I debate skipping the following day as well, but decide I’d never forgive myself if I missed him. I’m happy Shauna is on duty when I arrive. She seems to be the most understanding of the staff, but she hasn’t seen him. I wait outside for a few moments, studying the crooked streams of pedestrians for any sign of Luke. Finally, I come to terms with my futile mission and slip Shauna a note with my phone number. She promises to send me a message if she sees Luke.
I don’t hear from her for three days.
Day Nine.
I push through the door in anticipation, my eyes scanning the café for signs of Shauna or Luke. I don’t see him, but I catch a glimpse of Shauna’s blond hair pulled back in a twist held loosely with a clip. I ignore Ailee and the chair and my table, and practically jump into Shauna’s line of sight. Her eyes change when she sees me and she excuses herself from her customers.
“He was here this morning,” she begins in a low voice.
I nod, concerned, waiting for the report.
“Didn’t stay or anything, just came in and gave me this.”
She pulls a small envelope from the pocket of her uniform and hands it to me. Shocked, I stare down at the artistic handwriting, beautiful from a distance, but actually hard to read when I look closely. It’s clearly my name, however, and sparks of nerves begin to flare through me.
“I texted you as soon as I could. It was only a little over an hour ago that he was here.”
I smile and thank her, wanting to be polite but eager to escape with my treasure. She only shrugs, and it occurs to me that, as crazy as this whole drama seems to me, it’s probably not the strangest thing she’s had to deal with as a restaurant server in this city. I determine to give her a very generous tip if I ever eat here again.
For now, I nearly run from the restaurant and drop to a bench outside, not even able to wait until I return to my apartment to read the note. I pull the paper from the sealed envelope and am surprised by the indentation of the script pressing through the backside of the folded paper. There doesn’t seem to be enough text hidden underneath to be worth the effort of this exchange, and I’m almost disappointed. Until I open it.
Shocked, I stare at the address for a moment, completely numb. It’s a hotel, one of the top ones in the city, complete with a room number and the word, “anytime.”
I stare at it in silence, trying to interpret this surprising turn and not explode from anticipation. Somehow, I instinctively know this isn’t about sex. This isn’t an invitation from a lonely rock star to a desperate fangirl. This is a broken man reaching out to the only person he thinks might be willing to understand.
I move to the curb and flag a cab. Walking would be cheaper, but much longer, and right now time is more important than money. It’s not a far drive, and I tip the driver more than necessary so I don’t have to wait for change.
I’ve never been in this hotel before. Seen it, of course, with its massive columns and intricate stonework. Its handsome valets stationed at the entrance, greeting the wealthy, famous guests who don’t blink at the ridiculous suite rates.
It’s incredibly obvious to all of us that I don’t belong, and it takes a moment for me to collect the courage to ignore the doormen’s indignant stares as they’re forced to open the vault for someone who clearly has no business going inside.
Once I’m beyond the gatekeepers, I forget all about their snobbery as I take in the majesty of this royal dreamland. Gold, tapestries, rich woods, velvet, art, flowers, statues, wealth. Everywhere wealth, status, celebrity.
I’m almost surprised Luke would choose this place, given his desire to escape everything it stands for, until I realize, it’s not about that. He’s a flashing neon sign in Jemma’s Café but practically anonymous here, surrounded by the subjects of the other magazine pages and gossip websites.
I sense the disdain around me, mostly from the hotel employees, not the guests themselves who don’t even notice me, but try not to let it get to me.
I’ve just spotted the elevator and started moving toward the welcomed escape route, when my path is blocked by a woman in a stunning tweed business suit.
“Excuse me, ma’am. May I help you?” she asks in a tone that indicates her “help” will most likely involve guiding me back to the exit.
I force a smile. “I’m here to meet a friend. Room 403.”
Her look doesn’t remotely hide her skepticism. “I see. Well, please wait here for a moment. I will call ahead and make sure your friend is available. I’d hate for you to waste your time.”
