Here Without You (Between the Lines #4) Paperback

by Tammara Webber

  Never undertaking any sort of career aside from securing and discarding husbands, she’s accepted a multitude of labels over the years, including trophy wife and single mother. When I was little, she called herself a ‘stay-at-home mom’ whenever it suited her, though she did little to nothing to earn that designation.

  I know how she’ll respond to my bid to adopt River. I knew before I came – because out of all the titles she’s willingly assumed, I can’t imagine Grandma ever being one of them.

  I haven’t seen my mother since she showed up in LA last spring, without notice, expecting entrance to the premiere and after-party of School Pride – for herself and her latest cougar-bait. I granted them entrance to the film, but pretended I couldn’t get her into the party on such short notice. Total bullshit, but there was no way I was dealing with her up close and personal while Reid and I focused on our doomed plan to break up Graham and Emma.

  When I arrive at her downtown apartment at our prearranged time – 10:00 a.m., she’s fully made up, but still wearing her black dressing gown.

  ‘Hello, Brooke,’ she smiles tightly. I’m pretty sure she’s had work done since I’ve seen her, because her facial features look a tad … stretched. Her caramel eyes are the same as always – somehow cold despite their warm colour.

  Leading me into the familiar living area, she gestures towards the plush sofa and I sit while she grabs her cup of coffee from the kitchen counter and sits without offering me anything. A new yappy dog runs up and barks annoyingly, beginning to nip at my ankles until I lean down and growl – a trick I learned with the last one. Like its predecessor, it runs away bleating.

  ‘I assume there’s a reason for your visit beyond terrorizing Tipsy.’ Tipsy?

  Where Kathryn’s drawl is comforting, my mother’s inflections wring my insides like dishrags. I hate the sound of her voice. I hate her calculating eyes. I hate that I came from her, that she tried to make me into her likeness and in many ways succeeded. I hate that I can’t escape this connection, no matter what I do.

  I fix her with a polished stare of my own. ‘Yes. I’m here to inform you of a decision I’ve made that will affect you, though probably not much.’

  Her mask drops for a moment and curiosity peeks through. ‘Oh?’

  I take a breath through my nose and just blurt it out. ‘I’ve applied for custody of my son.’

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’ Her pencilled-on eyebrows would no doubt arch if they could.

  ‘He was taken from his adoptive mother because of extreme neglect, and he’s currently a ward of the state. I’ve applied to adopt him.’

  I wait while she processes what I’ve just told her, wondering if I’ll have to repeat it with smaller words.

  ‘What the hell are you saying, Brooke? Did CPS come after you to take –?’

  ‘No. This was my choice.’

  She blinks, her mouth going slack. ‘You mean to tell me … you are – on purpose – taking back that brat you gave away five years ago?’

  Oh, hell no. I breathe through my nose one more time. ‘Do not ever call him that again.’

  ‘Don’t call him a brat? People will call him worse. After all, he is a bastard –’

  The slap shocks us both. I stand, shaking. My hand stings and the pink print of it is visible on her cheek until she covers it with her palm. Her eyes are radiating indignation, gears spinning behind them, and every defensive instinct I have is on red alert.

  ‘A caseworker is going to call you. Tell them whatever you’d like about me – I’m sure you will anyway. Just make sure whatever you tell them is the truth. If you lie, and I find out about it, I will go straight to a reporter I know at People, and she’ll happily whip up a sweet little story about my relationship with you that will make Joan Crawford look like Mother Mary.’ The false threat rolls off my tongue, but I calculate that I can make it true if I have to. ‘I’ve turned into the famous little actress daughter you wanted. Now, you can return the favour by staying the hell out of my life. Feel free to claim me in your laughable circle of expendable acquaintances. But fuck with me or my son and I will make you wish I was never born.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry – I’m way ahead of you there.’ Her snarling face resembles that of her overbred, ankle-snapping dog. ‘You always were a selfish little bitch.’

  Her words render me breathless for a moment, and bring back all of those backhanded slaps from my childhood and adolescence. The hair-pulling. The cruel verbal jabs about any imperfection.

