The doors slide shut, and she smacks my hand where it lays across her abdomen. ‘You’re a bad boy, Reid Alexander.’
Chuckling, I whisper into her ear, though we’re alone now. ‘Baby, you just wait until I get you into that room. Unless you don’t want to wait …’
Breath catching, she shudders against the length of me, from my thighs to where the back of her head rests under my chin. I close my eyes and breathe through my nose, which only intensifies the cake-sweet smell of her invading my senses. Fucking hell. She has no idea how close she is to me slamming that emergency stop button and backing her into a corner.
Then again, maybe she has a very clear idea. Her fingertips stroke my hand, feather-light, where she slapped it seconds ago. When we reach her floor, she grabs hold of my hand and makes a sharp right, pulling me into the hallway. We may only have the next twelve hours, but I’m going to make good use of every single one of them.
DORI
Seated at a corner bistro table by the front window of the Starbucks, we wait for the car that will take Reid to the airport. He checks email and messages on his phone, facing away from the other Sunday-morning patrons, while I sip my latte and make note of every visually accessible detail of him. It could be weeks before we see each other again, unless he can slip away from his crazy promotion schedule – something he’s promised to try to do.
The late-January sun glints off the waves of his movie-star hair, burnished gold with darker natural lowlights. Falling over his forehead, curling over his ears, marginally flattened by the knitted cap he wore on the walk from my room, it begs to be touched. His dark lashes, too, are somehow gold-tipped. When those lashes sweep up and his gaze connects with mine, I catch my breath. In the clear morning light, his dark blue eyes are vivid enough for me to perceive every individual facet, his irises becoming mosaics of broken sea glass.
Angling his head, he says, ‘What?’
I shake my head faintly. ‘When I didn’t like you, the fact that you were so hot played against you.’
He smirks. ‘You don’t say.’
Struggling to find the right words, I lean on my elbows. ‘If I was already angry at you for something you said or did, I’d look at you and just get angrier. Because it seemed so unfair to be given a face like that and use it for nothing but … egocentric causes. I’m guessing that’s not how it normally works for you – or I guess I should say, not normally how it works against you.’
His mouth pulls up on one side and he shakes his head once. ‘Uh, no. That’s usually not the case.’
‘People find themselves letting you have your way, because you’re so beautiful that they don’t want to deny you anything.’
‘I feel so cheap now.’
‘You shouldn’t. It’s not your fault you were born looking the way you look –’
He barks a laugh, hand across his mouth, weirdly self-conscious. ‘Thanks for the … sympathy?’
‘What I mean is, how you look just intensifies everything else about you, which didn’t work with me, because I was raised to weigh people’s actions, to rank them higher than their looks. Superficial people can be swayed by surface beauty alone. It’s basic human nature to like pretty things, after all.’
‘I’m not so sure I’m enjoying the turn of this conversation, to tell you the truth. I feel like I should go and rub some dirt on my face, or at least change into polyester plaid.’
I shake my head and try again. ‘When you showed up at Habitat with the cast of Mercy Killing, I’d already experienced, first hand, what it was like to be cared for by you. By the time I left that day, I knew what you’d done for Deb – and the knowledge of that beautiful part of you – the real you, apart from your looks – stunned me. But the combination of the compassion you were capable of and your physical beauty, right in front of me, was so overwhelming.’
His mouth drops open just slightly, and his brows draw together just as disconcertedly. ‘Dori, I’m no angel –’
‘I know, and I don’t expect you to be. You know I like the, uh …’ I feel the blush creeping over my ears, and with my hair in a messy knot at the nape of my neck, I know that tell-tale signal is visible. My voice drops to the lowest possible level. ‘… The naughty side of you too.’
He takes my hand from the table between us and holds it loosely in his, splayed open, tracing loops on my palm with the tip of his thumb. ‘Is that why I was able to say a few words I’m not allowed to say in the daylight, when I whispered them to you last night?’ His voice is low and rough, dragging something deep inside me to the surface. He leans closer. ‘When I told you what I was going to do to you before I did it? When I told you what to do to me?’