I struggle to hold in my glare, but am impatient to see Luke and don’t want to jeopardize my journey any more than necessary.
“Of course, thank you. You can tell Luke it’s Callie.”
It seems to surprise her that I have a name. That I use it so freely. That I speak his with such confidence.
She nods and thanks me. I wait awkwardly as she crosses to the main desk and directs the polished hostess to make the call. The girl looks over at me as well, and I almost would have preferred their blatant disrespect to this fake deference.
She picks up the phone and dials. Business Suit Woman waits beside her, watching me carefully, as if afraid I’ll run into the elevator and contaminate the fourth floor with my poorness.
After a few seconds, someone must pick up on the other end because the girl starts talking. She looks surprised. She glances back at me and then at the other woman. She hangs up the phone and says something to the other woman who purses her lips and forces a tight smile. She heads back toward me, and I suck in my breath as I await the verdict.
“Thank you for your patience. Mr. Craven is waiting for you. Please let me know if I can be of further assistance.”
I want to laugh at her, but manage to reduce my penalty to a polite thank you instead. Forcing that sentence from her mouth was punishment enough. Besides, all I can think about is Luke, waiting for me, wanting me here. Finally, inviting me into his life.
The elevator seems to take forever. I think maybe it’s because it’s old, but then realize it’s probably just me and my impatience. I wish I’d taken the stairs when I notice the other guests tipping the uniformed boy who saved them from the gross inconvenience of having to push a button. I nearly grunt when I hand him a bill as well, and step onto the thick, soft carpet of floor Four.
I begin scanning the plaques on the doors to determine the numbering pattern and am surprised when I realize I only have three choices. These aren’t rooms; they’re bigger than my apartment.
Luke’s suite is the furthest from the elevator, and I stand before his door for a moment, still in disbelief that I’m here. This moment doesn’t seem real, and I think back to his comment once about feeling like you’re living someone else’s life. Maybe this is what he meant. Finally, my hand rises and knocks, my stomach fluttering and heart pounding in my ears. I try to remember it’s only Luke. Rye toast, orange marmalade, Luke.
I hear scraping at the door and force myself to breathe. Then, it all falls away. It really is just Luke.
Our eyes meet and his smile brings me right back to pancakes at Jemma’s.
“You came,” he says, and I have no idea why he’s surprised by that.
“Of course I did. Is that an invitation to come in?”
He shakes his head, almost embarrassed. “Yeah, yeah. Of course.” He steps aside so I can enter, and I notice his relaxed look is incredibly sexy today. I hate that such a thought pollutes the moment. It’s not fair to him.
“I came right from the café. I’ve been worried about you.”
He nods and moves some papers aside so I can sit on the couch in the living area. The suite is as impressive from the inside as it is from the outside, but I don’t spend much time on that fact. Instead, it occurs to me that even though he lives here, it doesn’t look like he does. Other than the newly formed pile on the coffee table, I don’t see any immediate evidence that this room is occupied.
“Can I get you anything? You want a
drink or something?”
He’s asking me, but I think I’m just an excuse for him to fill his own glass. I nod to let him complete his journey to the bar. He removes an expensive crystal glass from a tray and grabs a bottle.
“Whiskey, ok? I can send for wine or something if that’s better.”
I shake my head. I’ve actually never sipped whiskey before, but I’m not here to drink and don’t want to waste time on alcohol procurement.
“Whiskey is great, thanks.”
I wonder if he’ll pull out cigars next, but my smile fades when I notice how much empty space is in the bottle. His glass is already full, and he takes a swig from it as he walks toward me to hand me mine. I had wondered since the day we met what he did with the other twenty-three hours, and I think I just found out. My heart breaks.
“I’m sorry for all of this, but I’m not ready to go back there.”
“To Jemma’s?”
He nods. “Casey was right. I don’t belong there.”
I’m not sure what he means by that, but I’m also not sure how to ask for clarification.