  ‘Well. I learned from an expert.’ I smile, as if nothing she’s ever said has affected me, which feels like the biggest lie I’ve ever told. ‘Have a nice life, Sharla.’ Marching to the door without a backward glance, I bite my tongue until I taste blood. I will not cry in front of her. That’s what therapists are for, goddammit, and I’m getting one as soon as I get back to LA.

  I slam her door behind me, and dial my father’s number once I get to the pick-up truck I borrowed from Glenn. I might as well get all the hell over with in one day.

  ‘Daddy?’ I say when he answers. ‘I have something to tell you. Do you have a minute?’

  REID

  In view of what I’m about to tell Dori, and what I’m about to ask of her, I feel like a two-faced asshole when I pick her up the Friday evening before her birthday. All she knows is that I’m taking her across the bay into San Fran for the weekend. I promised her she’d have time to study for a major exam scheduled for Monday – which would be humorous if I wasn’t so preoccupied with the coming conversation.

  I’ve decided not to tell her until Sunday. I want to give her the best weekend of her life before I disclose this sort of news. If there was any way around it, I would put it off longer. I hate that I have to tell her at all, ever.

  On a bookcase shelf in her library alcove, my mother has a small wood-carved quotation by Robert Frost that says, ‘The best way out is always through.’ I’ve never fully understood that line until now.

  The solitary drive on the 5 from LA to Berkeley is even more monotonous than I remember from the road trip John and I took a couple of years ago. I want my own wheels this weekend, though, so we won’t have to rely on chauffeured transportation. When I pull on to the side street next to her dorm, almost everyone ogles the car. It’s not my yellow Lotus (I think Dori would have appreciated Dad’s mocking douche taxi title, had she been around at the time), but the feline body shape and headlights and the Ferrari marque are conspicuous, even in a staid grey.

  At the corner just ahead, Dori spots me, ducks her chin and hurries to the passenger side. Her hair is swept into a giant clip at the back of her head, and she’s wearing jeans, dark green Chucks and a Cal sweatshirt. She’s using her backpack as an overnight bag, which makes me wonder if she has any decent luggage. Something else I need to remedy, soon.

  My heart rate jams into high gear as she slips inside and shuts the door.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ I say, taking her face in my hands and kissing her.

  She braces one hand against my chest, twisting it into my shirt and leaning closer as her mouth opens under mine. It’s been twenty-six days since I’ve seen her, and that interval somehow feels like hours one moment and years the next. There’s a sense of desperation to this kiss that scares me, because it’s not just coming from me.

  ‘Thank you again for last weekend –’

  ‘It was nothing. I wish I could have been with you. I’m so sorry.’

  Something flares in her eyes and she lowers them quickly, like a window shade screening whatever she’s thinking.

  I pull her chin up. ‘What?’

  She shakes her head and tries to smile, but she’s no actress. ‘It’s nothing. I’m just … still sad. I don’t want to ruin the weekend you’ve planned. Let’s not talk about it. I’ll be okay.’

  I want to press her to tell me what’s going through her mind. I want to tease her about what a horrible liar she is, and how I need to give her lessons, if she means to do it right – but th
e words stick in my throat. I can’t call her on a fib with what I’ve been hiding from her.

  ‘No problem,’ I whisper, kissing her again before taking her backpack and placing it in the seat behind her. ‘I plan to indulge your every desire this weekend, Miss Cantrell.’

  She’s unusually quiet as I manoeuvre through in-town traffic. Crossing the bay, she stares out of her window, silently watching the yachts and fishing boats, her gaze rising to follow the occasional seagull. For the hundredth time, I struggle to find some way out of telling her about River – not now, not this weekend – but I may not see her until her spring recess – a month away. Some time in the next few days, Dad will start the adoption process. After I’ve told Brooke, of course.

  They’ve accelerated the schedule for my next film, much of which will be shot on set at Universal Studios in LA, with the rest shot in Utah and New York. Filming was supposed to start in April; instead, we’re starting next week, with the scenes in Utah up first.

  The best way out is always through.

  I’ve made Saturday dinner reservations, so when I suggest that we stay in and order room service tonight, Dori agrees.

