This time, he doesn’t even try to mask the truth on his face. There’s pain there. Rejection. Remorse. Even through the haze of alcohol and God knows what else, Ransom is hurt. I hurt him. And I don’t even realize how.
I take a deep breath and steel what’s left of my nerves before sitting down next to him on the piano bench. He reeks of booze and stale cigarettes, and I resist the urge to turn my head away. An action like that would only further alienate him, and the objective right now is to get through to him. To make him feel like he is wanted and respected, even in his debilitated state.
“Ransom, I’m sorry. Whatever you think I did, I’m sorry. You’re right; I should have answered your call. I should have been there for you when you needed me. How about you let me take you home and we can talk more?”
“Why?” he sneers. “Will your husband be there? Does he want to watch that too?”
“No, Ransom. I promise, just you and me. Let’s get you out of here, get you cleaned up, and have a cup of coffee. Doesn’t that sound much better than sitting in a grimy bar in the middle of the night?”
He almost smiles, but shakes his head instead. “Not yet. I want to play a song for you first.”
“A song?” I take a beat to erase the annoyance in my voice when he gives me a pointed look. “Don’t you want to play it for me later? After you’ve gotten some sleep and let your hands heal?”
He looks down at his battered knuckles and frowns, as if he’s just realizing that they’re raw and reddened. “No,” he replies, shaking his head. “I want to play it for you now.”
“Fine,” I sigh. “But then home after that, ok?”
“Ok.” He flexes his bruised fingers before lithely placing them on the keys. Even intoxicated, his hands are incredibly graceful. With the first few notes, his eyes close and his head dips back to face the ceiling, surrendering himself to the music. Giving over to pure, raw emotion that can only be translated through song. He begins to sing, and soon I am just as wrapped up in the ballad, completely swaddled in the sound of his voice.
Your lips taste like lies
So sweet that they sting my eyes
I lift my face to the sky
Drown in the sorrow of angel cries
It’s amazing, every note, every inflection of his voice accompanied by the piano . . . pure, unadulterated magic. But it’s sad. Much too melancholy to accompany such a beautiful melody.
I let him finish his song as I sit in silence, contemplating the inspiration of those lyrics. Where does such sadness stem from? How can a man who appears to have it all—youth, beauty, fame, fortune—exude so much pain?
When he slides his fingers from the ivory keys, his whole body slumps over and half of his weight topples on top of me while the other lands on the piano. I yelp underneath the heft of his frame and struggle to get him upright. Luckily, Caleb emerges from some hidden room and helps to get Ransom off me.
“I need to get him in a cab and get him home,” I grunt, trying to transfer the much larger man’s weight.
“I’ve got a car waiting out back. Take it. The driver’s discreet. I’ll grab a cab.”
He helps me to the back entrance where a black Lincoln MKT awaits. After maneuvering Ransom into the backseat, who appears to have passed out, I slide in next to him, allowing his heavy head to fall across my lap.
“Heidi . . .” Caleb begins from the doorway. He looks away into the black night and then back to us. “I told you to be careful with him.”
“What makes you think that I wasn’t?” I frown.
He purses his lips knowingly, flattening them into a thin line. “Just get him in bed. And call me later.”
He slams the car door on my blank expression and taps the roof of the car, signaling the driver to go. When we turn onto the main road, he asks, “Where to, ma’am?”
Shit.
I don’t even know where Ransom lives. And I damn sure can’t take him back to my place. And rolling up to a hotel at this time of night will definitely have the blogs talking by dawn.
I look down at Ransom’s sleeping form. He looks so sweet and small right now. So peaceful in his chemically induced dreams. I lightly slap his face, and of course, he doesn’t respond. I do it again, adding enough force to create a smacking sound. When that doesn’t work, I slap and shake his heavy body until he begins to groan.
“Ransom!” I shout directly in his ear. “I need you to tell me where you live.”
He groans again, as if every cell in his body aches. Considering the stench coming from his pores, I bet he’ll be feeling even worse in a few hours.
“You know,” is all he grunts out, before drifting off to sleep.
“Huh? Ransom wake up! What do you mean, I know?”
He mumbles something unintelligible before I pick up on a clue that immediately lets me know where to take him. Hell, I should’ve known.
“. . . I fucked you on my bed.”
I look to the driver with my face flamed with embarrassment, silently praying that he didn’t catch that last part. “Take us to the Royal, please.”
Chapter Seventeen
The Royal is not the usual haunt for celebrities, or even celeb wannabes. To be frank, the only thing royal about it is its name. It’s considered boutique in its size and amenities, and while the décor is posh and modern, it doesn’t scream opulence. And right at this moment, I could not be more grateful for that.
The lobby is completely empty, with not even a doorman in sight. Our driver helps Ransom from the backseat, who finally has decided to wake long enough to walk inside. Thank God for that. There was no way I could carry him.
By some miracle, Ransom successfully staggers to the elevators and stays upright long enough to press in his code to the penthouse suites. Funny. I don’t remember there being one last week when we were here. But then again, I was with Caleb, and far too high on champagne and nervous energy to really pay attention.
When the elevator begins to lurch upward, he slumps back against the far end wall, opposite where I stand. Although we’re not even close to touching, his glassy-eyed gaze sweeps over me with what can only be described as pure fire and malice. He looks at me like he hates me, like I disgust him, yet I can’t find the nerve to abandon him. Not when I know that he needs me more than he hates me. More than I hate what we’re doing to Tucker.
The doors slide open once we reach the top, and I go to help Ransom out to the hall. At first, he flinches at my touch, but his body can’t support its own weight, so he lets me lead him to the door of the suite. The odor of alcohol and smoke singes my nose, but it’s almost completely overshadowed by the heat of his body against mine.
“I need your key, Ransom,” I tell him.
He looks perplexed at my words for a split second before stuffing a hand down his back pocket and fishing out a keycard. He hands it to me instead of sliding it in the card slot attached to the door. When I take it from him, our fingers brush against each other, and while I’ve had him literally asleep in my lap for the last twenty minutes, this . . . this seems more intimate. Like maybe it’s a subconscious thing for us to want to feel the other’s skin. Be in the other’s skin.