He laughs bitterly to himself. “You must think I’m a nut job.”
I watch him closely before I respond, trying to understand the expression on his face. It’s a mix between wry humor and self-hatred.
“It wasn’t an insurance settlement,” I blurt suddenly.
He looks at me. Most people would ask a question then. “What wasn’t?” “What do you mean?” but Luke doesn’t. He knows what I’m talking about. He has secrets so he remembers mine.
I study the dark liquid in my glass. I surprise myself by taking a giant swallow. It burns as it goes down, and I almost gasp and cough. I force it away, not wanting Luke to think I’m not like him, because I am in more ways than he can imagine.
I bite my lip and let the alcohol settle, rumbling in my empty stomach, still burning. I suddenly realize that we have hard liquor in our hands at ten in the morning. He still hasn’t said a word, and when I glance at his face, I see that he doesn’t intend to. I have the floor if I want it. Only if.
I stare back at my drink. “The reason I’m here, my money, it wasn’t insurance. It was a different kind of settlement.”
I meet his eyes. They’re deep again, probing into me this time. “I was one of three employees assaulted by the owner of the grocery store where I worked.” I look away. I’m still not sure it’s ok to admit this part. “We didn’t have enough evidence to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt, but we had enough to make his life miserable with a lawsuit, so he settled.”
I feel the burn of tears somewhere deep inside of me, rising up into the open wound that I thought had scabbed over.
“My father was the one who pushed for me to take the money. He said it’s the best girls like me can hope for.” I laugh bitterly. “Of course, his daughter the ‘victim’ became his daughter the ‘slut’ when he realized I was of legal age so the money would go to me, not him.” I glance at Luke. “So here I am. Living off a rich guy’s money like a prostitute.”
It was supposed to be a joke, but he doesn’t think it’s funny. I don’t either; I just don’t know how else to tell this story. He still doesn’t speak. In fact, I’m starting to get concerned. I see his mind working, his eyes telling the story of his complex thoughts, but I can’t interpret them. I wait, barely breathing, until he suddenly closes the distance between us and removes the glass from my hand.
My pulse pounds as the war rages in my head, conscience screaming, body pleading, but my brain already lost the second I’d decided to enter his room. I remember Casey’s plea, echoing in my head like an alarm I’m too tired to acknowledge.
Luke takes my hand and traces the lines in my palm, igniting a longing that swells up and fills me with an addictive ache that’s turning my willpower into a joke. I don’t care anymore. If I don’t touch him back, I will probably explode. I shift and lean into him. His arms tighten around me, and I suddenly feel safe, calm even. It’s a strange contrast to the burning tension a moment ago. I wonder what it would be like to sit here forever, perfectly tucked in his arms, listening to the rhythm of his heart. Its rapid pace begins to accelerate which sends my own blood racing again.
“I really did miss talking you,” he says quietly. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“There was no way I wouldn’t,” I reply. He knows what I mean, and pulls me tighter.
“I know. I’m glad you did.”
I want to say I am, too. I know he’s waiting to hear it, but the words don’t come out. I’m still not sure I am. I know my heart hadn’t really given me a choice, but that doesn’t mean my brain isn’t going to torture me for giving in. What if Casey is right? What if I’m just filling the female role of the daily escape that includes drinking and sex? He certainly hasn’t made any promises otherwise. Am I right where dozens, hundreds, of other women have been before me?
I settle into him, suddenly afraid to pull away. A hug is safe and buys us time, but we both know this encounter is not going to end in a hug. If I pull away… It doesn’t matter. He does.
He doesn’t fully let go, and his hands remain around my waist. Our faces are inches from each other, close enough that the next step isn’t optional. Our eyes meet and my body ignites. I stare at him, knowing he’s going to kiss me. Knowing once we start there’s no way I will stop him. I’ve wanted it for a while now, dreamt about it, maybe even fantasized those long hours alone in my room, wondering where he was, wondering about that chair. There’d be no stopping it. I’m still not ready, but I don’t know how to deny myself at this point. No one is that strong.