  ‘You can even do a little studying,’ I say, and she crooks an eyebrow at me, dubious. ‘Maybe like twenty minutes’ worth.’ Pulling up to the valet at the Mandarin, I add, ‘Once dinner arrives, though, you’re mine.’ Grinning, I grab our bags and hop out.

  We’re definitely recognized at the front desk – or at least, I am. I think the desk clerk is more than a little worried that I’m checking in with an underage girl, given Dori’s backpack and make-up-free face – thank God for the Cal-wear she’s sporting, which suggests that she’s the co-ed she is. Within minutes, we’re in the designated elevator, zooming up to the suite.

  ‘Oh, my gosh – my stomach,’ she says, holding on to me and laughing.

  ‘No need for the elevator to waste time when it doesn’t plan to stop anywhere along the way. I promise that’s the last rushed experience you’ll have tonight.’ I kiss her nose as the doors slide open. ‘Everything else will be unhurried and deliberate. If you want something faster,’ I bend to whisper in her ear and she gives a gratifying shiver, ‘you’ll have to say so.’

  Her lips part when she sees the suite, and she’s speechless for several minutes, standing in the doorway and scanning from one side to the other and back. Finally, she leaves the entrance, tentatively, and moves into the room. ‘This is all … ours? This is one room?’

  I shrug, enjoying her amazement. ‘It’s a suite.’

  Within minutes, we’re enjoying an unobstructed view of a breathtaking sunset over the bay – judging by the fact that she seems to stop breathing, watching it. I couldn’t have timed this better if I’d actually scheduled our arrival time to coincide with the sun’s measured retreat.

  True to my word, I set her up at the desk and let her do her thing while I put our stuff away and order a dinner of champagne, Nasi Goreng and Singapore Noodles – to be delivered in an hour and a half.

  ‘Time’s up.’ I lean over her and nuzzle her cheek. ‘I’ve given you a very generous half-hour of study time.’

  She leans her head back on my shoulder and closes her eyes. ‘I can’t only study for half an hour – I’m going to fail …’

  I pull her chair away from the desk and kiss her behind the ear, eliciting a soft moan. ‘If you’re a good girl, I’ll allow you another half-hour tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m always a good girl, Reid,’ she says, and the ear I’m attending to warms under my tongue. ‘I mean … uh …’

  ‘No explanation needed,’ I chuckle, kissing down her neck before releasing her hair from the clip and slipping her sweatshirt off. Underneath, she’s wearing a white tank with a scooped neckline trimmed in lace – which I can see straight down from my vantage point behind her. A sweatshirt … with this hidden beneath it?

  ‘Jesus, Dori.’ My head is swimming with wanting her, and I’m determined to pay her back in kind, and then some. Cupping my hands over her shoulders and sliding forward, my thumbs follow the line of her collarbone while my fingers brush over the curves of her breasts. ‘You’re perfect.’ She starts to object and I place two fingers over her mouth, slipping my other hand into the top of her white lace bra. She arches back and gasps, giving me better access to her warm skin, her heart beating against the palm of my hand.

  Pulling her up and kicking the chair out of the way, I turn her and am kissing her deeply before she can take a breath. Her tank follows the sweatshirt to the floor. Gripping her hips, I ask, ‘Shower before, during or after? Since you’re the birthday girl, your wish is my command.’

  ‘During?’ Her brow creases. ‘During wha– oh. Oh.’

  I release her long enough to pull my T-shirt off, and then lift her until she settles her legs around me and hooks her ankles at the base of my spine. Carrying her into the bathroom, I say, ‘What you’re doing right now? Yes.’ I kiss her. ‘Exactly this. In about three minutes.’

  She slides down the length of me when I put her down to switch on the hot water and then turn to remove her jeans. I’m kneeling, tugging her jeans from her feet when she says, ‘I thought you said something about … unhurried …’ She steps out of them, nibbling her lower lip and standing in front of me in nothing but scraps of white lace.

  ‘So I did,’ I answer, rising. Unbuttoning my jeans while my eyes skim over her curvy little body, I whisper, ‘How is it not my birthday? Because I’m definitely getting my wish.’