My face floods with heat and memory. I had been beyond shocked to discover that those forbidden words – some of which he’s never spoken in front of me – made my body go liquid under his as he whispered them in the dark, his voice husky and demanding.
When he sat on the edge of my cramped bed this morning, stretching, his shoulder blades bore the evidence of my enthusiasm. And he seemed to have a bruise or two in curious spots. I was mortified.
‘I hurt you,’ I said miserably, tracing my fingers over the thin lines on his back.
He turned and flattened me against the bed in the space of one blink, his chest pressed to mine, his elbows bearing his weight. ‘If you ever apologize to me for doing,’ he closed his eyes and then flashed them open, ‘anything you did to me last night, I’ll have no choice but to punish you.’
‘Oh?’ I whispered, my imagination running rampant.
He smiled wolfishly. ‘In the heat of the moment, it appears we forgot to employ that scarf you were promising to produce. The next time you give me a few hours of your time, Dorcas Cantrell, I think we have a few new things to try.’
His soft laugh brings me back to the Starbucks. ‘I always feel like doing a quick fist-pump when I manage to say something that makes you blush well beyond the ears,’ he says.
‘Meanie.’
‘You know you love it.’
‘I’m a glutton for punishment, apparently.’ Another wave of pink descends after I realize I just used the word punishment, and he chuckles again.
Tapping a coffee stirrer on the table, he stares at it before sighing. ‘Dori, what you said about the “real” me – I’m trying to be a better human being, but I’m still the same guy. People can only change so much.’
My heart aches at the truth of those words, and how they apply to the thing I’m dreading most – losing him. But I know he’s referring to other, more personally important changes. ‘You underestimate yourself, Reid. As always. You have a good heart, and now your eyes are more open to other people, to suffering you can do something about. All you have to do is not close them again. I know, better than anyone, that everything isn’t fixable.’
Everything isn’t fixable, and miracles are only happy twists of fate. Fate can so easily twist in the opposite direction. I face that fact every time my sister looks right through me.
13
BROOKE
‘Brooke, where are you? I heard a rumour that you’re in Texas. Is that true?’ Janelle’s voice is a bit overly-screechy before my second cup of coffee. Truthfully, it’s screechy all the time. I love her, but Christ, when she’s worked up, her voice could pierce steel. I hold the phone a foot away from my ear, only bringing it close to speak.
‘Okay, what the hell. Where are these rumours coming from? You’re the second person who’s asked me that.’
‘So you aren’t in Texas? You and Chandler have multiple promo commitments in the LA area this week, starting tomorrow –’
Glenn shuffles into the kitchen, but stops and turns when he hears the voice blaring from the receiver. When I roll my eyes and mouth Janelle, he shakes his head and chuckles.
My stepfather is in the oil business. After decades growing his career in the field, he moved into management a few years ago. He’s good at his job because he’s firm but easygoing, trai
ts that served him equally well as a stepfather to Kelley and Kylie. All things Hollywood confound and amuse Glenn.
‘Yeah, Janelle, I know.’
‘– so I just need to ascertain that you’ll be there,’ she continues as though I haven’t spoken, ‘unless something needs to be rescheduled …’ Her tone says that had better not be the case unless someone is dying. Namely, me.
‘No rescheduling necessary, Janelle. I had to run home to deal with some family issues, but I’m coming back to LA later today.’
Over the rim of his coffee cup, Glenn’s brows rise. I shake my head. I’m not ready to spill everything to my agent just yet. Especially knowing that conversation is going to include me telling her that in all likelihood, I’m going to turn down Paper Oceans. She may attempt to have me committed.
‘Oh, thank goodness,’ Janelle says. ‘I was just telling Amaris …’
My phone beeps and I check the screen easily, since I’m holding it away from my head.
Graham.
