.” I reach into my bag and pull out my cell phone. My eyes on his lined face, I dial Bryant’s phone number. But before he picks up, a second guard approaches the cabin and exchanges a few words in Spanish with Mr. Lined Face, whose eyebrows shoot to his forehead and his whole expression changes, an unexpected smile smoothing some of the lines. A genuine smile this time. He gestures for me to end the call, which I’m glad to do since it went to mailbox anyway.
The second guard gives me a kind nod and leaves the cabin.
“My apologies, Miss Dupuis. My colleague made me aware that you are in fact who you say you are. Dr. Darius Drew, Mr. LaClaire’s doctor, received a call from Mr. Bryant LaClaire himself.” He pulls out the stick. “Your visit is confirmed. I apologize for the delay. I do hope you understand that we must be vigilant at all times as this place is constantly bombarded by people with wrong intentions. We have some important people here.”
A tight smile stretches my lips. “That’s fine. Just let me in, please.”
He presses a button under his counter that causes the gate to yawn open.
“Dr. Drew is sending someone to come and meet you.” He glances behind him, and his face brightens. “There he is already. I wish you a pleasant visit at Crystal Lake, Miss Dupuis.”
“Sure, thanks.” A pleasant stay, indeed. From the cold knot inside my stomach, I could be walking into a slaughter house.
Now that I have access to the place, my mind screams for me to turn back, to tell Mr. Lined Face to let me out again. But I keep walking toward the man dressed in white shorts and a T-shirt that shows off his defined chest. In contrast to the man I had just met, this one is all smiles.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Dupuis.” He extends his hand to me. “I’m Alejandro. Dr. Drew is expecting you. I’ll take you to his office.”
“Thank you.” I shake his hand and follow him down a cobbled stone path. As soon as we reach the towering, off-white building, we turn a corner into another path, one framed with white roses on both sides. From this angle, I have a perfect view of the private beach belonging to the property that meets the glinting blue-green ocean.
We soon arrive at a set of sliding doors leading into an air-conditioned, marbled lobby. The chandeliers, mirrors, vintage art adorning the wall, and leather couches make this place look like a luxury resort, if it weren’t for an occasional do
ctor walking by in scrubs. Which is no surprise as the residents here can afford the comfort. They can have a holiday and be treated at the same time.
After the stroll through the lobby, a ride in a glass elevator, and a few minutes’ walk down several connected hallways, we arrive at an oak door with a brass plate with the name Dr. Darius Drew embossed into the metal. The word psychologist is written below the name.
My escort excuses himself, and I knock on the door. A middle-aged man with thick, black hair with sprinkles of silver at the temples opens the door. Though his smile is tight, it’s not unfriendly. The welcome is a far cry from what I experienced outside the gates.
“Miss Dupuis, nice to meet you. Please, come in.” I shake his hand and follow him into a spacious office with floor-to-ceiling windows on most walls, flooded by white morning sunlight. The air in the room is so clean as though it had been filtered of all smells. A major contrast to the air filling the lobby. The escort and I had walked through the sweet smells of fresh flowers released by the many huge vases in various corners. The scent of hand sanitizer had occasionally tainted the air.
“I hear you want to see Mr. LaClaire. Bryant said you’re a family friend?”
I nod, although I’m unsure if that’s true. “I am.” Fear wraps itself around my throat and squeezes. “I’m … I’m Audrey Dupuis’s sister. She’s—”
“I know who she is.” He observes me for a long time, then speaks. “May I offer you something to drink?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” I have no interest in staying in this place longer than I need to. “I’m here to deliver something to Mr. LaClaire.”
Dr. Drew pours himself a glass of water from a glass pitcher on his desk. He empties the glass, eyes still on me. “Miss Dupuis, you are aware that Mr. LaClaire is not well.” He comes to sit on the couch opposite to the one I’m on.