He moves toward me and draws me in. Gentle at first, testing my reaction, and I immediately sense his comfort with this situation. He’s done this before. Many times. There’s a huge gap in experience and now a new fear sets in.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, concern all over his face.
I look away, slightly flustered. This isn’t the first time the thought of his accomplished past has crossed my mind, but I hadn’t realized it would be so obvious that I was out of my league.
“Nothing, it’s just…” I’m not sure how to say something like that. I don’t want to insult him, but suddenly I’m terrified of embarrassing myself more than anything else. I have no clue what he’s expecting, but I doubt it’s what he’s about to get. “Look, I’m not good at this. I mean…”
“Not good at what?”
I lean back and wave my hands. “This. All of this.”
“Kissing? Meeting up in hotel rooms? What?”
I shake my head. This is going terribly. Maybe that’s good. Maybe he’ll change his mind about the whole thing and I won’t have to be the strong one anymore. His grin isn’t promising.
“You worry way too much,” he laughs.
I bite my lip. “I just thought you should know. I don’t want you to be disappointed.”
“Disappointed?”
“It’s just…”
I don’t get to complete my sentence. This time the kiss isn’t gentle. It’s the one I’ve wanted. The one I’ve been waiting for, dreaming about. The kind that takes your breath away, explodes brain cells. His hands are in my hair, guiding me, preventing any kind of instinctive hesitation. Not that I would have been able to stop myself at this point, anyway. I’m not entirely sure what to do with my own hands, and find myself gripping his t-shirt. I want it off him, to feel the heat of his body against mine, but I’m not confident enough for that. I’m still not sure about any of this. It doesn’t feel right. I’m here with him, but I’m not entirely sure he’s here with me.
We move to the couch, and I start to get more comfortable once I stop thinking. It’s my head, that sprinting brain that revels in its ability to shoot itself in ten directions at once, considering every fear, consequence, and insecurity, paralyzing me in a constant daze of anxious numbness. It’s that brain I finally manage to turn off, and I suspect Luke has had that effect on a lot of women in his life. The thoug
ht should sober me, but instead I find the ache returning, inciting an urgency that suddenly makes his t-shirt a barrier I can’t stand anymore. I grab the hem, and he helps me pull it over his head.
Without his shirt, I can now feel his body against me. Firm, solid, he’s stronger than I’d thought. I’m not sure why I’m surprised. The tattoos run along his shoulders and down his chest as well. If there had been any doubt about his past, there was none now. He is beautiful. A tragic work-of-art.
I like this even more and reciprocate by grasping the edge of my own sweater. He pauses, and I can feel his eyes, sense his anticipation. He’s been waiting, too. Imagining what I look like under the layers that have always separated us. I’m nervous again but know I’ve invited this.
His fingers slide along the contours of my waist, leaving a searing trail of heat under my skin. I wait, not wanting to rush him, but nervous that the longer he waits, the longer he’ll have to remember I’m not the supermodels he’s accustomed to. It’s not fair, petty even, but my brain stopped playing fair a long time ago. After another moment, I finally take his hands and lock them behind my back, closing the gap between us. My lips find his again, and this time there’s no hesitation. I want every inch of him, mind, body, and soul. He understands, and I fall back on the cushions, pulling him with me.
His lips are on my neck now, and I close my eyes, gasping as the fire ripping through me tears apart the little that’s left of any hesitation. He locks his fingers with mine and pushes my hands along the fabric, anchoring them above my head. This time it’s his lips tracing my body, taking my breath away with each perfectly executed kiss. He lets go to focus his grip elsewhere, and I run my hands along his back, loving the way his muscles tense at every movement, and hint at the explosive power that will be mine in a minute.
Our contact is desperate now. A fervent magnetism that drives us into each other, connecting us in a uniform motion, a single resolution. We aren’t able to get close enough.
Night Shifts Black Page 7