My mouth goes dry and I have to remind myself to breathe.
‘Janelle,’ I interrupt. ‘Janelle – I’ve got another call – I’ve got to take this. I’ll call you when I’m home tonight.’ I’m already grabbing what’s left of my tepid coffee and walking back to my room when I flash over. I try and fail to sound composed instead of freaked out. ‘Hello?’
‘Brooke. Emma said you called.’ His tone is guarded, non-committal, but his voice is so very familiar. My eyes fill and I swallow, suddenly at a loss for words.
‘Brooke?’ he repeats.
‘I’m here. I guess … I didn’t think you’d call. Thank you.’
‘I just want to know what you want. Don’t thank me yet.’
‘Okay. Okay.’ I take a deep breath. ‘A few weeks ago, I hired an investigator to check on the baby I gave up – just to make sure he was okay. I was having nightmares about him. I thought if I could find out he’s happy and healthy, the nightmares would stop and I could just … go on with my life.’
He makes no comment. The old Graham, in our old friendship, would have asked me some question. But I destroyed that relationship. I killed his trust and his care for me.
I close my bedroom door and sit on my bed. I have to do this for River. What I’ve lost is not of any consequence.
‘He’s in foster care. He was removed from his adoptive home by CPS.’
Hesitantly, he says, ‘That’s what Emma said. Do you know why?’
I feel a rush of gratitude for his question, and for the first time, I entertain the hope that he’ll listen. That maybe, for River’s sake, he can stop hating me long enough to not prevent me from getting him.
‘I don’t know all of it. I know his adoptive father died, but I don’t know how. I know his adoptive mother became a meth addict, and that she went into court-ordered rehab at least twice, and that she failed both times. I know that no relatives have stepped forward to take him – my PI is working on information about them. He’s been in foster care for months.’ Tears are rolling down my face. ‘Bethany Shank – my PI – gave me a photo of him.’
When my voice breaks, I hear a soft whoosh of breath from Graham and I think, Please-oh-please don’t think I’m faking this. ‘He’s so small. And he looks so sad. He needs me, Graham. That’s why I applied to adopt him –’
‘What?’ I know that he’s frowning now. Combing his dark hair back with one hand. Closing his eyes and shaking his head twice before opening them. ‘Emma said you told her you were trying to get him out of foster care – but we didn’t know what that meant, exactly. Adoption, Brooke? You?’
I’m trying so hard not to sound like I’m crying. My fingers press against that characteristic pain in my sternum, but nothing soothes the sharp burn of it, like a newly lit match, flaring to life just under my skin.
‘Yes. I’m all he’s got. It has to be me.’
He sighs. ‘It sounds like you mean well, and I can appreciate that you feel responsible for him, believe me. But he needs someone stable, someone … devoted to him. He’s just a little younger than Cara, right? You have no idea how much energy it requires to look after her, and I have my parents and my sisters. I have Emma.’
And you have no one. He doesn’t say the words, but they hang there between us, as though he has.
‘Emma said you wanted a favour?’
‘Yes. His caseworker is going to call you. Maybe his ad litem too. I don’t know what they’re going to ask, but please, just … just don’t say anything that will make me lose him. Please, Graham.’
I count my own heartbeats as they pulse through my ears. One. Two. Three. Four.
‘You really want this, don’t you? My concern is – why? He’s a child, Brooke. He can’t fill your need for affection. Children are owed love from their guardians – not the other way around.’
I would be offended, but in light of our history, and what he knows of me, it’s a valid question. ‘I understand why you’d think that. But if I’m getting anything from this, it’s a sense of doing the right thing. I’m scared. I’m terrified thinking about all I don’t know, and everything I could screw up. But he needs me. I have to do this.’
‘What if he has needs you can’t fill? What if he’s been hurt so badly that you can’t help him?’
‘Then I’ll get him the help he needs. I’ll keep trying. I’m goddamned stubborn, Graham. If nothing else, you know that about me.’