  Once my jeans are off, I back her to the wall and she squeaks.

  ‘Cold?’ I laugh, pulling her away from the chilly marble and kissing her while I unhook her bra and slide her panties over her hips. ‘It’s warmer in the shower. And be prepared to be very, very wrinkly – because if you want slow, by God, you’re getting slow.’

  We barely have time to get our robes on before dinner arrives an hour later. Curling up on the sofa with her legs beneath her, Dori pretends to read while the room service attendants set up the table by the window. Her hair is still damp and shoved back behind her pink-tipped ears. I struggle not to laugh at this girl who is the most mind-blowingly responsive lover I’ve ever had – while also bizarrely bashful in the presence of hotel personnel.

  While we trade bites of our meals, placing chopsticked morsels into each other’s mouths in a way that would be impossible to get her to do out in public, I coax her into sipping a glass of the champagne – just enough to render her languid and periodically giggly after dinner, mostly when I kiss her somewhere ticklish, like the bottom of her foot, or the curve of her waist, or the top of her inner thigh. For the most part, she sighs and smiles impishly, her hands wandering over me, gentle and teasing, until I pin her to the bed, at which point she grips my biceps and makes the most incredibly satisfying sounds I’ve ever heard her make.

  Note to self: stock a case of Mesnil Sur Oger ASAP.

  18

  DORI

  A month ago, I woke up with Reid in my narrow dorm bed, and it was like a dream – spending an entire night with him next to me. Burrowed under the covers, back pressed to his warm chest, his arms surrounding me – I wanted to stay there forever.

  Waking up with him in this suite feels like – what’s better than a dream?

  A fantasy. That’s what.

  We left the heavy draperies pulled open last night. Without moving from the bed, I take in the cerulean blue of the bay, blending into the lighter horizon beyond it. Boats cross the water slowly – tiny specs of white or grey from this distance, without form.

  The suite is perfectly temperature-controlled, and the pillow-topped bed is huge, so we weren’t required to sleep like two spoons in a drawer due to winter chill or lack of space. Still, my ankle is hooked over his. With the arch of my foot, I stroke the soft hairs on top of his foot and he utters a sleepy, ‘Mmm …’ Bare-chested, sheet pushed to his waist, his opposite arm is crooked under his pillow while the arm nearest me is parallel to mine, intersecting at ou
r hands. His hand rests under mine, fingers folded loosely over the back of my hand.

  Asleep, he looks so young, which is perhaps odd for me to think, considering the fact that I’m eleven months younger than he is. With his independent demeanour and his successful career, it’s difficult to view him as a boy who’s a month shy of twenty. Except when he’s unguarded, like now.

  I slip from the bed to use the bathroom and brush my teeth, and a few minutes later, he pads in, still a bit heavy-eyed, his hair sticking in all directions. He’s pulled on the plaid Cal pyjama bottoms I gave him when he visited campus, while I’m wearing his Berkeley tank that completes the set. It falls to my mid-thigh, the arm openings extending almost to my waist.

  It’s all I can do to concentrate on getting rid of any traces of morning breath instead of turning and twining myself around him like a ribbon. He grabs his toothbrush and the toothpaste, blearily squirting a blob on to the bristles and attacking his teeth. When he begins to brush his tongue, I stare at my toothbrush, running it under the water stream and willing my pulse rate to normalize. My hair looks like chaos incarnate, but thank goodness, it’s down and covering my ears, because I can’t stop conjuring memories of his tongue. Sweet baby Jesus.

  Before I can leave the room, he captures my hand and pulls me back, tossing his toothbrush next to mine. ‘Good morning, baby.’ Slipping his arms around my waist, his lips meet mine as his hands inch the hem of the tank higher. ‘Should I call for breakfast now? Or do we want dessert first …’

  Scraping my nails lightly over his hard pecs, tracing the sharp definitions and encircling each nipple with an index finger, I watch his eyes darken. ‘Dessert, please,’ I say, and he gathers me into his arms, walks to an overstuffed chair in the living area and settles me astride his lap, giving me a floor-to-ceiling view of the bay over his shoulder that I can’t quite take advantage of at the moment.