by T. K. Leigh
“How so?”
“I was living in a foster home with five other kids in Fort Lee, just across the Hudson from New York. My foster parents had their hands full, so they never realized when I wasn’t there. Hell, when I brought home my notice of suspension, they signed it without even reading it. They were just going through the motions, knowing the clock on me was ticking. I was a few years from being eighteen and aging out of the system, with no hope for a future.
“When my mother died and Child Services came to take me away, they let me bring a few items with me. I’m not sure how, but my mother’s old address book ended up in my things. I think I just wanted something with her handwriting on it and that was the first thing I could find. Well, as I grew older, I became more and more angry about the shitty hand I’d been dealt. I figured everything would be different if I had a real family, people who actually cared about me. So I looked in my mother’s address book and paid her parents a visit at their multi-million dollar home in the Upper West Side.”
“Did they know who you were?”
He exhales loudly. “Yes, but they turned me away. Said my mother’s death was due to all the bad decisions she’d made. That she was dead to them years before her actual death. That I never existed in their eyes.”
“My god.” I cover my mouth, struggling to understand how anyone could say that, especially to their own blood. No wonder he has trouble accepting love.
“I had a lot of problems, Guinevere. A lot. I battled depression, anxiety, along with a slew of other things. After they said that to me, I started to think maybe it would be better if I didn’t exist.”
Tears well in my eyes at the pain I hear. I squeeze him tighter, reveling in his warmth, reminding myself he is alive. I can’t imagine a world without Julian in it.
“I never went back to my foster home that night. I just walked and walked. Hours passed as I tried to think who would care if I weren’t alive. I couldn’t think of a single person…” He trails off, his voice wavering before he clears his throat and continues.
“As I crossed the George Washington, I came to a stop. I remember standing there, looking at the Hudson swirling below, wondering if I could actually do it, if I could really jump. I kept wondering if it would hurt, if dying would be painful. Regardless, I knew it would be nothing compared to the pain I lived with every day.
“I was about to hoist myself over the railing when I heard someone say, ‘The bravest thing I’ve ever done is continue to live when I wanted to die.’ It stopped me cold. I looked to my right. Mr. Price stood a few feet from me. And that’s exactly where he remained for the next hour, talking to me about everything and nothing. By the time the sun rose, I was no longer interested in jumping. But that wasn’t enough for him. He made a phone call and got me in to see his therapist, the man who helped him with his own depression after his youngest son had jumped from that same bridge years before.”
“Oh, my god.”
“That’s why he was out there. It was the anniversary of his death, so when he saw me in the same place, he felt compelled to save me. And that’s exactly what he did. He was the first person to take a genuine interest in me. Everyone else only did because they were getting paid to do so. But not Mr. Price. He had nothing to gain, yet he still cared. Not only did he get me the help I needed, he encouraged me to focus on school. He told me if I graduated, he’d pay for college. Before then, I never put any effort into my education. By the time college rolled around, I’d no longer be considered a ward of the state and would be on my own. Why bother studying when I couldn’t afford college? But Mr. Price did something no one else had. He made me see I had potential outside my life circumstances.”
“You went to SUNY, right?”
“Not the typical Ivy League school you hear most successful men attend, but that was an accomplishment for me in and of itself. Once Mr. Price offered to fund my college education, I buckled down and raised my grades. Having a great therapist helped.
“After I turned eighteen, Mr. Price helped me find an affordable apartment near campus. He even offered me an entry-level job at his company to earn money. He wanted me to learn how to take care of myself, how to budget and pay bills. With him, everything was a lesson. Yes, he had more money than I could even wrap my head around, so he wouldn’t miss a measly $800 a month that was the rent on my studio apartment. It wasn’t about the money. It was about teaching me to live on what I made.”
“My parents did the same. When I got my license, they made me get a job so I could pay for car insurance. I had to give them $20 every week. They wanted me to understand that everything has a cost, that we have to work for things we want.”
“And that’s what Mr. Price taught me. The life lessons he shared with me were more valuable than anything I learned in school.”
“So you remained close, even in college?”
“We did. Every Sunday, he invited me to his place in Manhattan…” He looks around. “Here, actually,” he adds with a smile. His brows scrunch in contemplation. “It’s funny, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“When he first passed and I inherited everything from him, I still called this his place. I thought I always would.”
“I’m sure he’d want you to think of it as your place, don’t you?”
He pulls his lips between his teeth. “I suppose.”
“So… Sundays?”
“Right. Every Sunday, I came over here and Camille would cook us dinner. I often found myself hating to leave. He shared his story with me, how his success was due to simply being in the right place at the right time. He told me about his wife and children. His wife died from breast cancer ten years earlier, just a few months after he lost his son to depression. She was the glue that held the family together. Once she passed, his kids drifted away, leaving him mostly alone, except when they needed money.”
“That’s so sad.”
“I guess you could say we both needed each other.”