I envision the wry, reluctant smile on his face. ‘Yes. I do.’
REID
I could say I looked for an opening, some time in the twelve hours I spent with Dori, to tell her about River.
But that would be a lie. And right now, my only lie is of omission.
I could say that every day that goes by, the guilt is heavier, but that’s not exactly true, either. What I feel is fear. Fear that if she finds out – no matter how, from my mouth or someone else’s – she won’t vacillate. She won’t bother with the semantics of telling a lie versus not telling the truth. She’ll see in black and white. She’ll ignore the grey.
This is a girl who seems to have lost a lifelong faith in God. Discarding her tenuous, newfound faith in me would be nothing next to that.
Besides, there’s a chance that Brooke will change her mind – as slim as that chance may be. Or that someone else will step up and take responsibility for him. That this secret will stay in the closet, where secrets belong. And maybe some day, I can tell Dori – when I don’t have this feeling that there’s a time clock ticking over my shoulder. Or maybe a bomb.
I don’t want to lose her. She’s more important to me than a boy I’ve never seen. A child I didn’t even think was mine, biologically, until a few weeks ago. I can’t be a father – not yet, and maybe never.
Dori said I have a good heart.
And there is where I find the guilt.
By a week prior to the premiere of Mercy Killing, I’ve been asked by multiple interviewers if I’m dating someone – though they hint about it slyly rather than framing the question plainly, to get around the studio’s constraint on the subject being broached directly. I give evasive answers and an oblivious smile. Today’s interviewer was a little pushier.
What’s funny is I don’t give a shit what the studio wants or doesn’t. This is about Dori, and her parents – and not giving them reason to hate me for dragging their daughter into my debauched world, as they like to term it. Not that I can argue. I’ve debauched with dedicated regularity and zeal for years.
I have more sympathy now for Emma’s ordeal during the School Pride promo tour last spring – not only having to deny the existence of her relationship with Graham, but having to pretend one with me at the same time. While I was doing everything in my power to sabotage their relationship. Christ, I was such an asshole.
George began negotiating the ‘official’ stance on my love life with the studio last week, when I made it clear I had no intention of denying my relationship with Dori once it comes to light. ‘And it wi
ll,’ I added. ‘I’m just easing her into the spotlight.’ Along with her parents.
‘So you’ll agree to wait until after the release to announce the relationship publicly?’ he asks now, again. George knows me too well.
‘Yeah, sure – in theory. But if someone shows me a photo of Dori and says, ‘Is this your girlfriend?’ I’m not saying she isn’t.’ I park in the gated lot of Brooke’s exclusive complex and let the engine idle while we wrap up.
‘Noted.’ He clears his throat. ‘One more thing – I’ve been contacted by a social worker in Texas – and asked to pass along a request for you to return the call. Something to do with a court case? He said it involved confidential information that he couldn’t discuss with anyone but you. I don’t suppose you want to let your manager in on what that’s about, if you happen to know?’
The blood in my veins turns to ice, and my hand grips the gear shift as though it will keep me from being sucked out of the open window of my car. Brooke said she wouldn’t connect me, but clearly, she lied. This is my chance to tell George everything, but I’m immobilized. ‘Uh, I don’t know – I can give him a call and see what it’s about.’
His sigh reveals his suspicion that I’m withholding something critical. ‘I’ll email his information. Give me a call back if there’s something I need to … oversee.’
I go from fuming to dumbstruck when Brooke opens her door. Brooke is like my mother in a few ways – one of them being the fact that she always looks as though she could grab a bag and go straight to a club or some posh event without so much as checking the mirror.
My mother wears designer clothes around the house. She always has. Even when she’s drunk – when she was drunk, I correct myself, because it’s been so long since I’ve seen her that way – she was stylish and well groomed. A little off, but not by much.
It’s not that Brooke looks off.
She’s Brooke … from five years ago.
Here Without You (Between the Lines #4) Paperback Page 10