“He sounds like a really good man.”
“I owe him everything.” He shifts to his side, his hands cupping my cheeks as he stares intently at me. “Just like I now owe you everything.”
I swallow hard. “Me?”
He slowly nods as he brings his lips to mine. “Yes, Guinevere. Mr. Price showed me I was deserving of love, but he never did what you did. He couldn’t.”
“And what’s that?”
I feel his lips turn into a smile. “You taught me how to love. If you never did what you did, if you never had the balls to call me out on my shit, I doubt I’d be here, that we’d be here.” He covers my mouth with his as he pushes me onto my back. “And I really like being here with you.”
His deep kiss leaves me breathless, a panting bundle of hormones. When he moves to the crook of my neck, I moan, closing my eyes, relishing in the roughness of his day-old scruff against my skin. I bring my hands up to his back, digging my fingers into the flesh, my nerve endings firing as he travels down my body.
“Are you only using me for sex?” I breathe.
“Never,” he croons. “Although I really like having sex. But it’s not just sex with you.” His lips circle around my nipple, his tongue torturous as he tastes me. “It never was. It never will be.”
I throw my head back, my hand moving to his scalp. My fingers dig into his hair, guiding him as he worships me in a way only he can. “Never.”
“Never.” He flicks his eyes to mine. I grin deviously as I place my hands on his broad shoulders and push him down my body. “Can I help you with something, Miss Fitzgerald?” His voice is playful and coy. As much as I love learning about his past, I love this side of him more. The flirtatious man I found him to be during our time together.
“You know there is.” Spreading my legs, I prop my feet on the bed.
“And what would that be?” He blows out a long breath as he settles between my thighs, the warmth driving me wild.
“Your mouth on me.”
“Anyt
hing for you, baby doll.”
I brace for his tongue to work the magic it always does when a loud ringing cuts through the room.
Julian stiffens, his eyes widening as he remains motionless for several seconds. This isn’t the first time a phone’s rung when we were about to go at it, but this ring… It’s not coming from either of our phones. It’s coming from down the hall.
“Ignore it,” I whisper, running my hands through his hair. That’s normally all the encouragement it would take. Not this time. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, visibly torn about what to do. Then he sighs.
“I have to get that.” Rolling off me, he grabs his discarded boxer briefs from the floor and yanks them on as he darts out of the room.
My mouth agape, I sit up, staring at the door in disbelief. What could be so important that he left me when he’s rarely answered a phone call in my presence, and certainly never during sex? He’s been adamant in his insistence that when we’re together, he wants to devote all his attention to me. What changed? And what phone was that? His cell is sitting on the nightstand.
My curiosity getting the better of me, I throw my legs over the side of the bed and grab my robe, pulling it over my body. I carefully tiptoe down the hallway, stopping shy of the open door to his study.
“Slow down. Slow down. Tell me what happened.” His tone is calm and compassionate as he pauses. I can faintly make out the voice on the other end — a female voice. “Where are you right now? … Shh. Shh. It’s okay. It’ll all be okay. You’re stronger than this. Don’t let him get into your head.”
My heart’s caught in my throat as I listen to his conversation. A sickness forms in my stomach at the idea that he hasn’t been faithful, but my rational side screams for me to slow down and look at the situation realistically. We’ve spent practically every night together the past few months. If Julian were sleeping with someone else, I would have known about it. I would have at least smelled the perfume on him. Since he confided in me about his past, the only perfume I’ve smelled on him is my own. But the secret cell phone doesn’t ease my worries any.
Lost in my own thoughts, I almost don’t hear him end the call. When the sound of footsteps meets my ears, I hurry back toward the bedroom on light feet, tossing my robe to the floor and jumping back into bed.
When he appears in the doorway, I smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “Everything okay?”
He parts his lips as he steps toward me, hesitant. Then his shoulders drop. “Actually…” He worries his bottom lip and my heart deflates. “I have to go.”
“Go?” I prop myself onto my elbows, doing my best not to act dejected, but it’s impossible, especially with the knowledge that he was speaking to a woman.
“Work thing. It’s an emergency.” He heads to the closet and retrieves a pair of jeans and a sweater, pulling them over his body. “You know I’d never put work ahead of you. You’re more important than that, but this is a matter of life or death…” His voice trails off as he swallows hard. “So to speak. I don’t know how late I’ll be, but stay. You don’t need to leave just because I’m not here.”
Returning to the bed, he leans down, kissing my forehead, then steps back. In the silence, we hold each other’s gaze. Something in my expression must tell him I’m not convinced this is a work thing. Regret creases his brow.
“I’m sorry, Guinevere,” he says in a soft voice. He looks as if he’s about to say something else. Then he shakes his head, turning from me and hurrying out of the room.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I can’t shake my melancholy mood as I shuffle from the elevator toward my cubicle. The atmosphere at the magazine office usually fills me with energy, especially this time of year when Christmas lights and decorations seem to hang from every available surface. But nothing lifts my spirits.
As I lay in Julian’s bed last night, I tossed and turned, unable to shut off my mind. The smell of him on the sheets was anything but comforting as I came up with a thousand scenarios about where he was and what he was doing. They all seemed so outrageous, so out of character for him…except for the truth that he abandoned me to go see another woman.
I try not to dwell on that as I stare at my laptop screen, needing to focus on my work, but it’s impossible. I’m so consumed with what’s really going on, I almost don’t register Viv’s voice saying my name.
I glance up from my computer, doing my best to force a smile as she leans against the wall to my cubicle. “Good morning, Viv.”
“I was hoping it would be; unfortunately, I just read the rough draft of the escort piece you sent over.”
I swallow hard, my stomach rolling. To Viv, it was a rough draft. For me, it was the result of hours of writing, rewriting, revising, and editing. I wanted Viv to be so impressed by the initial draft that her suggestions were merely stylistic. Based on the displeasure on her face, that’s not the case.
“And?” My voice is shaky, hesitant. I brace for her to rip it apart, as she’s been known to do.
“It’s good. But good doesn’t sell magazines, Evie. The picture of this August Laurent character you’ve drawn is compelling, and the idea of a male escort empowering women is one that will intrigue readers. Many women will empathize with what his clients have experienced. He’s helped all kinds of women, from the single woman left in a circle of friends to women whose spouses never appreciated them. You’ve painted him in a light that will make readers think twice about judging him as merely a male escort taking advantage of women. Hell, I’ve thought twice about judging him as a male escort who takes advantage of women.”
“Thank you?” My voice lifts, waiting for the punchline.
“But it’s one-dimensional. I want more August Laurent.”
“The whole article’s about August Laurent.”
She smiles a thin-lipped smile. “No. It’s about the women who’ve hired him.”
“And through each of them, you learn something about him.”
“I learn about the man he is when he’s with each woman. That’s not who he really is. I want the real August Laurent. I want to know what makes him do what he does, what makes him want to sacrifice friends, family, love.”
“The article talks about that,” I protest, although she’s right. There’s no big insight into who August Laurent truly is, which is why I pressed to talk to some of his clients. There’s still a piece missing. The why is missing. Something must drive him to choose this path, to help the women he does. There’s a story there. I want to know what that is. And so do your readers.”
She holds my gaze for a moment longer, then turns, walking away. I open my mouth to argue, but it won’t do any good. After all, this is her magazine. If I want this promotion, I need to give her the story she wants…and then some.
Mentally exhausted, I return my attention to my laptop, opening the file I’d amassed on August Laurent and the handful of women who agreed to let me interview them. My notepad in hand, I scour through everything once more, searching for something I may have overlooked or deemed unimportant. The more I review my email exchanges and phone conversations with August, the more it hits me. He seemed to evade all my questions about his younger years, often shifting the focus back on me. It almost reminds me of how Julian used to do the same thing until I convinced him to open up.
As I consider what I can do to persuade August to share what caused him to get into this line of work, Chloe flies into my cubicle, her eyes wide, expression grave. “Did you hear?”
“Hear what?” I peer at her, brows furrowed. This level of excitement could mean Diego in accounting finally asked out Rachel in design. Or it could be actual news.
“Sonia Moreno was murdered. She was a friend of Julian’s, wasn’t she? I thought I saw a photograph of them together at some fundraiser earlier in the year.”
Blinking repeatedly, my heart drops to the pit of my stomach as a chill rushes over me.
“Yes,” I answer in a small voice. But her connection to Julian isn�
�t what has me out of sorts. It’s the fact that she’s a client of August Laurent’s. And not just any client. A woman who claimed he saved her from an abusive marriage. During a few follow-up interviews, she mentioned she was getting her affairs in order before going public with her abuse and officially filing for divorce. I wonder if she finally did it.
“How was she killed?” My voice trembles, tears forming in my eyes. She seemed so confident, so happy, like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders at the thought of starting over, even if she never worked another day in Hollywood again.
“Details are still sketchy, but a few of my sources say she had stab wounds covering her chest and abdomen. Police are operating under the theory it was a burglary gone wrong. She’d just returned from being on location for the past month, so authorities think her place had been scouted for a break-in. She must have surprised them by being home.”
I shake my head, my heart squeezing under the weight of everything I know. It could have been a robbery, but my gut tells me it’s not. Not after everything Sonia shared with me.
Jumping to my feet, I grab my coat and my bag, needing to do something, anything. I can’t remain silent about this.
“Where are you going?” Chloe calls after me.
I whirl around, meeting her questioning stare. She probably came into my cubicle to share the juicy gossip before it hit the airwaves. Never could she have predicted my response, or the fact I may hold the missing link to what happened. I refuse to believe Sonia went through everything she did, survived everything she had, just for some thugs to kill her. It’s too much of a coincidence.
